Highland Conqueror, page 8
Jolene sent Liam a look that cried traitor, but nodded. Since Liam had heard all of that, he must have heard about her dowry as well, but had not mentioned it. Either he had somehow missed Harold’s talk of her healthy dowry, or he simply did not consider it an important fact.
“I suspected he wanted her for more reasons than Reynard and what she might ken about Peter’s death.” Sigimor looked at Jolene, an idea forming in his mind that surprised him, but did not disconcert him in the slightest. “So, ye either wed with him or ye die.”
“Aye,” she replied. “It seems Harold has obtained his dispensation, and has a priest at the ready, both men made very amiable by the generous use of Reynard’s fortune.”
“He cannae believe he can keep ye sweet and silent by wedding ye, can he?”
Jolene fleetingly wondered if there was an insult hidden in that question. “Nay, but he would give it his best effort, which would probably involve the giving of a great deal of pain. I believe he also contemplated cutting out my tongue, but I cannot be entirely sure which he was favoring during the last round of threats—death or mutilation. Of course, I would still be able to write down my accusations, but, if he caught me, he would probably have my hand struck off.”
“Weel, one of them anyway.” Sigimor was chilled by the images she painted of her possible fate in Harold’s hands.
“Nay, both. I can write with both hands, though ’tis more legible when I use my right hand. I can write with my right foot, too. Bless me, I could end up as naught but a tiny stump of a woman.” The way the men stared at her made Jolene all too aware of what she had just blithely confessed and she blushed.
“No one can write with their toes. Ye cannae grip a quill with toes. They are too short.”
“Most are. Mine are not.”
“Show us.”
“I most certainly will not.”
“Och, weel, we dinnae have a quill and paper anyway. We will see the trick later. Tis nay important now,” Sigimor said before she could argue with that plan. “Now we ken why Harold willnae retreat, willnae give up and go home. Tisnae just the lad he wants. Tisnae just fear that ye may yet get someone to help ye make him pay for his crimes, either.” Sigimor frowned at Jolene. “Ye should have told us he had a thought to marrying you, to using ye to secure his claim to the title, the land, and the lad.”
“Since I have revealed no urge to meekly fall in with his plans, I had rather hoped he had given them up.”
“A mon caught tight in a lusting for a lass doesnae give it up easily. Aye, he kens ye are a threat to him, but he also sees that ye could be verra useful alive, at least for a while. He will take all he craves until ye prove too troublesome. In his eyes, ye are nearly as important and rich a prize as the laddie. Depending upon how fierce his lusting for ye is, mayhap e’en a greater prize.”
“Harold has lusted after near every female he has seen since his voice deepened.”
“And I suspicion he has been trying to get ye for nearly as long.”
Jolene really wanted to argue that, but could not bring herself to tell such a big lie. Since Sigimor’s suspicion was probably born of things she had said during her nightmare, it would be a waste of time and effort anyway. Harold’s interest had settled upon her the year she had begun to change from a child into a woman and had never wavered. The few times he had cornered her still haunted her dreams. Her only salvation had been the fact that so few of their mutual kinsmen either liked or trusted Harold that she had seen very little of him over the years.
She wished Liam had not heard and related Harold’s plans. It complicated matters even though none of it either changed what she needed or what she wanted to do. No matter what nefarious plots Harold dreamed up, she still had to keep Reynard and herself out of his grasp. Whether he forced her into marriage or not, Harold was still a threat to her and Reynard and would be until he paid for his crimes. She did not understand why Sigimor looked at her as if she had lied to him. She had only neglected to mention a few sordid details.
Yet again she regretted never telling Peter about Harold’s pursuit of her, of the attacks he had made upon her. She had been ashamed, had not wanted to cause trouble or, worse, put Peter at sword’s point with Harold, and a hundred other excuses she now saw as mostly foolish. If she had told Peter the first time Harold had cornered and mauled her, Harold might not be the threat he was now. Jolene felt sure Peter would never again have let the man into Drumwich.
Quickly, she buried those thoughts which always brought her grief and roused a strong sense of guilt. There were so many ways this trouble could have been avoided, she would make herself dizzy thinking of them and it would gain her nothing. Jolene also knew she really had nothing to feel guilty about. Harold was the guilty one, the only one truly at fault. If she repeated that often enough, she mused ruefully, her heart might finally accept it.
“Are ye done pondering the matter?” Sigimor asked.
Jolene started and looked at him, then recalled that he had been waiting for her to respond to his remark. “Aye, Harold had been a bit of a problem from time to time.”
“Yet Peter didnae kill the mon?”
“I chose not to trouble him with the matter.” She sighed. “I was just thinking that things might have been very different now if I had told him.”
“Aye, they would have. Peter would have killed the bastard years ago.”
“Thank you most kindly for offering me that comfort and absolution.”
“Twas but the truth.” He had to fight a grin over the way she glared at him and was pleased that he had banished the sadness from her eyes. “Ye need no absolution. Naught ye have done put your brother’s life in peril, or the blood upon Harold’s hands. Tis his own greed, nay more. Only Harold is guilty in all of this.”
The man was definitely going to make her go mad, Jolene thought. One moment he would say something that made her ache to hit him with a large, blunt object, and look as if he enjoyed making her so angry her eyes crossed. In the very next breath, he would say something to banish that anger, even make her go all soft and warm inside. If that was not enough to make a woman tear out her hair, she did not know what was.
“That is what I told myself.” She grimaced. “It is somewhat alarming that Harold has drawn so close to us.”
“Irritating, certainly. In a day or so, depending upon how swiftly we can travel, we will be able to stop at Scarglas. We can rest there for a wee while until I can plan a way to get round Harold and regain some of our lead ere the fool realizes we have left the safety of Scarglas.”
“Ye still willnae ask help of our cousins?” asked Liam. “They could easily help us put an end to that threat.”
“Nay doubt. Old Fingal would like naught more than having a chance to put the fear of God and several inches of his sword into a few Englishmen,” Sigimor said. “Howbeit, as I have said before, I would as lief nay draw anyone else into this conflict. Aye, a helping hand, but nay more. We have a right to cut the mon down, a right I mean to make e’en more clear by forcing him to come after us at Dubheidland. If the death of an English laird causes trouble, let it come to only our gates for we can show that ’twas just and fair.”
“Surely ’twould be just and fair if ’twas a kinsmon who dealt the blow for us?”
“Mayhap, but the English dinnae always see things as we do. Aye, the Sassenachs are quarreling amongst themselves now and may not e’en care that one of their own has gone missing. So, too, has the bastard crossed the border, armed and ready to fight. Yet, we dinnae ken how high his allies sit at the king’s table or how strong those alliances are. There is e’er the chance Harold’s death could bring a loud outcry and I dinnae want any others caught up in that trouble.”
Liam sighed, then nodded. “Fair enough. We also have proof that Lord Peter requested your aid.”
“We do. And, we have the Lady of Drumwich who begged our aid.”
“Begged?” Jolene muttered.
Sigimor ignored that interruption. “She has allies of her own.” He looked at her and cocked one brow. “Aye?”
“Aye,” Jolene replied. “I have allies. Unfortunately, Harold knew who they were and had planned well to halt all and any attempts to reach them. You were the only one he did not know about. Saving the life of a Highland lord was not a tale Peter was inclined to relate to many people, and the few times he did tell it, he did so in a vague way, naming no names. He only told me about you after he had already sent for you. Harold was not the only one taken by surprise when you arrived. I tried to send word out that Peter was dead, but Harold worked swiftly to keep that news from spreading.”
“And we didnae speak to many once we entered England. In truth, we did all we could to be little seen and little heard, thus aiding Harold in his secrecy.”
Accepting the wineskin Sigimor held out to her, Jolene took a drink from it, then passed it along to Tait who sat on her left. “That was wise. We may not be at war, precisely, but memories of past raids by the Scots are still fresh. I suspect many between Drumwich and the border have suffered some loss in some wild raid.” She sighed. “As many of your people have suffered at the hands of mine. Sadly, Harold appears to be eluding those who might hunger for a little English blood.”
“Aye, it does seem as if my countrymen are suffering a plague of restraint, curse them. E’en those border rogues let him be. If I had kenned that, I would ne’er have sent Nanty off as I did. Harold is moving more swiftly and with greater ease than I had anticipated. So, we must plan ways to thwart him, ways to deny him what he seeks e’en if he manages to get his filthy hands on ye and the boy.”
Jolene waited for him to say more, to begin to put forth a plan or two, but he remained silent, watching her closely. She glanced at the other men only to see that they, too, watched her closely. It was as if they all knew something she did not and that annoyed her. The men had obviously discussed other plans at some point in their journey and neglected to share them with her. Since this trouble intimately involved her, that seemed grossly unfair. In their great manly wisdom, they probably decided such secrecy was necessary to protect her delicate female sensibilities, she thought crossly.
“Well? Do you intend to share this plan, or plans, with me?” she asked finally.
“Mayhap we should wait until the morning,” said Sigimor, “after ye have rested.”
Taking a deep, slow breath to calm her rising temper, Jolene smiled sweetly at him. “Tell me now.”
He did love her temper, Sigimor mused, as he fought the urge to grin. Women rarely stood firm against him or showed him their displeasure. It saddened him, but many women found him imposing, even frightening. A lot of men did as well, but he considered that a good thing. Not this little Englishwoman, however. She did not hesitate to give him a look that clearly said she would like to beat him senseless when he goaded her. Sigimor suspected a lot of men would think him half mad, but he found that intensely attractive.
“I truly think it might be best to wait until the morrow when your head isnae so clouded by exhaustion.”
“The only thing my head is clouded with at the moment is a rising fury. Tell me now. Please,” she added in an attempt at courtesy which was utterly ruined by the way she spat the word out from between tightly clenched teeth.
Sigimor shrugged. “As ye wish. The plan is—ye and I will marry.”
Chapter Seven
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ye and I will marry as soon as I can find a priest.”
He did not look insane, Jolene thought as she struggled to break free of her shock. Yet, something had to have disordered his wits for him to say such a mad thing. Worse, he said it in much the same tone he might use to ask someone to pass the salt. Ask? He had not asked, he had stated it as if it was an already agreed-to fact.
Beneath her shock stirred anger, an anger roused by a hurt she did not really understand. Jolene told herself it was just pinched vanity, ignoring the voice in her head that heartily scoffed at that pathetic explanation. There was no romance here. It was more a battle maneuver, something meant to block Harold. Later, she might consider it a most gallant gesture, but, at the moment she saw it as no better than being offered marriage for her lands or her dowry or her bloodlines. A sharp distaste for such alliances was one reason she was still a maid at three and twenty.
“That is quite unnecessary,” she said, “and I do not see the need for it.”
“Nay? Harold seeks to marry you. Tis one of the reasons he is chasing us.”
“Aye—one of the reasons. Marrying me will not make him turn back.”
“It will protect ye if he gains hold of ye again. He cannae force ye to wed with him. E’en a priest eager for coin will hesitate to join a mon with a lass who already claims a husband.”
“A marriage between us may not be legal in England.”
“A mon of the church will feel compelled to make certain of that, especially if we are wed by a priest. So will Harold if he has plans to breed heirs to keep Drumwich in his grasp e’en after he is dead.”
All he said was true, but Jolene shook her head. She was not exactly sure what she was denying—that truth or the inexplicable urge to fall in with his plan. Although she had always wanted a husband, a home of her own, and children, she needed more than he offered, more than a union formed only to thwart Harold’s plans. The fact that she was so strongly drawn to Sigimor made that more of an even greater necessity. Jolene could all too easily forsee a bleak future where her emotions grew and deepened while his never did.
Bleak, painful, and full of bitterness, she mused. She had seen what happened when one person in a marriage loved and the other did not. Her family was riddled with such marriages. Her own mother had become a hard, bitter woman after years of loving Jolene’s father, a man who could not give her what she needed. It was one reason Jolene had wished to have some choice in a husband. There was still the chance of failure and heartbreak when one chose one’s own mate, but, she had always hoped, not so great a one. From all she had seen, marriages made for money, land, or alliances rarely proved to be happy ones. She doubted a marriage made to annoy one’s enemy would be any different.
“Nay, ’tis a bad plan,” she said, then gasped softly when Sigimor stood up and pulled her to her feet to stand beside him.
“We need to talk about this,” he said.
“I thought we were talking about it. I do believe I heard myself say nay.”
Jolene cursed softly as Sigimor ignored her and strode toward the surrounding wood, tugging her along behind him. Obviously the man did not know how to accept a simple nay. He was going to try to talk her into an aye. The fact that he was taking her away from the others to do so made her a little uneasy. She could think of a few ways he might cause her to grow so witless she would agree with his mad plan.
She would be strong, she told herself. He could coax her all he wished, ply her with blood-stirring kisses, bewitch her with those beautiful green eyes, and seduce her with his fine voice, but she would not waver. Jolene reminded herself that she was a Gerard and they were famed for their resolve. Some unkind people called it blind stubbornness, but she felt that would serve her just as well.
A gasp of surprise escaped her when Sigimor pushed her up against a thick, moss-coated tree trunk. He placed a hand either side of her head and stared down at her. Jolene knew he could easily pin her in place if she tried to move. She tried hard not to meet his gaze, all too aware of the power of those eyes, but failed. It was terribly unfair that he did not appear to be so easily bewitched, she thought crossly. Using every ounce of will she had, she forced her face into an expression of calm disinterest and prayed he would not be able to perceive how big a fraud it was.
Sigimor looked into her upturned face, studied her cool, remote expression, and felt a stab of doubt. Then he looked into her wide eyes and began to relax. The turmoil clouding the silvery gray depths of her eyes was not easy to decipher, but it proved she was not as cold or distant as her expression implied. Jolene could not completely hide her feelings. Her lovely eyes were the windows to her heart and mind. He intended to do his best to learn what was reflected there. This time he would not be fooled, would not remain blind to what a woman truly thought or felt. Sigimor was determined to understand Jolene, or, at least try to get as close to understanding a woman as any man could get.
A little voice in his head told him that Jolene was no deceiver, that she was not a woman who would toy with a man just to feed her own vanity and pride. He intended to remain cautious, however. Everything within him told him she was his match, his mate, and did so more loudly and fiercely with each passing hour. For that reason alone, he would convince her to marry him, but he fully intended to be the one leading the dance this time. Ten years ago he had followed and found himself led straight into a humiliation that still stung. Although he could not make himself believe Jolene would do the same, he would force himself to remain wary.
“Ye have some objection to taking me as your husband, do ye?” he asked.
“Nay, not to you, but to your reasoning,” she replied.
“And what is wrong with my reasoning? Harold seeks to tie ye into marriage, to use ye to tighten his grasp on Drumwich, and pull wee Reynard into his web. If ye are wedded to me, he cannae do that, now can he?”
“Nay, but he cannot do it if he cannot get hold of me, either.”
“He already has once.”
Jolene inwardly cursed. It was difficult to argue with such cold, hard logic, especially when all of her arguments were based upon emotions. In her experience, meager though it was, emotional arguments were either scorned or ignored by men. Anything based upon one’s feelings, no matter how sound or reasonable, was considered unworthy of consideration. She did not think Sigimor would be quite so harsh in his judgment, but she doubted her words would sway him. Nevertheless, she would try. It might help if he at least understood why she said nay.
