My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (28 page)

A hand snaked around her throat. Gasping in alarm, she spun about, staring into the dark. A blaze of panic shot through her.

“Who is there?” she cried.

She was grabbed from behind and jerked backward. Pain shot up her shoulders. A scream of alarm tore from her throat as she jerked herself free and whirled to face her attacker. A wrench of fear blazed through her as she stared at the strange man’s nasty grin.

“The lady of Sutcliffe! King William will reward us well,” he exclaimed, a grin spreading across his haggard face.

Another man appeared from behind a pile of hay and Ysabelle shrank back against the wall. She screamed again, praying someone might hear her above the clamor of siege weapons.

Two more soldiers wearing the royal crest upon their tunics surrounded her. English soldiers! For a moment, she wondered where they’d come from, and how they’d breached the castle walls.

Backing away, she felt the wall at her back. Panic pumped through her blood. Her mouth went dry and she clenched her hands. She was trapped!

A wicked smile curved one man’s mouth. “We’ve come to take you to Lord Marshal, my lady. You won’t fight us, will you?”

They must be daft. Of course she would fight. Ysabelle shook her head, her palms pressed against the rough wall.

They lunged at her and she screamed again before one of them proceeded to clamp a rough hand over her mouth. Ysabelle bit the man’s fingers, hitting, kicking, jerking free. She ran toward the door. If she could just make the welcoming sunlight, one of Nicholas’s men might see her.

The English soldiers chased after her, grasping her arms and legs. They had her! She was knocked to the ground. They dragged her back, ripping her clothes. She spat dirt from her mouth and slammed her fist into one of their faces. The man yelped as blood spurted from his nose.

“Keep her quiet,” another man cautioned.

Ysabelle tried to call out, but they stuffed a rag in her mouth and she almost gagged, barely able to breathe. Their furtive movements and smug grins told her they had yet to be discovered. If only she had a weapon, she would teach them a lesson.

Their cruel hands clamped onto her arms and legs, imprisoning her. Ysabelle fell, striking her head on a post as the breath was knocked from her body. Pain shot through her and spots of light danced before her eyes. She gasped for air but the rag blocked her throat and she inhaled deeply through her nose.

They lifted her, carrying her swiftly. Ysabelle kicked and hit, fearing what would happen should they succeed in stealing her away. Though she regretted this war, she realized nothing good could come from her being taken from Nicholas. He would never give up Sutcliffe. He was now her husband and she was bound to defend him, if she could.

They hurried toward the back of the stable. No doubt they would take her over the castle wall. And what if they dropped her? Her eyes widened when she considered drowning in the fosse below.

Looking up, Ysabelle’s eyes widened as she saw a fifth man standing on the edge of the wall, peering down at her through a hole in the thatched roof. The man clung to the top of a ladder, which had a long hook to secure it to the wall. Somehow they had traversed the fosse and laid the ladder against the wall to gain entrance into the castle. They would take her over the side and she would be in the hands of the English. Terror gripped her and she fought to spit out the muffling rag so she could yell.

A thunderous roar filled her ears and one of the men was knocked away. She fell to the hard ground. With her hands free, she jerked off the gag, spitting to cleanse her mouth. Inhaling drafts of air, she looked over her shoulder. Nicholas faced the four men alone, his sword gripped tightly in his hand.

As he crouched for battle, the look on his face was chilling. His mouth lifted in a snarl, his eyes cruel, his features harsh and ruthless. The Scots Ram would not be defied.

The enemy surrounded him, advancing for the kill. Nicholas dropped and rolled, slashing one of the Englishmen as he came up again, now positioned to the side rather than facing them all head on. The Englishman stumbled, clutching his middle as blood ran down his front.

Ysabelle realized Nicholas had removed their advantage by forcing them to take him one at a time rather than all at once. En masse, they might defeat him easily. But one-on-one, they were no contest against such an experienced foe.

Nicholas stepped forward, placing himself in front of Ysabelle. She recognized it as a protective gesture to keep her safe. He deflected, parleyed, and thrust, slicing each man so swiftly that their dying eyes stared wide with disbelief. Blood sprayed across the rough timber walls. Ysabelle pressed a fist to her mouth and bit down to keep from screaming at the gory sight. It happened so fast, she had no opportunity to help. Not that Nicholas needed any assistance, of course. The sounds of battle rang in her ears, the horror of blood and death filled her mind.

Finally, all was quiet.

With one glance in her direction, Nicholas climbed up to reach the hook securing the ladder to the castle wall. With a mighty heave, he pushed the ladder back. The Englishman fell over the side of the wall, screaming as he landed in the fosse.

Ysabelle flinched, squeezing her eyes shut for one moment. She would never understand how Nicholas could be so gentle with her, yet so cruel in battle.

Nicholas’s men overran the stable. As if from a long distance, Ysabelle was conscious of Alex checking her for injury before he went to give Nicholas aid. The men searched the entire castle, to make certain there were no other Englishmen hiding inside the keep. Several minutes passed as Ysabelle remained huddled by the far wall, her body shaking.

Nicholas barked a stern reprimand to the guards. “Did I not tell you to guard this side of the wall? You have grown lax in your duties.”

He looked so furious, the sentries drew back with fear. Ysabelle wondered if he might strike his own men.

“You have grown lazy because the English have not been able to scale our walls before today. Now, they’ll grow more aggressive and we must be ready. You must not fail again.”

“No, my lord,” one of the men answered, his face pale. “I regret that we didn’t watch more carefully. We will be more vigilant.”

Nicholas turned away and the men climbed the wall and set up guards to keep watch.

Soon, Ysabelle was left alone with Nicholas. Moments passed as they stared at each other, not moving, not speaking. Long black hair hung into Nicholas’s eyes. His grim mouth softened slowly, his stance began to relax. She could not look away, she could not blink. His hold upon her was complete. Tears burned her eyes when she realized what he had done. He could have been killed!

He took her into his arms. Perhaps he thinking the same thing about her. That she could have been taken away, or killed.

“Shh, sweeting,” he soothed as he kissed her brow.

With relief, Ysabelle flung her arms about her husband and held tight, wetting his cheek with her tears. He was alive. He was safe.

Oh, how she loved him! And she wondered how, why she felt the way she did. Love had filled her heart, in spite of her determination to stop it from coming. She didn’t understand, but she could no longer fight it either.

He grunted and flinched. Ysabelle drew back, searching his face. It was then she saw the blood soaking the front of her dress.

With a cry of dismay, she stared at it, then at her hands. They were also covered in blood. Was she injured? She felt no pain.

Lifting her head, her eyes widened as she stared at Nicholas. He was smiling softly, his gaze gentle as it rested upon her face. Standing before her, still holding his sword in his hand, he staggered. Ysabelle looked at his chest where his black tunic showed the golden eagle, its fierce beak open in a fearless cry. It was then that Ysabelle saw blood soaking his shirt, just over his left shoulder.

“I will never let them have you. My beautiful Ysabelle, you are mine,” he murmured drunkenly.

He was injured! He blinked and dropped unconscious onto the straw.

Chapter Fifteen

“I must go outside,” Nicholas told Alex for the third time. “I must check the sturdiness of the wall. There could be more attempts to scale the battlements.”

Ysabelle tensed, praying she didn’t have to fight to keep her husband inside. If he forced the issue, she would call the guards to lend her aid.

“You must let Ysabelle tend your wound,” Alex replied, holding Nicholas down as Ysabelle endeavored to remove his shirt.

Lying on the large bed in their chambers, Nicholas tried to sit up but Alex pressed him back. Thank goodness Alex had some common sense. Otherwise, she would have her hands full keeping Nicholas here.

She had started a fire in the brazier and threw the shutters wide so fresh air could filter into the room. Though it was night, sweat poured off Nicholas’s brow and he was trembling.

“You were stabbed, Nicholas. Hold still and let Ysabelle look at the wound. You’ve lost too much blood.”

“I have known worse. Have the guards set the night watch?” Nicholas brushed Alex off.

“Yes, you trained them well. I went to check myself, but your men had already taken care of it. They are sufficiently cowed after almost allowing Ysabelle to be taken. They won’t make the same mistake twice.”

“Had they been trained well, they would have watched the south wall better and Ysabelle would not have been attacked,” Nicholas grumbled. “I need to make certain the portcullis is not weakened from the blows of the battering ram.”

“I have checked it myself. It yet holds against the blows,” Alex reassured him.

Nicholas seemed not to hear. Once more, he tried to rise. Ysabelle scowled at her husband, her mouth clamped tight. Finally, she grit her teeth and folded her arms as she stood back to let him have his way.

“Fine,” she told him. “Go and bleed to death. You have my blessing. And after you have died and King William weds me to some lecherous old man, I will tell him what a fool you were as he takes me to his bed and makes me and Sutcliffe his own.”

Nicholas stilled, his surprised gaze clashing with Ysabelle’s somber one.

Alex stared, his mouth hanging open.

“Woman, who has taught you such foul talk? It’s shameful.” Nicholas grit his teeth against the pain.

She held out a hand. “You see? It hurts, doesn’t it? I will not feel shameful for speaking the truth. Now, relax and let me see what can be done for you.”

She was grateful when he resigned himself to her care. He lay back, allowing her and Alex to carefully lift his torn shirt over his head. So much blood! He had fought savagely to keep her safe, offering his own life to protect hers. Surely he had not done it simply to keep Sutcliffe. He already controlled the castle. She dared hope he cared for her just a little bit. Perhaps he might even love her a teensy bit. Her heart thumped madly when she considered the possibility.

“Lady Ysabelle?” A hesitant voice came from the doorway.

Ysabelle jerked around to see Sara standing there in a nightshirt that reached her ankles, her bare toes curled against the cold stone floor.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Ysabelle asked gently, trying to shield Nicholas’s bloody wound from the child’s tender gaze.

“I heard Lord Nicholas was hurt. Will he die?” Her small chin quivered and her eyes crinkled.

Ysabelle’s mind whirled. Nicholas dead? No, she would not allow it, but tension coiled in her abdomen.

Alex went to the girl and lifted her in his arms. He patted her back and hurried with her to her own room.

“Do not fear,” Alex told her on his way out. “It’ll take more than an English blade to kill the fierce Scots Ram.”

Ysabelle took solace in his words. But if Nicholas were to sicken and die, how would Alex explained to the child?

There was little time to consider the matter. With cloths soaked in boiled Lovage roots, Ysabelle washed the blood away. Lovage was a favorite cleansing herb she’d learned about just last summer, when the tinker had come to sell his wares. So far, Ysabelle had been pleased with the results.

Alex returned moments later, peering over her shoulder as she worked. She packed Nicholas’s wound to stop the bleeding, pressing it tight.

“Is it bad?” Alex asked, grimacing at the sight of so much blood.

“The cut is deep, but it struck his collar bone and missed doing more damage. If we can keep it from festering, I believe he should heal well enough. Did you put Sara back in bed?”

He nodded. “Yes, and Ada is with her now. How did you learn to do this? Nicholas is lucky you are a skilled healer.”

Ysabelle heard the note of admiration in his tone and the heat of a blush stole up her neck. “Ada taught me a great deal and I learned more by practicing on simple wounds my father and his men sustained. Soon, Ada claimed I was a better healer than her. But I dare not ask her to help tend Nicholas. She doesn’t like him very much.”

Alex chuckled and nodded his head. “Few people like him, but most respect him.”

Nicholas glared. “You know, I can hear everything you are saying. And the feeling is mutual. Keep Ada away from me. I don’t like that old crone, nor do I want her here.”

“I must stitch the wound closed,” Ysabelle said, ignoring Nicholas’s comments about Ada. She hated the thought that the two people she loved the most disliked each other so intensely.

“Do it quickly. I have business to tend to,” Nicholas ordered.

Without pausing in her work, nor appearing flustered in any way, Ysabelle bade Alex to build up the fire in the brazier. “You won’t be going anywhere for the rest of the night and tomorrow also.”

Nicholas’s dark gaze rested on the stubborn set of her shoulders.

“Do not glower at me,” she told him in an irritated tone.

“Do you think you can stop me from leaving?” he slurred.

“Yes,” she responded tartly as she filled a small cauldron with water and set it to boil.

“And I will assist,” Alex warned as he stood in front of the door.

“I have faced worse adversaries,” he told them with a scowl.

“I haven’t faced worse-behaved children,” she returned.