The Laird's Lady

No doubt such desperate men sought to use their arrow supply judiciously. Even so, two of the Scots were struck in the most recent onslaught, and six other of his men had been either killed or seriously wounded in the battle at the outer walls. A needless waste of life. He lay the loss of his comrades at Will Beaumont’s feet.

The cursed fool. Apparently Lord Beaumont possessed enough bravery to order a hopeless battle against his conquerors, but lacked the grit to participate in the skirmish himself.

“What say ye now, Malcolm?” Jamie McNair shouted from his position behind a small stone well. “Shall we poison their water?”

Malcolm stifled a chuckle, mentally thanking Jamie for diverting his dark thoughts. “Still a bit out of sorts about yer fine garments, I see. Ye’re not usually so bloodthirsty.”

Jamie plucked at the sodden fur lining his leather houppelande, his dark eyes narrowing. “’Tis ruined, brother, and well ye know it. Damn foot-licking English.” He glanced up at the walls of Beaumont and then back to Malcolm. “How do ye plan to get inside their keep?”

“We’ll explore the outside.” This was the part of battle Malcolm enjoyed the most—the tactical preparation, the search for a chink in the defenses. Once he ruled his own lands, he would use the knowledge he’d gained at war to maintain peace. “I’ll meet ye around the back of the keep and we’ll see what we’ve found.”

Beaumont Keep was hardly a feat of fresh construction with its low towers laced with centuries-old Roman bricks. Yet the four-rectangular-tower layout had proven solidly defendable when well manned and Malcolm had no doubt that with a bit of effort the keep could be impenetrable.

Not today, however.

“Och. Ye would bring down more pox-bitten English arrows on yer flesh and blood?”

Malcolm grinned as he prepared to bolt to the next tree, more than twenty yards away. “Stay low.”

He could hear Jamie muttering even as he started to run, until the unmistakable hiss of an arrow whizzing through the sky reached Malcolm’s ears. Resisting the urge to raise his small wooden shield above his head, Malcolm put all of his effort into reaching the tree before him. The hissing grew louder, forcing him to dive headfirst for the shelter of the thick walnut.

Thwack!

The force of the arrow roared through him as it struck the shield still clutched in his hand. Bemused, he stared as the flaming arrowhead ignited the shield with lightning speed. The heat of the burning wood finally penetrated his dulled wits, and Malcolm withdrew his grip from the rapidly disintegrating armor. Although not an heirloom, the shield had been crafted by Laird McNair for his son. Malcolm was disappointed to see it ruined, but it had served its purpose today, protecting him from what would no doubt have been a mortal blow.

From the stout defense of the walnut tree, he peered up to the northern watchtower, from whence the missile had come. He blinked to clear his vision, knowing his eyes must deceive him.

Yet there she was.

A woman.

Standing defiantly on the crenellated parapet, she did not even bother to duck behind the safety of the wall now that she had discharged her deadly shot. She lowered her crossbow, her gaze never leaving her intended victim.

Briefly, Malcolm wondered why none of his men were firing upon such an exposed target, but a quick look around the bailey showed him those few who spotted her now gawked in disbelief.

The fey creature was no kitchen maid. She reeked of nobility. Her green-yellow gown shimmered with the precise hue of newly unfurled spring leaves, and even from Malcolm’s considerable distance, he could see the voluminous folds and rich color conveyed wealth. A golden girdle sparkled around her hips in the sinking sunlight.

And her hair…

The woman’s hair outshone her adornments. It floated in a halo about her head and shoulders, rippling clear down to her waist. Loose flaxen strands caught by the breeze gave the impression of gentle disarray. She looked like a pagan sacrifice to the ancient gods of spring. Her appearance bespoke purity, yet her stance remained insolent and proud, her eyes trained on her quarry with the instincts of a natural predator.

His blood surged hotly through him—part lust and part fury—as he watched the noble beauty turn away and descend from her post. Who the hell was she to be up on the keep walls, practicing her archery skills on his head?

Cursed she-demon.

Distancing himself from the undeniable temptation the woman presented, he turned to his task of surveying Beaumont Keep. The mystery of the green-gowned siren would wait until later.

“Malcolm McNair, ’tis mighty slow ye’re moving.” A familiar voice hissed at him from the cover of a few bushes nearby.

“Ye canna tell me ye made it all the way around the keep, Jamie.” But there was his younger brother, hidden behind a tall hedge, now on the other side of Malcolm.

“Aye. And what has taken ye so long? Could it be ye were beset by a fairy from above, to be still standing there, gaping upward?”

Malcolm made a mental note that he owed his brother a pounding. “Nay, ye quarrelsome wretch, merely a crossbow-wielding strumpet who wished to incinerate me with a flaming arrow.” No matter that she’d tried to torch his arse, Malcolm had to admit he admired her skills with a bow. “What did ye find?”

Jamie leaned close, heavy eyebrows waggling with good tidings. “I found a southern tower half in ruins and plenty of options to gain entry. But we best wait until night falls to cover our activities.”

The news negated the pounding he owed Jamie. Malcolm grinned at his brother, reminded of his good fortune to be a McNair.

“Well done.” He gestured toward the setting sun, mere inches above the horizon. “We willna have long to tarry. Come explain to us all at once.”

Stealthily, they moved back to the front of the keep to rejoin Ian and make their plans for wresting Beaumont from its unfortunate lord. And although Malcolm knew his thoughts should be fixed on his impending victory, he couldn’t stop an unwelcome surge of lust over the prospect of meeting the she-devil up close.

Rosalind had kept her gaze trained out the narrow slit in her solar for the past two hours, to no avail. All she had to show for her effort was a headache grown steadily worse. The sky loomed black as pitch under the new moon, and she perceived no movement of any kind in the outer bailey.

“Perhaps they have camped outside our walls for the night,” John suggested. He perched beside her, as nervous and restless as his liege lady.

“Perhaps.” But don’t rely upon it. Something was definitely afoot. Rosalind could sense it in the deep chill that had taken hold of her bones. Where could the invaders have disappeared?

The inner keep of Beaumont was secure enough….

Or was it?

A thought hit her with all the force of a Scots battering ram as Rosalind realized what had been niggling at her all day. “John, did we post men around the south tower?”

Color drained from the steward’s face. “I never thought—”

Rosalind pushed past him and tore through the keep, the foursquare plan of the fortification mirroring the design of the outer walls on a smaller scale. She raced down the stairs from her living chambers, across the great hall and through the southern chapel to the crumbling staircase that led to her parents’ former rooms. At first she thought his footsteps followed behind her, echoing her own. But by the time she reached the abandoned old tower, she realized he must have been waylaid for she was well and truly alone. Unease tickled her spine.

The narrow southern tower, built of timber and rock, had been completely destroyed in the fire. The wood had burned out from underneath the stone, leaving the tower a crumbling heap of rubble. Under Gregory’s guidance, Rosalind’s tenants had helped her wall off the tower from the rest of the keep, and now no one ever cared to go there. The past was better left forgotten in that heap of stone.

Until today.

Why hadn’t she recalled the weaknesses of the southern end of the keep? It was the illness, she knew, that made her fuzzy-headed. She never would have overlooked such a thing if she had been well. The wall the serfs had built stood strong considering the unskilled workmanship that had fashioned it, but lacked the solidity of the rest of the structure. The makeshift barrier wasn’t as high as the watchtower bastions on the other three corners of the keep, nor was it as thick.

Fear twisted her gut as she finally beheld the wall with her own eyes. But there were no savage Scotsmen in the southern tower. No sledgehammers chipping away at the stones.

All was well.

Weak with relief, Rosalind turned on her heel to fetch sentries for the southern wing, but was yanked back by two strong arms.

A yelp of fear rose in her throat, squelched when a large palm covered her mouth. The arms around her were thick as tree trunks, crushing her against a heavily muscled chest.

Rosalind’s heart pounded until the beating deafened her.

“What a surprise.” Though her captor’s words were a hoarse whisper against her ear, Rosalind detected the lilt of Scotland in his speech.

Her blood chilled in her veins.

“The coldhearted siren is a living, breathing woman, after all. But I warn ye, dinna make a sound.” The huge palm edged away from her mouth.

She remained pressed to the hard wall of his chest, and although she could not see her enemy, his chin hovering over her head attested to his intimidating height. Some barbaric fur that he wore tickled her neck, the scorched scent of the cloak intensifying her fears. He wouldn’t be pleased with her just now, after their resistance.

Rosalind fought the terror that filled her by remembering the people of Beaumont who counted on her for protection. She must remain calm. Steady. Seeking her voice, she forced herself to edge words from her lips.

“Are you the only one who has made it inside?” Perhaps if she screamed, her people would arrive before the rest of the Scottish slime oozed through the cracks.

“Aye, but dinna doubt there will be others any moment.”

At her sharp intake of breath, his hand clamped tightly over her mouth once again. “I warned ye, lass, ’twill go the worse for ye if ye call out.”

True to his words, a soft thump sounded nearby in the darkened corridor. From the shadows, another Scots voice echoed over the stones.

“’Tis the lass from the watchtower,” a blue-painted beast of a man observed as he dropped softly to the floor beside them. “She’s no phantom, but a wee fair maid.”

“Aye, fair of face and a fair shot, too,” another Scots voice chimed as a third blue savage appeared, climbing down a rope she spied dangling along the wall. The third warrior was not quite so massive as the other two, but still a head taller than Rosalind. The newcomer wore a silver broach of a mythical griffin, the same device she had spotted on the warlord’s cloak earlier. “’Twas yer head she was aiming for, Malcolm. If ye were a damn sight slower she might have taken it.”

Malcolm.

She knew whose broad arms now held her fast—the dark-haired warrior who had drawn her eye earlier. The same Scots knight who had called up to her from the battlements.

Her whole body trembled with fear, with memories of the Scots’ wrath the last time they had visited her borderlands keep. The hulking giant stood to one side of her, the more refined knight to the other. As a cold sweat broke over her brow, still more of the blue-painted knights materialized, dropping down one by one from the rope slung over the southern edifice.

All Rosalind’s preparations for a siege were for naught because she had never given the crumbling tower a second thought. The people of Beaumont would suffer for her oversight.

She had to find a way to warn them.

“I am going to remove my hand from yer mouth and ye will direct me to the hall, wench.” Her captor’s voice, low and threatening, turned Rosalind’s skin to gooseflesh.

Thinking she might be able to aid her captor to her own advantage, she nodded.

“Out this door.” A plan took shape in her mind, a desperate measure for a desperate time.

Replacing his hand on her trembling lips, the warrior headed the direction she pointed, while his men spread out behind him. Rosalind waited for her chance, leading the Scots closer to the main hall. There would be but one opportunity to scream. She must be heard.

Her captor opened the chapel door and peered inside. The scents of pinewood and sweet incense reached her nose, the fragrances she’d long associated with comfort giving her little succor now. His hand slid from her mouth again, as if he expected her to instruct him. Rosalind saw her chance.

Gripping the hilt of her father’s small dagger for whatever courage the weapon might lend, she let loose a scream to raise the rafters.

The Scotsman’s cold blade pressed to her neck halted her cries. Her hand flexed around her own weapon in turn.

“Demon wench, I warned—” The man’s words died in his throat as Rosalind’s jeweled dagger sank into his side.

Horrified by the sticky warmth that covered her hand, she fought the roll of her belly. Her cause might be noble, but she did not mean to actually kill a man.

A roar of fury erupted behind them, and Rosalind fled from the slackened grasp of the captor. She launched herself forward through the cover of darkness, leaving the stunned invaders in a turmoil of oaths and shouts behind her. Knees quaking, she shot through the door and into the hall, where her people scurried about in confused response to her shriek. A young maid dropped a heavy decanter on the stone floor, the clang of the silver urn echoing through the huge room as Rosalind struggled to speak.

“Scots…within the walls.” She gasped for breath, still recoiling from the memory of her act.

The people of Beaumont needed no further urging, for the pounding of the enemies’ footsteps in the corridor emphasized her words. A wave of shrieks greeted her ears, accompanying a mass exodus toward the far door.

“Halt!”

A deep voice boomed throughout the hall, amplified by the echoing stone walls.

Even in their terror, many of the fleeing English turned at the commanding voice. An eerie silence grew as the residents of Beaumont fixed their gazes behind Rosalind, where she knew the blue-painted Scots must be arriving.

“No one leaves this hall.”

Rosalind froze at the familiar sound of the speaker’s voice behind her. It couldn’t be. Turning, she looked over her shoulder. It was him. The man she had just plunged her dagger clear through. Rosalind glanced down at her hands, as if to assure herself his blood still stained them.

“Fear not, wench, yer blade dinna miss.” The warrior before her bled profusely down his side, staining the rushes red. Yet any pain from the wound remained absent from his livid visage.

Do not let him take out his wrath on my people.

Rosalind trembled as she faced him. He was enormous. She had known that before, when he’d held her from behind, yet in the darkness she had not fully realized his size. He was the most intimidating man she had ever seen, and right now his expression was nothing less than ferocious.

“Ian, take ten men about the keep and round up whoever is missing. I would have all of Beaumont before me.” The Scot’s gaze never left her as he barked orders. “Jamie, head outside and see if anyone escaped. Angus, ferret out my squire to tend this damn bleeding gut of mine.”

He stepped closer to Rosalind, and a collective gasp rose among the English as he glowered down at her, his expression hard and cruel. “Where is the young lordling, Will Beaumont, and who in Hades are ye?”

Rosalind felt the anger radiate from him in waves, but fought to face him boldly. She could not allow her people to see her falter. Not when they counted on her to be strong. “Lord William left the keep hours ago to fetch the king and bring us aid. I am his sister, Rosalind.”

“Yer lack-witted brother started a war with hostile invaders, then left his sister to fight his battle while he trots off to London to find yer hedonistic king?” One heavy black eyebrow lifted in disbelief.

She gulped for air, as if the brute who cornered her had somehow robbed her of that, too. Glaring back at the Scots heathen, she merely tilted her chin in defiance.

“Tell me, Lady Rosalind, does it not shame ye to have such a coward for a brother?” He glared down at her from his intimidating height. At such close range, Rosalind noticed patches of bronzed skin under his blue paint. Dark hair brushed his broad shoulders. Heavy black brows perched over angular features slashed in a fearsome scowl.

She bristled under his criticism, but knew her lies did indeed make the man sound like a coward. “He did what he felt necessary, knowing we were outnumbered by barbarians.”

“Ye call us barbarians, lass?” A sudden stillness came over the Scotsman. “We, who sought to shed no blood in the inevitable conquering of yer keep?”

“You have no right to Beaumont,” Rosalind retorted, her loathing of the invaders pouring fresh through her veins. “We have previously experienced the Scots’ brutal notion of war and will not be misled by your claims of no killing. We have lost too much at your people’s hands to blindly give over our home to bloodthirsty marauders.”

“I will address yer slander of my people at a later date. For now, I suggest ye keep yer venomous tongue in check lest ye find yerself cooling yer temper in the dungeon.”

A soft exclamation echoed among the English that their lady would be threatened so cruelly.

John Steward stepped forward. “We mean no offense, sir, but my lady has lost—”

“Yer lady? And who might ye be to speak for her?” The Scot moved toward John.

Rosalind stepped between the men, willing herself to remain calm. There was nothing she could do to change the past, but she could try to negotiate with the barbarian to guard against any more deaths.

“Please, I will speak for myself and endeavor to do so in a more subdued manner.” She nodded to John, silently assuring him she would be more reasonable. When she turned to the Scotsman, smug satisfaction marked his stark features.

But she could not afford to be proud at a time like this. Lives might depend on how humbly Rosalind could beg the warlord for mercy. “I would speak with you in private, sir.”

His laugh boomed, dark and echoing to the high ceiling. “And give ye an opportunity to thrust yer dagger more deeply into my gut? I think nae, but ’tis an amusing suggestion.”

“You have my word that I will do nothing of the sort.” Panic swirled through her. What if he killed them all in retribution for fighting? “I merely wish to discuss a peaceful shift of power from me to you.”

“Yer word means naught to me, as ye have attempted to kill me twice already today.” In spite of his words, he did not look the least bit frightened for himself. In fact, he grinned down at her now, as if her words were a great jest.

A Scots voice called out across the hall. “We found the stragglers, Malcolm.”

Both Rosalind and the wounded warrior turned to see the remaining Beaumont folk being ushered in, along with the Scotsmen who had gathered them together.

“Aye. And ye’ll have my thanks for it. Take some sort of count so we can keep track of them in the days ahead.” He turned back to Rosalind, good humor still playing about his lips despite the gaping hole in his side. “Ian, do ye see who has asked me for a private audience to discuss a peaceful shift of power?”

“Ye dinna say?” The man called Ian eyed Rosalind carefully, his gaze detached. “’Tis the lass with the crossbow…the same one who raised her dagger to ye.”

“Aye. Think ye I should grant her this boon?”

They attempted to shame her by discussing her as if she were not present. She itched to rail at them all, but to do so would be but a selfish indulgence of her temper. Instead, she settled for hoping the warlord would collapse from blood loss as quickly as possible.

“I think there are nae many men who would refuse such a fair maid a private audience.” Another man, younger and more mischievous looking than the others, spoke up.

Embarrassment spread like wildfire through Rosalind’s veins. Her virtue meant naught to such men. If anything, her maidenly status could be one more thing for brutes like these to plunder. What would Gregory think to find his bride defiled by savage Scots?

Surely her cheeks flamed with the heat of her discomfiture. Then again, her cheeks had been flaming all day with the bout of fever that had taken hold of her.

The Scots leader laughed again. “Jamie lad, that is why I will live a good many years beyond ye. ’Tis not wise to think with yer manhood.” The jesting ended when he turned back to Rosalind, his face devoid of expression.

She prayed his words meant her virtue was safe.

“I will grant ye a meeting, lady, all in good time. For now, however, I must keep ye safe from harm and from interfering in my business. Understand, I do this because I can see ye would not allow me to take over Beaumont peacefully, yet that is what I want above all things.”

His blue eyes glittered, icy and merciless. Rosalind shivered, both with fear and the chills of her illness, as she waited for his pronouncement. Vaguely, she wondered how a man so outwardly attractive could be so cruel inside.

“Ye will stay in the dungeon until I have yer holding well in hand, and then I will give ye a private audience in which ye can defend yer actions today.”

The English people gasped at the sentence.

Rosalind’s head swam with images of what might happen while she was locked in her own dungeon. An outright massacre because of her foolish actions. Why had she bothered to put up a fight against such a strong invading force? All of Beaumont would pay for her rash decision.

Every death would be on her hands.

Her fears got the better of her as her knees went weak at the thought. Dizziness assailed her. And her hated enemy’s face became a blur as she sank heavily to the floor at his feet.

Chapter Three

Rosalind could not remember ever being so cold. Shivering under her quilt, she pulled it more tightly about her shoulders. Why wasn’t the fire lit? Just as she started to call out for Gerta or her maid, Josephine, she remembered what had happened.

She was in her own dungeon.

Rosalind groaned aloud as she recalled the damning words of the Scotsman responsible.

Malcolm McNair. The formidable Scot had consigned her to the dungeon until things were “well in hand” at Beaumont.

Blinking away the fog of sleep, she peered around her quarters. Food had been left for her, but the bread and cheese held no appeal. She even slept on a pallet instead of the cold floor, so her lot was not too bad. Yet all she could think of was the brutality the Scots could be inflicting on all the people who looked to her for protection.

Steady streams of tears rolled unchecked down Rosalind’s cheeks. Reaching blindly in the dark for a chamber pot, she retched as terror knotted her belly.

She envisioned the huge heathen setting fire to the keep, locking everyone she loved inside so they might burn with it. Just as they had before.

Stomach empty, she collapsed in a heap, too weary to move. She fell into nightmarish sleep, with one breath cursing Malcolm McNair for stealing her home, and with the next, cursing Gregory Evandale for allowing him to do so.

The next morning Malcolm knew his endeavor must be blessed. The people of Beaumont were not welcoming, but they had not revolted, either. They made the best of an unhappy situation, which was all he could reasonably expect.

Since his arrival the day before, everything had moved according to plan. He controlled the keep, thanks to his brothers’ help. Soon the south tower would be rebuilt, not as a comfortable living space, but as part of the defense fortifications.