At the top of his swing, the Scot’s head jerked back and he crumpled to the ground. Walter startled but recovered quickly, grateful to whomever had laid the Scotsman low.
The battle abruptly ended. Walter straightened from his defensive position and glanced about, his gaze expanding up and down the trail.
The Scots were gone.
Two of Walter’s archers lay dead. One knight stood beside his stricken horse, the soft, rain-soaked ground greedily accepting the blood of the dying beast. A quick count told Walter the remainder of his men at least stood, though he wouldn’t know the extent of injuries until they arrived at Eaglesmuir. There was no time to waste.
“Put me down!”
A feminine voice reached Walter’s ears and a gown-clad figure dropped at his feet.
Rosaline stood, graceful disdain in her movements. She wiped her palms against her skirts then faced him.
Anger rose beneath Walter’s cuirass. “What are ye doing here? Did I not tell ye to remain at Middleburn?”
“Ye did.” Her eyes flashed defiantly. “Ye also said ye dinnae have time to waste playing nursemaid to a girl and a boy barely out of skirts.”
“Then what are ye doing here?” he demanded.
“Saving yer life,” she replied, her voice tart, giving a nod to the Scot on the ground who groaned and sat gingerly, one hand to his head.
Walter snatched his sword from where it had dropped and slammed it into its sheath.
“What do ye mean?”
“His head made a rather large target, and there were plenty of rocks lying about.”
Walter stepped to the man’s side and, gripping his hair in a gloved fist, jerked his head back, displaying a dark spot on the side of the man’s head just above his ear. The purple bruising told the tale. Rosaline had indeed saved his life. With a rock.
“Where is yer brother?”
Rosaline shrugged, the tilt of her head indicating her annoyance, though Walter sincerely doubted it was aimed at Elliott. She was clearly angry with him.
“He was beside me, though the canny lad likely slipped away when I stepped into the swing of my sling and into yer man’s line of sight.”
Walter nodded. “I’ll send someone to find him. He needs protection.”
Rosaline arched a brow. “He’s traveled from Middleburn on his own. I only found him less than an hour past. If ye cannae find him, he doesnae wish to be found.”
Around him, men formed their marching column. Men mounted their horses. It was time to leave.
Walter sighed, torn between gratitude and dismay—and too much battle energy. “Is this to be the way of our marriage? I issue a command and ye ignore it?”
Rosaline appeared to consider his question for a moment, then reached a decision, her chin tilted into the air, her gaze steady with truth.
“Aye.”
Chapter Fifteen
Elliott wavered. Should he join Rosaline or go his own way? Excited over how she’d taken down the man attacking Sir Walter with her sling and a sizeable stone, he’d almost let loose a shout and stepped from his hiding spot. A safe distance away, Trig and Fachan sat with the two ponies, the metal on their bridles wrapped in a strip of cloth torn from Rosaline’s under gown to muffle the chink of their bits. Unless they nickered, Elliott was certain they’d remain undiscovered—at least a bit longer.
I have no allies. I should think like a Scot. Like a chief. Like Da.
Elliott frowned. His da was canny, never caught off-guard.
Except that Rosaline has fallen in love with Sir Walter. Elliott was tempted to grin. His da certainly hadn’t considered that complication. He’d counted on the curse to rid him of the Englishman, not for Rosaline to fall in love with Sir Walter and save his life.
Neither the Scots nor the English are on my side. I must convince them to align with me. But how?
The skirmish was over. The Scots had faded back into the trees, slipped away as smooth and silent as a trout in the burn. The English had reformed lines and marched down the trail, Rosaline in their midst.
Eaglesmuir was close. His new home was still in danger, for he could not imagine the Scots giving up easily. Once Sir Walter reinforced the battlements, the fight for Eaglesmuir would change. It would no longer be a struggle for possession, but a battle to destroy the keep.
If the Scots could not regain their hold, they’d be damned before they’d allow the English to maintain their foothold.
As the last hoofbeats and rustle of booted steps faded, Elliott slipped from the cluster of shrubs overlooking the trail and made his way back to the ponies. Fachan perched like a stone statue on the low limb where Elliott had left her, her hood twisting slightly as she cocked a head at his approach. Trig’s entire rump wiggled her happy greeting, a low whine indicating her understanding of the need for silence. Brego and Blossom snorted gently.
“Good lad,” he murmured, caressing Brego’s cheek. He quickly mounted and nudged the pony next to the limb where the merlin perched.
Fachan tilted her head and accepted the move from the limb to his arm. With two fingers and his teeth, Elliott gently untied the securing strap to the hood and pulled it from Fachan’s head. Her eyes glittered in the gloom of the thicket. She stretched her wings then furled them against her body.
Elliott tied Blossom’s reins to Brego’s long tail, motioned to Trig, and sallied forth, keeping as close to the trail as he dared.
The low rumble of many hooves caught Rosaline’s attention as Walter reined his horse to an abrupt halt. With a sharp gesture, he sent two men coursing down the trail like hunting hounds, their weariness over the long march apparently forgotten. Long moments later, a shout drifted back, sounding very much like a cheer. Rosaline strained to hear, bracing herself for the clash of battle.
Thunder rolled across the ground and the men took up a defensive position; archers, swordsmen, Walter and Rosaline in the middle of a bristling array of mounted knights. Something red flashed amid the trees, undulating past the trunks like an air-borne serpent.
English!
Walter’s grip on Rosaline eased and he kneed his horse forward. Sir Eadric moved forward, placing his horse between Walter and the oncoming riders. His fist shot into the air, a triumphant gesture. He wheeled his horse about.
“’Tis Sir Laurence! We have an escort!”
A cheer went up among the men. The advancing knights made a great show of wheeling about, the red pennant rippling in the wind.
Sir Eadric rose in his stirrups and sent the signal to follow. Rosaline sank against Walter’s chest with a sigh.
The tower of Eaglesmuir rose from the mists like a sentinel above the burn. Safe in Walter’s arms—though less than warm, and certainly not comfortable, leaning against a man clad in armor—Rosaline wavered between infuriated and wistful.
Just because ye spoke doesnae mean ye know best. I’ll nae follow ye like a blind puppy, Sir Knight. I’ve enough sense to take care of myself—and ye as well, if ye’ll be so kind as to take notice.
She shifted, moving a weld of his armor from the middle of her back slightly to the left where the muscles weren’t quite so sore.
I couldnae allow Elliott to wander so far from home alone, though he’s safe enough at Middleburn. And I certainly couldnae allow that man to cleave yer helm in twa, Walter. Her breath caught in her chest and she forced the image of Walter lying lifeless on the ground from her mind.
I must keep ye within my sight until our vows are read. I dinnae wish to lose ye because of the curse.
With every fiber of her being, Rosaline believed she alone could shield Walter from harm. Until they wed, at any rate. She could not leave his fate in the hands of the faeries. And to that end, she’d endure his scowl of disapproval—or was it disappointment?—and the damned little space before him in his war saddle.
Not that she was apologetic for her actions. Far from it. Englishmen didn’t think or understand things quite like Scots did. Though she knew men on both sides o
f the border expected their wives to do as they were told.
She sighed. Was that what marriage entailed? Moving from her da’s rules to the strictures imposed by a husband? Rosaline’s nose wrinkled at the thought. Then why did lasses seek to bind themselves to men?
Walter’s arm moved as he reined his horse around a bend in the trail that temporarily hid Eaglesmuir from view. His forearm glided against her breast, the layers of cloak and gown no protection from the heat that scorched through her.
If another man touched me so, I’d hand him his heid filled with rocks for his boldness. Pertness melted as she yearned for a deeper joining with Walter. Coldness vanished as she recalled the caress of his lips against hers.
A great shout rose from the keep, answered by the knights surrounding her. Startled, Rosaline straightened, her daydreams gone. As if in a race for their lives, the column surged forward, tight enough to deter further attack, quick enough to cover the remaining distance to the keep in short order. They swept beneath the arch of the heavy gate which bore evidence of new wood amid the old. Metal fittings appeared freshly hammered. Archers faced outward, bows trained on the encroaching woodland.
Walter reined his horse to a halt and swept him about, facing the men as they reached safety. Rosaline found herself examining each man, searching for signs of injury, for they’d not halted to care for the wounded. Most men bore marks of battle, though she thought only two or three actually required the services of a healer.
The Scot she’d knocked senseless with her sling staggered behind the next-to-last mounted knight, hands tied before him and attached to the saddle by a long rope. Rosaline spared him a moment of sympathy, for the quick march with a rattled head couldn’t have been easy, and his sweated brow and swaying body told her he’d likely drop where he stood as soon as they halted.
A short man, the stamp of authority in his posture, stood slightly apart, appearing to count the men as they marched into the bailey. His eyes glittered beneath brows that beetled across his forehead. Was he not glad to see them? What caused his scowl?
Rosaline didn’t have time to wonder for Walter beckoned a knight to his side and handed her down.
“Find a safe place for her,” Walter commanded.
Rosaline’s feet struck the ground and she bounced up on her toes, clutching the horse’s long mane.
“Nae! Ye willnae shut me away like an errant child.”
Walter’s slightly raised eyebrow asked the question. Isn’t that what ye are?
Nae. I am a woman full-grown, able to take responsibility for myself. She glared her silent response.
“Show her to the hall and see she has refreshment and a chair next to the fire.” Sir Walter gave her a nod of concession. Tapping his horse’s sides with his heels, he rode away.
The knight at her side touched her elbow. “Milady?”
His curt nod bordered on courteous, and Rosaline stifled an offended sniff as she allowed him to escort her to the hall. The large room was spartan, lacking all but two long tables and assorted benches.
This is Elliott’s inheritance? A wry appreciation for her da’s machinations tilted one corner of her mouth. He hadn’t the good sense to turn down the offer of land and a partially ruined keep too far away to protect easily, but would use Elliott’s lack of years to lure the English into helping with the upkeep until he could decide how to proceed. He’d not be able to keep the Maxwells at bay on his own, but things would be much easier with help from Sir Walter’s knights.
Och, ye are a wily man, though I dinnae know why that surprises me. Ye’ve used me for years to further yer ambitions.
“Please, have a seat.” The knight motioned to a bench and Rosaline sat. He nodded to a younger man who gave a slight bow and disappeared through a doorway. Rosaline hoped he’d return soon with something warm to drink. Keeping Elliott and Walter safe was proving a daunting task.
She caught a startling glimpse of anger in the other man’s eyes, echoed in the taut lines of his mouth.
“I am Rosaline, Chief Johnstone’s daughter.” Her introduction rolled less than friendly off her tongue, but the man’s obvious dislike caused her to bristle.
The knight’s glare intensified. “I am Sir Nicholaus. At your service, milady.”
“Ye dinnae seem to like me, yet we only just met. I dinnae usually have this effect on people at least until we’ve at least shared a few words.” Rosaline’s eyebrows arched, inviting a reply.
“’Tis only that we have been beleaguered by the damn Scots for the past sennight, and when Sir Walter shows up with much-needed and overdue help, he brings a Scot with him.”
Rosaline shrugged. The man had a point, no matter what incorrect conclusions he drew from it. “I am not the cause of his delay. Or, at least, not entirely.”
Sir Nicholaus gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Ye are here to help us?”
“Och, nae. I’m quite certain my father intends for me to be quite a hindrance.”
If possible, the knight’s scowl deepened, but whatever he meant to say was interrupted by the arrival of a tray from the kitchen. The young man set the steaming mug and basket of bread on the table before Rosaline, sending her a curious—and slightly friendly—look.
“Enjoy your repast,” Sir Nicholaus bit out, making the words seem more a desire to have her food poisoned than an invitation to hospitality. Rosaline was fairly certain he saw her as the sole reason behind Walter’s delay, and he wasn’t entirely wrong.
“And do not leave this room.” He flashed the younger man a command to both watch her and keep his eyes to himself.
Rosaline almost laughed. “’Tis nae myself ye should fash over.”
She took a sip from her mug, sighing as the heated ale sparked a warm glow in her belly. She met Sir Nicholaus’s questioning gaze over the rim of her mug.
“Nae, ye should worry about my wee brother, Elliott.”
Rosaline caught Walter’s entry into the hall, the dour-faced man she’d seen earlier at his side. As if she were queen in her own keep, she nodded to the young man who lingered near the table.
“Kindly bring the men refreshment,” she said, sending him from the room. She smiled as Walter approached. “Did ye find Elliott?”
“Not yet.”
To his credit, he appeared worried. He halted before Rosaline, helm tucked in the crook of his elbow. Rosaline’s fingers twitched to smooth the unruly lock of hair standing up on the back of his head, but thought better of the action and sought a suitable morsel of bread instead.
“He’ll show up,” she said. “When ye least expect it, the lad will walk in, perfectly sound, with a grin on his face.”
A shiver coursed down her spine. Did she seek to convince Walter—or herself? She swallowed twice, her throat suddenly dry.
She hoped she was right.
The trees rustled, a swish of movement as of leaves caressed by a breeze. But the air lay still, birds huddled in their nests, immobile as they sought the nearly silent source of danger.
Elliott peered into the gloom, his eyes dry and aching with the strain.
The English have Rosaline and are likely safe at Eaglesmuir. ’Tis the Scots who linger in the woods.
He did not miss the irony of the fact he was in more danger from his fellow countrymen than from the armored knights who served the English king. But he did not dwell on it. As he saw it, neither side would be particularly happy to see him. Not yet.
The sun approached its zenith overhead, but the canopy of leaves sheltered Elliott—and all who hid beneath. Bright flashes of light sparkled on the water of the burn just visible between the trunks of the trees—the burn that lay between him and the walls of Eaglesmuir.
Did the Scots have their camp there? Or had he stumbled upon a war party scouting the area? How could he pass them without being seen? Or captured?
Fachan stroked her beak with her blunted talon, then turned it so she could groom between the two toes. Trig sprawled on the cool ground in Brego’s sha
dow. She panted lightly.
How to get two ponies, a dog, and a falcon past the Scots?
Something rustled in the underbrush. A furry tail flipped, betraying the red squirrel’s location. Fachan ceased grooming, her bright eyes pinned on the long furred body halfway up a nearby tree. Elliott felt in his pocket for the string and leather lure he used in training Fachan, uncertain if he’d be able to break her focus on the squirrel.
“We’re seeking bigger game, lassie,” he crooned softly as he swung the lure. He let the string slide through his fingers as the lure gathered speed, and the movement caught Fachan’s attention.
“That’s right. Seek yer prey someplace else. Draw the Scots away from me.”
He took a step for balance and flipped his wrist, sending the lure up and away. Fachan rose in a flurry of feathers, her wings forcing her body higher with each downward stroke. Elliott snatched the lure away, but the falcon continued to climb, breaking free of the confines of the woodland. She shrieked once then banked to the left, searching for her prey. The squirrel vanished, and the movements in the trees ahead stilled.
Elliott knew the Scots tracked the falcon. Did they believe she was merely after prey? Or could she have been startled from her roost by an enemy? He quickly checked the knots tying the ponies to a young sapling, reassuring himself they had enough slack to graze. A final glance told him they were as hidden as he could make them.
“I’ll be back for ye as soon as I can,” he promised, fighting the fist that tightened in his chest. He scooped Trig and his bag into his arms and, without a backward glance, slipped into the underbrush.
Chapter Sixteen
Walter’s gaze fell upon Rosaline and instantly his worries of Eaglesmuir and Elliott fell away. Except one.
Is she still angry?
Not that he blamed her if she was. He didn’t understand his behavior toward her this past day or so. Worse, she didn’t fit his standards for women. Neither obedient nor a true hoyden, she was simply Rosaline, fitting her own responses to his commands.
The Cursed Page 12