My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (15 page)

“She’s asleep,” he remarked, uncomfortable to be found coddling a small girl in his arms.

He laid the child back on the bed, then pulled the covers over her. Surely the chill in the room wasn’t good for such a tiny body.

In the shadowed room, Ysabelle saw his heightened color and wondered why he was embarrassed to be caught showing tenderness to the child. Perhaps it was because he’d been punished whenever he’d shown emotion. Or because he was a fierce warrior, above such sentimental things.

Stumbling with confusion, Ysabelle placed the tray aside, then moved to rest her hand against Sara’s brow. The girl had a fever but not too hot.

“You should get some rest. I’ll sit with Sara while you sleep,” he offered.

There was something about his manner that gave Ysabelle pause. His indirect gaze seemed almost sheepish. He obviously found it embarrassing to make such an offer. His discomposure was amusing and yet poignant, and she sensed he genuinely desired her acquiescence.

Ah, he wasn’t cruel. This man wouldn’t harm an innocent child. Yet, an aura of danger surrounded him. Many people had felt the same way about Lord Maston. But not Ysabelle. She’d known her father would never hurt her. At least, not intentionally. She’d loved his gruff tenderness and trusted him with her life. He’d never deceived her, until now.

Dare she trust Nicholas?

“All right,” she agreed. “If Sara awakens, I’ll be close by in my chamber. You need only send a servant for me and I’ll come. There is something for her pain.” She pointed to a cup of brown liquid sitting upon the table. “I mixed a very tiny amount of nightshade with water. If she awakens, have her drink it all and it should ease her.”

He nodded, his dark gaze once more masked with self-assurance.

Turning, Ysabelle left and sought out her room. Lying upon the pallet fully clothed, in case Nicholas called her in the night, she let her exhausted body relax.

Sleep would not come. She rolled over, yanking the covers up. Her eyes felt gritty with exhaustion but wouldn’t stay closed. In her mind, she saw King William’s army riding over the hills, saw her people slaughtered, heard the screams of the women and children, and her men at arms. Rolling again, she punched at the goose pillows. On the stone walls, images of horrendous battles shimmered before her bleary eyes.

Nicholas rode away, abandoning them to their fate. One by one, her soldiers were taken and beheaded for treason. Their wives and orphaned children starved to death that winter, their cries ringing in her ears. Her chest felt tight and she longed to call Nicholas back, to defend her and Sutcliffe. Yet, the words wouldn’t come. She couldn’t speak. And still the king’s men rode over the hill, this time forcing her to kneel beside a horrid old man, her screams of denial muffled against a stale gag. Her people suffered, thrown into slavery to a cruel lord with no kindness and no conscience.

Later, in their private chamber, her new husband tore the clothes from her body and brutalized her in the most horrible way possible. Then, her belly swelled with a bastard child. She didn’t know who the father was. She couldn’t see the man’s face.

With a gasp of outrage, she sat up in bed, her hair tangled over her face. By the Holy Rood, she didn’t know what to do. And in the darkness, she found no answer.

Chapter Nine

The next morning Ysabelle washed and brushed her hair. Dressed in a fresh gown of royal blue, she had Ada tie her hair back and covered it with a gossamer veil. Wearing a jeweled dagger in a girdle at her side, she made her way to Sara’s room. She entered quietly, in case Nicholas and the child still slept. The sight that met her eyes left her breathless.

Sara still slept, her rosebud mouth rounded as she breathed. Nicholas stood before the table, bending over a washbasin of soap and water. His feet and chest were naked. He was beautifully formed, his body lean and strong. The insane urge to touch the satin skin over his muscular body made her fingers itch.

He closed his eyes as he splashed water over his face, his long dark hair damp from his bathing. Rivulets ran down his chest, slinking over the hard planes of his corded stomach. She stared with awe. The muscles on his torso and arms rippled with power. He was magnetic and frightening all at once.

He turned to clasp a cloth to dry himself and Ysabelle froze. Covering his wide back was a multitude of pink and purplish scars. Ysabelle knew enough of healing to recognize the mark of the lash. Nicholas had been whipped until his back became a melee of welts, the wounds long-since healed.

Lord McDonald must have done this pitiless deed. Ysabelle didn’t believe Nicholas had committed any crime as a child that would warrant such torture, and her soul cried out at the injustice of it all.

Unconsciously, she stepped forward, her foot scuffing against the bare floor. Nicholas turned, his eyes widening at sight of her. He drew a soft linen chainse of mint green over his head and thrust his arms through the sleeves.

She thought to ask him about the scars, but his dark eyes clouded. He didn’t meet her eyes, and she realized he’d locked himself against intrusion. The harsh warrior had returned.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. I wanted to see if Sara is better,” she whispered.

He gave a wooden nod. “She awoke a short time ago and drank a little water before she fell back to sleep. She didn’t eat but I gave her the medicine you left and she took it without complaint. Her fever seems to be almost gone.”

Moving past him, Ysabelle checked Sara for herself. The child’s lips parted slightly as she breathed a gentle sigh.

“You’ve done well,” Ysabelle smiled at him.

Nicholas stepped away, unable to meet her gaze. His heart sped up and his pulse skittered. What was wrong with him? He was not a small lad to feel awkward around a woman. It must be her words that took him off guard. In acts of war, he’d been praised. But never in recognition for tending an inconsequential child.

Some deep emotion inside him stirred, frothing upward, then bursting free, like a dam breaking after filling with a rushing tide. Elation so powerful it filled his chest with warmth overflowed his heart. The urge to kiss Ysabelle was strong within him. The desire to laugh bubbled upward in his throat and he nearly gave in to its enchantment. He had no idea what was wrong with him, or why Ysabelle’s words brought him so much pleasure.

“Ysabelle, I…”

“My lady?” Ada knocked on the door and poked her head around the portal. When she saw Nicholas, she glowered in disgust.

The old bat. He longed to yell at the woman to get out, but knew Ysabelle wouldn’t approve. Turning toward the door, he frowned and opened his mouth to tell the shrew to go away.

“Enter,” Ysabelle called softly.

With a disgruntled sigh, Nicholas clamped his mouth closed and clenched his teeth, trying not to bite his tongue. Ada stepped into the room carrying a tray laden with porridge, bread, and a cup of milk.

“I’ve asked Ada to sit with Sara for awhile, so that you might go and rest,” Ysabelle told Nicholas. “There are matters needing my attention below. I’ll return here as soon as I can.”

Setting the tray aside, Ada crooned gently as she gazed down at the sleeping girl. “The poor dear.”

“Will you walk with me?” Nicholas asked, longing to be near Ysabelle a bit longer.

She cast a nervous glance in Ada’s direction. The woman’s spine stiffened and she tossed Nicholas a glare over her shoulder that could have melted stone. “I’m afraid I can’t just now, my lord. With so many extra mouths to feed, I fear Cook is in a dither. She needs my attention in the kitchen. Perhaps we could walk later on?”

Ada smiled triumphantly and he found himself wishing she were a man that could defend himself. If Nicholas demanded Ysabelle’s attention, he might earn her animosity. Instead, he nodded his head, knowing he wouldn’t win her trust by using force.

Ysabelle swept past him and was gone. Her sweet fragrance lingered, teasing his nostrils. He breathed deeply and stared at the door, until he looked up and saw Ada watching him with loathing. If Ysabelle didn’t care for the old witch, he would toss her out of the castle without a second thought.

“Clean up this chamber.” He gave her his most fierce scowl as he left the immaculate room. It gave him morbid pleasure to order the spiteful hag around.

*

“Good morning, fair lady,” Alex exclaimed when Ysabelle entered the main hall.

Glancing briefly his way, Ysabelle sighed. He was a nice man, but far too meddlesome. She wished he’d go check on his horse or find some other chore to occupy himself.

“Good morning.” She tried to sweep past him on her way to the kitchen, but he blocked her path.

“Have you seen my brother this morning?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ve just left him.” She nodded as she looked around the room with satisfaction.

Bent with rheumatism, Margaret was setting out trenchers while young Genevieve bounced around putting goblets upon the long cloth-covered tables in preparation of the morning meal. A roaring fire had been started in the huge fireplace, bringing welcome warmth. It pleased Ysabelle to see bright sunlight streaming through the narrow windows high above. She longed to go outside, saddle her mare, and race across the hills. How marvelous it would be to feel the wind in her hair and escape her troubles for a time.

“Your brother spent the night caring for the child, Sara,” Ysabelle supplied. “I believe he has gone to seek some rest.”

A quizzical frown curved Alex’s brow. “Nicholas stayed with the little girl all night?”

She nodded. “Is that so strange?”

“Yes. No. Nicholas is fond of children, although he doesn’t know what to do with them. Your handmaiden said Sara is a bastard. I’m sure Nicholas will seek to protect the child from the poverty and cruelty that comes with that station in life.”

Of course! He would try to shield Sara from the life he’d been forced to live. People could be so cruel. A warmth filled Ysabelle’s heart when she realized her father had saved her from living such a life. How grateful she was to him for his kindness. Though she was disappointed he’d never told her the truth, she understood his reasons and loved him for it.

“Has there been any sign of Lord Marshal or his men?” She clenched her teeth, praying the man stayed far away.

Shaking his head, Alex snatched a golden apple from a bowl Genevieve carried past. “The lookouts haven’t reported any sighting of your king’s army, yet.”

Yet. No doubt it was only a matter of time.

“I thought they would have arrived by now.” Dare she hope the English would give up their quest to take Sutcliffe and leave them alone? It would make things so much simpler.

With a shrug, Alex bit into the apple, licking a droplet of juice as it rolled down the fruit. “Perhaps Marshal waited to bury Sir Malcolm or gather more men before he rode toward Sutcliffe. Do you doubt he will come?”

“No, it’s a matter of pride for Lord Marshal to try and take Sutcliffe. I’m sure Nicholas’s actions in stealing me away have piqued Marshal’s conceit no small amount. He can’t let such a blow to his ego pass without a fight.”

Chuckling at her words, Alex agreed. “You understand politics quite well. Tell me, do you plan to wed my brother this morning?”

Ysabelle froze. She’d known he would get to this topic eventually, but her frayed nerves skittered with her pulse. “That’s something I should discuss with your brother. How did Nicholas get the scars covering his back?”

Alex stilled and his brows knit together in a frown of bemusement. “Did you see them?”

“Yes, this morning when he washed.”

“He allowed you to watch him bathe?” Alex asked with amazement.

She shook her head. “I walked in on him accidentally. He didn’t know I was there.”

“Ah,” Alex sighed with understanding. “He’s normally careful to keep the scars hidden, even from his own men. I know of no woman who has seen them, except you.”

Poor Nicholas. What he must have suffered.

“What happened?” she asked, wanting to know, yet dreading the answer. She leaned against the wall to steady her trembling legs.

“He was whipped,” Alex supplied.

“By whom, and why?”

Resting his hip on the edge of the table, Alex reached for a goblet of ale and took a gulp before responding. “I’ve told you Lord McDonald was fond of tormenting my brother. Whenever Nicholas showed pleasure, McDonald had Nicholas flogged. If Nicholas smiled, he was whipped. If he laughed, he was beaten.”

“How cruel,” Ysabelle said.

Alex held up a finger. “But if Nicholas killed, he was praised and allowed to eat his fill of good food. He was given a warm place to sleep. Soon, no one could best my brother. He became brutal, almost ruthless in battle. It won him the title Scots Ram, because he refused to accept defeat. Even when surrender seemed to be the last option left to him, the Ram fought on and won the day. He was invincible, but there was a price to pay. He has always been alone. Until now.”

Aghast, Ysabelle stared at Alex, hardly able to believe what he’d told her. “Why would Lord McDonald treat a child in such a manner?”

“McDonald thought pleasure and joy weakened a mon, so he tried to beat it out of Nicholas.”

She shivered. “And did he succeed?”

“No. Although Nicholas will still never surrender.”

Ysabelle sighed. “I’ve also seen gentleness in your brother. I saw him holding Sara in his arms, rocking the little girl and speaking to her tenderly.”

She didn’t mention Nicholas’s softness toward her. It was impossible to hate a man who showed her so much kindness.

A smile crossed Alex’s face. “You’ve seen his compassionate side, then. You understand what so few men realize.”

“And what is that?” she asked.

“That no matter what my father and McDonald did to beat the decency out of Nicholas, it hasn’t changed the good mon he is inside. Your father recognized that, too. It’s why he betrothed you to him.”

“I’ve also seen Nicholas’s brutality,” she argued. “I fear there’s still a lot of cruelty in him as well.”

She wondered how much of what she’d been told over the years about Nicholas was true and how much of it was conjecture. Any man, or woman for that matter, would fight if their life were in jeopardy. If Lord McDonald kept Nicholas constantly in danger, it would surely earn Nicholas a horrid reputation simply because he fought to survive. Stories were often blown out of proportion. Nicholas had killed rather than die. She couldn’t blame him for that.