Promise Me: A Scottish Medieval Protector Romance, page 2
Each time a fight would turn in the direction of the lad on the ground, the warrior would draw it away. More than once, when matching blows with a frightened Gowry man, he would fell the other with a single blow of his fist. Looking again at the green of the turf and the scarcity of blood, Kenna wondered just how many of these Gowry’s were enjoying a long needed rest from their laird’s demands, and how many were actually dead.
Except for the man whose head now lay a horse length away, of course.
She understood why the dark one wore no helm. He moved with the confidence of a god. If Kenna were a man, she would not want to face this one moving toward her in battle. Every stride was sure, intentional. Every stroke of his great sword met its mark. She never saw his bright eyes blink, but standing on the upper level of Gowry Hall as she was, made it a bit far to tell.
He never seemed surprised. Each attack from his enemy was predicted; even those from behind, and she wondered if it was a rule that men could only strike at a certain angle and in a certain order. This entire fight seemed well practiced. After all, the poor man looked bored.
Handsome and bored.
When she had first met his gaze, her heart had tripped and assumed a new rhythm. She waited for it to slow to normal, but while she watched this warrior it would not. She imagined being caught up against that chest and wondered if she would struggle. A wicked thought, that, but she was far from pure. No angel ever plotted her childhood away, imagining different ways in which to murder a man.
And now, here she stood, thinking dangerous thoughts about a strange man only moments after he’d killed her bridegroom. Perhaps, like Aunt Agatha warned, he would take what he wanted as all men do, caring little for her preferences. At the moment, however, Kenna had no idea what those preferences were.
Perhaps she would like to be held gently by those anything-but-gentle arms in an embrace like the one Fia and the stableman, Peter, often shared. Was that such a sin? Compared to the one Kenna was determined to commit, perhaps not.
Temptation held an entirely new meaning.
But Kenna would avoid that temptation. With the task she now had before her, she would not tie her lot to a man—or a god. Nor, she was sure, would any God tie his lot to her.
The battle looked to be settled, now that Gowry was dead, so she’d best make her escape. She would search the whole of Scotland if necessary for the creature responsible for her brother’s death, the man she would murder, the laird of the Clan MacPherson.
CHAPTER THREE
Tearloch MacPherson dared not trust his eyes. A goddess with dark red hair fairly leaned out her window to watch the fighting. Her deep colored gown made her appear an Angel of Death come to collect souls while she intently watched the foray below her.
God’s teeth, let this be my prize.
Eager to know the color of her eyes, he glanced around to assess his own danger, freed a bow from one of the bodies at his feet and an arrow from a quiver spilled upon the ground. He shot a safe distance from the window’s opening yet close enough to gain her notice.
Struan Gowry had just vowed to see the woman dead before he let Tearloch have her. And just in case one of Gowry’s few loyal followers thought to fulfill the dead man’s vow, he didn’t want her dangling in full view tempting them to do so. He warned her back inside and bit his lip to keep from grinning, pleased that she seemed to realize her folly. Perhaps she could think to protect herself until he could get to her.
For her further safety, he whistled to Duncan. At 46 the man was surprisingly fit and could climb a wall like a cat climbed a tree. Tearloch gestured toward the window. Duncan nodded, then quickly moved beneath it.
Tearloch was tiring of the battle. Those who came forward to challenge him were quick to admit they had no love for Gowry. Once they believed the bastard was dead, they were more than willing to surrender their swords. Luckily, clouting these men both saved their honor and gave Tearloch the feel of a good hall fight. However, with none of them resisting, it was quickly losing appeal.
He took but a moment to assure himself the boy was safe, then cursed the dead coward.
“If the man is not yet in Hell, the queue must be long this day.”
The lad spared him a broad smile, which Tearloch was careful not to return. A glare and a slight shake of his head sent the boy back into feigning dead. He neither wanted the child nipping at his heels, nor declaring Tearloch’s mercy to the multitude. As the king’s champion, he had his reputation to maintain.
From just inside the window, Kenna heard the warrior whistle, and his men moved toward the fort walls en masse. If she hoped to escape their notice, she’d have to move quickly.
For a few moments, she had been free of her bridegroom, and now the small army threatened to take that freedom away. How convenient it would be if they all came inside the hall so she could climb down the wall and sneak out the window without their notice?
Fia would be a problem, however. She’d never get the girl through the window without clouting her, and she couldn’t very well carry her down the wall either. The image of Fia waking in mid-flight, vomiting down the back of Kenna’s gown made the decision simple. She would find another way to escape.
The dark warrior would not let anyone harm her. Not after the smile he gave her—the grin of a boy who had just found something he thought was lost, not the leer of a man. And not after witnessing his mercy to the child and the others. No, she was in little danger, from him at least, but heaven forefend he should pack her up and return her to Aunt Agatha.
“Stop that cowerin’ this instant, Fia, and help me block the door. I need a bit of time to think.”
Her maid responded immediately to the command, obviously grateful to no longer be left to her own thoughts. The two pushed trunks in front of the thick wooden door, then piled smaller ones on top.
They had run out of things with which to build the barrier, and together they began pulling on the bed. It was a huge nest for a huge man and they couldn’t budge it. In unison, they gave up and leaned against it to rest.
Between labored breaths, Kenna insisted, “You must promise to do something for me.”
“Anythin’, milady.”
“You must return to Carlisle Folly and tell Aunt Agatha I’m dead.”
“Nay!”
“Aye, Fia, you must. If you care a bit for me, you will do as I bid. Tell her you saw a man cut m’ throat. Have Peter dig a false grave. Tell her I fought back and was killed.” Kenna could feel her blood rise at the prospect of never setting eyes on her aunt again. “That’s it. I fought back. They slit m’ throat.” She grinned. “And don’t forget, I was verra brave.”
Instead of smiling, the younger girl shivered so intensely that her tremors swept down her long hair in waves.
A loud clang rang through the chamber, and it took Kenna a moment to discover the source. A twisted iron hook, the size of a small basket, had attached itself to the inside of the window, and the rope leading from it began to jerk.
Someone was climbing up.
She flew to the window to dislodge the contraption. However, the man’s weight secured it to the ledge, leaving her no choice but to search the room for some type of weapon. Panic allowed her to see nothing. Not even a candlestick. Forcing deep calming breaths into her lungs she looked again. But there was only one thing in the room that she wagered might give a man pause.
An agile devil was walking up the side of the keep as easily as if the wall were level ground. For a moment she thought he might be her dark warrior, but the man had silver hair near his eyes. Looking calmly at Kenna, he carefully closed the distance. He surely never imagined such a fate as having a chamber pot full of warm spew raining down into his sweaty face.
As an afterthought, the pot followed.
For a moment, Kenna thought she might have lost her wager. The man clung tenaciously to the dripping rope and glared up at her. Then to her relief, he began a slow descent, all the time keeping a wary eye on her face above him, his mouth pinched in displeasure and defense against her noxious weapon.
“Well, it may not have scared him, but it did the deed.”
When the disgusted man had his feet back on the ground, he flicked his wrist and the metal hook detached itself, flew past Kenna, and returned to its master like a faithful pet.
She took heart. In the past hour of her life, she had nearly become a bride, nearly a widow, and soon she might be killed. All three had seemed likely, but none had yet transpired, so she took heart.
Laughter like she’d never known bubbled through her.
Perhaps she was giddy to still be free of her aunt. After years of wishing, followed by years of resignation, she had been shocked three days ago when Agatha informed Kenna she was to be wed.
She had hoped her new husband might aid her in seeking revenge for her brother’s death, only to have that hope shattered at the first glimpse of Laird Gowry. His eyes had held that same flame of menace as Agatha’s, proving the older woman had found a perverse way to maintain the hell in which Kenna had lived.
But no more.
Her maid now clutched the bedpost like a mast on a stormy sea. The misery on the girl’s face stated clearly that she was in dire need of another pot.
“Fia, if they get inside, I’ll not let them touch you. Better still, if you are threatened, just empty your belly on them. It seems to work well enough.”
Another glance at the massive bed gave Kenna a chilling thought. “They must not think I am the Lady Gowry,” she hissed as she ripped at her lovely gown.
“No, milady! What are ye thinking?”
“I mustn’t look like the lady of the keep! If these men came to wipe out The Gowry, they may wish to wipe out his seed as well. They mustn’t believe I might carry such a scourge.”
“We must find me simpler clothes!”
Together they ransacked the trunks, weakening the barrier against the door. After no success, Kenna stood before the last chest and muttered a prayer. She wiped an arm across the lid to clear it of candle stubs and a basin that shattered when it hit the floor. She threw the lid open and there, on the top, lay a pale tunic and bliaut of virgin wool, just as she’d worn for twenty years.
Agatha’s idea, she was sure. Would Gowry have forced her to wear them? To deny her life of any frivolity? Her cruel aunt must be laughing to herself, imagining the look on Kenna’s face when she first gazed upon the things.
At the image of Agatha’s twisted touch reaching all the way to Gowry land, Kenna was grateful the man had not been kind, nor lucky in battle. Once she caught sight of Agatha’s jest, she wouldn’t have been able to stay with even a generous man, living within reach of her aunt. A day’s ride was apparently not distant enough.
The mafors, a small square of delicate fabric to pin to her hair, would match the white. She had no choice but to wear it as well if she wished to appear an untouched bride.
There were no slippers; she’d keep her new soft boots along with her blue shift. At least she could treasure the memory of the Clarks’ beautiful blue gifts next to her skin.
The lid fell shut and a single boom rocked the floor beneath her. The great hall had been breached. Screams, increasing in volume, announced the progression of the enemy through the wooden structure.
Fia whimpered, her stare frozen on the door, and for an instant, Kenna wondered why she herself wasn’t screaming and jumping about. Then she realized her heart was doing it for her—like a newly caged animal it was throwing itself against her ribs.
All is well. He won’t hurt me. He won’t hurt me.
“Help me with the tunic. And Fia, you must promise to tell them I am dead. Promise me, Fia!” Kenna commanded roughly, though she squeezed her maid’s hands gently in her own.
“I promise, Milady,” Fia helped her finish dressing with hands that shook like heather in the wind.
The screams from women inside the hall chilled Kenna’s blood, but the men’s voices, nearing the chamber door, froze Kenna’s heart mid-flight. She hoped she at least appeared composed.
While Fia pinned the square of cloth into place on her head, Kenna told herself that whoever her new enemy, he would be preferable to the monstrous Gowry.
Just after her maid had moved to her side, presenting the enemy with an army of two, the chamber door burst open. Trunks slipped across the floor like blocks of ice. And what greeted Kenna almost made her wish she had the Viking warlord back.
CHAPTER FOUR
The man before her, if merely a man, grinned with the aid of few teeth. As he entered, he straightened and doubled his height, his head still bowed in deference to the rafters across the ceiling. A lump the size of a turnip protruded from the center of his throat and bobbed once. He dropped the tree trunk he had apparently used to break in the door, and Kenna’s first thought was that the man could easily thwart his enemy. He need only pull off his coat armored with huge links of chain and drop it on the other man. It looked to be patched together from enough metal to protect at least four large soldiers.
Fia, stiffened beside her before crumpling into a soft pile on the floor. Of course. An army of one, then.
Kenna looked down briefly to make sure her maid was not hurt, then put her own body between the girl and the giant. How lucky Fia was to have found oblivion. Kenna unfortunately, kept her wits.
The titan stepped aside and into his wake entered the dark warrior. Heaven help her, but his presence filled her veins with a fire she had never expected. She almost smiled in relief but caught herself. Again, the man looked familiar. His creased brow hovered above shimmering emerald eyes, sparkling like jewels in a dragon’s moist lair. They fairly dripped with color and Kenna’s body reacted with a melting of its own.
His long hair was neither black nor brown, but both, resembling the multicolored pelt of an animal. The way it laid across his shoulders like a mantle was familiar to her as well. A week’s worth of beard nearly hid the strength of his jaw, and his nostrils flared as if he were testing the air for danger. The war plaits at his temples brought her attention back to those eyes that now seemed darker, and she had to force herself to blink. She would not allow him to think her intrigued by him.
She glared instead.
Tearloch glared back as he studied his prize. She was taller than expected, and much prettier. If family resemblance had affected her at all, he could not see it. Perhaps in the eyes. She did have her father’s eyes, the color of ale in the bottom of a deep tankard. Amazing that her brown eyes could so closely match red hair, as if they had been tinted in the same dye. As was his habit, his gaze dipped low. She had fine wide hips that stretched her stomach tight and flat.
Yes, here is a lass built to bear fine braw sons.
Her waist was small, and…he smiled. The gown had not been made to fit her and ample breasts pressed against their confinement. And my sons shall not starve.
Her hair amused him, straining as it was against a thin veil that had clearly been designed for some other woman. These tresses would not be tamed so easily—nor, he imagined, would the woman if her defiant stance were any indication of her temperament.
He had expected bright orange hair and a generous sprinkling of freckles. She had hardly a dozen. Her skin was a honeyed brown, so she had no fear of the sun. He liked that. He also liked her mouth, its perfect plumpness, the clean sharp edges of the dent from her top lip to her nose. He wanted a closer look.
At once, the rare grip of fear wrapped its steel fingers around his stomach and the old chill began to climb toward his heart. His tongue turned to stone in his dry mouth as it always did when he was forced to speak to a woman.
Not this time! Think of her as merely a prisoner. Just a prisoner. Speak!
Damn Malcolm anyway. Why had he made this simple task so complicated? He was to fetch Malcolm’s sister back to Lochahearn, where Malcolm would meet up with them. A simple task. No discussion required, and indeed, little was permitted. Tearloch was allowed neither to tell the woman she was to be his wife, nor inform her that the brother she once thought dead and buried was now sitting on the throne of Scotland. Malcolm insisted on telling her the news himself.
Then there was the further knot of keeping his clan name from her. She would not go willingly with the very men who took her brother from her nearly twenty years before.
Briefly, he considered hooding her so he could avoid speaking to her at all. Better she should keep still and subdued until Malcolm was at her side, leaving less of a chance that Tearloch would let some secret slip off his tongue.
The woman swallowed as if the thought of hooding her had somehow been plain on his face, but she lifted her chin defiantly, and he felt something akin to pride swell his chest. He knew that look. He had seen it often enough on the king’s face.
The king. His friend. And soon to be his brother.
No, he would not fail Malcolm. He would hold his secrets, but he must find a way to loose his tongue so his future wife did not think him daft. Loosed, but controlled. It was a fine line.
Kenna was surprised when the man turned from her, so sure he had been about to reach out and touch her. Even more surprising was her disappointment.
“Weel, I see she’s an obedient woman and removed herself from harm’s way.” The warrior taunted, gesturing toward the window.
The giant laughed.
Kenna’s hackles instantly rose. He spoke around her as Agatha had. Nevermind that his voice was deeper than she expected, the brogue sweet and stirring.
When the giant’s hoarse laugh died away, she sneered. “I fear you are mistaken. Obedience has quite recently been removed from my character.”
