My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (36 page)

Nicholas! Ysabelle’s eyes widened when she saw her husband. Lifting himself up on one elbow, he threw his knife swift and sure. With a quick whoosh, it embedded to the hilt in Malcolm’s eye.

Malcolm screamed. Blood ran down his face. Ysabelle stared in horror as he tottered. Like a mighty oak tree, he swayed twice before crashing to the ground. He lay still as death and, this time, Ysabelle knew with certainty he would not rise again.

Lambert whirled about with surprise, his eyes wide with disbelief. He looked to where his father laid. Then, his cruel gaze moved to Nicholas and a thin smile stretched Lambert’s thick lips.

“You have no more weapons. You are mine, Scots Devil.” Lambert glanced at Ysabelle. “Stay out of the way, witch. I’ll take care of you once I’ve finished with the Scotsman.”

Squeezing his fist on the hilt of his sword, Lambert approached Nicholas slowly. Nicholas clawed the ground, struggling to pull himself closer to his sword, which lay just out of reach.

Walking around the dead horse, Lambert laughed, seeming to enjoy himself. “You cannot reach your sword, Scotsman. It’ll do you no good, now. And after I’m finished killing you, I’ll enjoy taking Ysabelle and Sutcliffe for my own.” He sneered. “If she pleases me, I might let her live for a while.”

Nicholas growled with fury, but to no avail. He had no weapon to defend himself with and he couldn’t get free of the horse.

Lifting his sword, Lambert bellowed with rage and charged. Nicholas tensed, prepared to feel the bite of steel pierce his flesh. The chill of death prickled his skin. He had failed to protect Ysabelle.

Lambert’s eyes widened and he stumbled and jerked, twisting awkwardly as he tried to turn around. He grunted heavily and went down, nearly falling on top of Nicholas. Ducking to the side, Nicholas barely evading the man’s heavy weight.

As Lambert fell, Nicholas saw Malcolm’s sword protruding from Lambert’s back.

“What?”

Lambert spasmed once, twice, then he dropped his own sword and his hands fell lifeless at his sides. A wheezing gasp escaped his lungs, his staring eyes glazed over and lost their luster of life.

What had happened?

Nicholas lifted his gaze to Ysabelle, where she stood close by, gasping and trembling, her face ashen. “I killed him. Heaven help me, I have killed him and I am glad of it.”

A sob tore from her throat and tears wet her cheeks. She ran to Nicholas and he pulled her into his arms. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her eyes. She clung to him like a drowning man clings to a tree trunk.

“Shh, sweeting. It will be all right,” he told her.

The thunder of hooves and yelling sounded as Scotsmen trampled the sweet grass by the river’s edge. Ysabelle and Nicholas found themselves surrounded by their own allies. From the tree line, Lord Marshal yelled retreat and his soldiers scurried for safety in the forest. The Scotsmen gave chase, dispatching any who turned to fight. A rousing victory.

Five Scotsmen helped pry Nicholas out from beneath Samson. Nicholas grit his teeth against the pain. Ysabelle knelt beside him and inspected his right leg.

After a few minutes, she gave him her verdict with a happy smile. “The soil here near the river is soft and malleable. It molded around your leg when the horse fell on it. I don’t think it is broken, though the muscles are badly bruised and sprained. It could have been much worse.”

With his arm around her, Nicholas stared at Samson, valiant even in death. “He was a brave warrior.”

“Yes, just like his master,” Ysabelle agreed.

The yells of battle were now muted, the smell of smoke, blood and death surrounding them. Nicholas pulled Ysabelle into his arms, cupping her face in his calloused hands.

“I thought I might lose you,” she whispered against his lips.

“Never,” he vowed fiercely. “Your love gives me hope. It renews me. Surely I can conquer any foe as long as you are mine. I’m home now and will never again lose my way.”

He kissed her. Neither of them spoke of their qualms of what they would do once the English rallied their forces and King William sent more reinforcements. Neither voiced their fears that the Pope might declare their marriage and unborn child illegitimate. For now, it was enough that they were alive and had won the day.

Chapter Twenty

Several hours later, Nicholas and Ysabelle returned to the keep. They sat inside the great hall of Sutcliffe, sipping honeyed mead. Still dressed in chain mail, Nicholas supped with Ysabelle and his men. She wrapped his leg tight with animal hides and Alex provided him with a sturdy walking stick. He hobbled around, making plans to gather supplies and repair the castle before the English could return.

Nicholas clapped Alex on the back in a rare show of emotion. Alex grinned broadly. “I think your fall has addled your mind.”

Nicholas smiled and stared at the walking stick ruefully. “Hopefully I willna need it for long.”

“One thing is certain,” Ysabelle pointed out. “You will not be riding a horse into battle for some time.”

Nicholas frowned, and Ysabelle knew what he was thinking. He hoped his leg healed before the English returned. She smiled to cover the uncertainty that boiled inside her. It seemed this despicable war would never end.

“I will do what I must, sweeting. But I will always return to your side,” he vowed.

She looked away, unwilling to consider what might face them on the morrow.

A rousing fire crackled in the stone hearth. Lighted torches had been set about the room, filling the hall with cheery warmth. Mead and ale had been confiscated from the English supplies to grace their tables, along with fresh meat, cheese and bread. Laughter and booming voices filled the room as their victory was enjoyed. They all ate heartily, recounting the valor of those who had died, and cherishing the day simply because they were still alive.

Finally, Ysabelle left Nicholas’s side, to check on Ada and Sara, and to seek her rest.

Nicholas flinched when Archibald Ramsay slapped him heartily on the shoulder. It was a rare show of friendship from Alex’s father, but Nicholas had neither the heart nor the energy to appreciate it just now. His head pounded like a hammer and his shoulder burned like fire. He must have ripped the stitches open during the battle. No doubt Ysabelle would be displeased when she had to sew him back up.

“We have won the day,” Archibald exclaimed. “Sutcliffe is for Scotland and the Clan Ramsay.”

“We have won the war but not the battle, I fear,” Alex said.

Nicholas silently agreed. Many had died, both English and Scots. The battle had been both fierce and cruel. But he was not so foolish to think King William would give up so easily.

The English would return.

“They were badly beaten, but I have no doubt the remainder of their army will rally,” Alex said.

Archibald lifted his heavy war ax. “Then, let them come. We will be ready for them.”

Nicholas nodded. “You have my gratitude for lending me aid.”

Archibald merely grunted. “After all these years, it was the least I could do. It’s time to put aside my anger at you. What happened long ago was never your fault. I regret sending you away to McDonald.”

Nicholas realized this was as much expression of friendship or apology as he would ever have from the old laird. It wasn’t much. It couldn’t undo the pain Nicholas had suffered, but after all these years, it meant a great deal to hear the words.

“Thank you,” Nicholas said.

Archibald nodded, then he stood and left to seek his rest. As he walked away, he limped, his shoulders sagging wearily, his hair sparse and gray. When had the fierce man become so old and fragile? Nicholas no longer had any desire to harbor a grudge against him. Perhaps Ysabelle’s love had cleansed his soul. Yes, her love had healed his broken heart.

Something burst free inside of Nicholas. Like an iceberg breaking loose and melting in the depths of the ocean. No longer did he resent Archibald Ramsay. Indeed, Nicholas felt sorry for the man.

Tomorrow was a new day, a new future, and a new love. Using his walking stick, Nicholas tottered up the stairs to the chamber he now shared with Ysabelle. His step was slow and ponderous, but his heart was light with joy.

When he entered the room, he was surprised to find it dark and empty. Where was Ysabelle? Searching for his wife, he breathed with relief when he found her in the chapel, kneeling upon the cold stone floor. A single tallow candle burned in the candelabrum on the table. She’d fallen asleep, her head leaning against the altar, her hands still clasped in prayer. Elation filled him, lifting his soul with warmth. He had no doubt she had been praying for him. For his safety. For their love.

His heart squeezed.

Reaching for her, he took her into his arms and kissed her forehead. With a cry of alarm, she jerked. Then, realizing it was him, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him fiercely. As he looked at her face, Nicholas had no doubt she had prayed as fiercely as he had fought.

“Come,” he whispered against her lips. “It’s not good for you or our child to kneel here on this cold floor. Also, you didn’t eat verra much. If I send Margaret for more food, will you eat it?”

Her legs were stiff and she could barely stand as she shook her head. “I ate with Ada. She insisted I nourish our unborn child. She’s so sorry for defying you and very happy that you are safe.”

He nodded. “She’s wise and I’m grateful to her for looking after you. Will she recover from her wound?”

“Of course. She’s a stubborn woman and determined to play nurse to our babe. She should be out of bed in the morning and I’m relieved.”

They leaned into each other, supporting one another as they limped out of the dark chapel and found their room. No words were spoken as Ysabelle helped him remove his hauberk. While he sat before the fire in one of his giant chairs, she bathed his shoulder and re-stitched the wound, applying a poultice that would draw the poisons and ease the pain. He watched her silently as she also cleaned and stitched the gash on the back of his head, placing a poignant kiss near the bump.

She prepared for bed, brushing her hair until it gleamed like white silk down her back. Nicholas’s gaze followed her every move, his mouth curved in a smile of contentment and love. Lying upon their bed, he held out his good arm and Ysabelle snuggled against his side.

“I love you. My heart belongs to you,” he told her with feeling.

She sighed with contentment. “And I love you.”

They shared one more kiss before drifting off to sleep.

*

Before the sun rose the next morning, a solid pounding on the door awakened Ysabelle. Nicholas sat up, brushing the long dark hair out of his eyes as he mumbled something about bothersome sentries.

“Lord Nicholas, riders have come,” a guard called through the wooden panel.

Nicholas shook his head and grumbled about never having any peace. Throwing back the warm furs, he stood, moving rigidly as he hobbled to the door and threw the panel wide. The sentry stood back, his eyes widening.

“Who is here?” Nicholas demanded.

“They carry a white flag, my lord,” the man spoke breathlessly. “They aren’t English, but came from the north. One of them appears to be a priest and they have brought news from the Pope.”

Father Edward!

Ysabelle’s pulse quickened. Unease filled her when she considered the ramifications. The priest might have good news, or bad. Their world could crash down around their heads.

No matter what, the waiting would end. They would know what to expect and could now plan what they should do.

“How many riders?” Nicholas asked anxiously.

“Five men, my lord, but Lord Marshal has now joined them at the gates and also Father Eustace. They don’t appear hostile. They have asked for admittance inside Sutcliffe, so that they might speak with you.”

Nicholas nodded, his face grim. “Very good. After you have taken their weapons, place guards throughout the bailey and give them admittance to the hall. Warn Lord Alex and Lord Archibald also. I will be there shortly.”

He closed the door and dressed as quickly as his stiff body would allow. Ysabelle had already pulled her chemise over her head and was just tying back her hair before she washed her face.

“Do you think it’s Father Edward?” she asked, her tone breathless with excitement as she slipped on her shoes.

“Yes. Perhaps you should remain here.” Nicholas didn’t smile.

Like her, he must fear the possibility of bad news.

“The news they bring will impact my life. I’ll not be kept in the dark,” Ysabelle reached for the door. “And no matter what they have to say, I will not leave you. I will never be another man’s wife. We will face this together.”

Nicholas stared at her, as though thinking this over. Finally, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her tenderly. “Yes, you’ve earned the right to be by my side.”

When they reached the great hall, Ysabelle was surprised at the sight of so many Scottish soldiers filling the room, still armed for battle. Dressed in their chain mail, Alex and his father stood before the high table, awaiting Nicholas.

Father Eustace stood beside Lord Marshal and Father Edward. Each man’s expression looked dour, their brows lowered, their mouths severe.

When she saw Father Edward’s sad countenance, Ysabelle couldn’t prevent a sharp intake of breath. Her face felt void of warmth, her body trembling. But she didn’t back away. She lifted her head higher, her hand resting over her abdomen. She expected the worst.

The fire had not yet been built and the hall was chill with the morning air. Wisps of smoke floated upward from the torches hanging in the wall sconces. Left in the hall all night, they had burned themselves out.

“Ysabelle, my wife, come and sit by me.” Nicholas held out a hand to her.

She glanced at him, taking courage from his presence. Closing her fingers around his hand, she sat next to him. Her gaze didn’t waver from Father Edward as the priest stepped forward to greet them.

Alex and Archibald joined them on the dais. They took their seats as Nicholas reached for a goblet of wine and pressed it into Ysabelle’s hand.