My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (7 page)

Soon, Nicholas came for her. As she stood, his gaze swept over her, resting on her thick braid. She was woman enough to notice the admiration in his eyes.

“Thank you for the leather cording,” she said.

He gave an inaudible murmur and looked down, studying her slim feet and ankles. With little fanfare, he produced another woolen cloak she thought must belong to him.

Lifting her, he placed her in his saddle. Then, he wrapped the voluminous cloak around her legs and feet so it wouldn’t come lose as they traveled. The warmth enveloped her and his consideration amazed her.

When he anchored the folds beneath her legs, she made another request. “I would like my own horse, please.”

“No, Maston told me no mon can ride better than you.”

A fissure of pride enveloped her, but that wouldn’t get her what she wanted. “I have no doubt your men ride better than me.”

“I willna give you your own horse and end up chasing you down when you try to escape. Maston said you ride astride, racing across the moors like a heathen when you should be home minding your needlepoint.”

Shrewd man. “Why would my father tell you such things?”

His lips twitched as though he resisted a smile. “He warned me that you’re a woman who speaks her mind and does just as she pleases. He said I should know what I was getting myself into before I agreed to wed you. He believed I might have better luck controlling you than he did.”

Controlling her? By the saints, she was a wealthy heiress and needed no keeper. “My father taught me to run his estates whenever he was oft away, which I do quite admirably. I need no man to tell me what to do.”

His head dipped in acknowledgement. “Yes, Maston also told me you have a head for numbers and keep an accounting of his flocks, herds, and supplies. No doubt I will also enjoy your many skills.”

The last was said in a silky tone and she wondered if his praise was genuine. Most men didn’t appreciate her value, except for her efficiency in running her father’s hall. Perhaps the Ram was confident enough in himself that he didn’t feel threatened by an educated woman.

Biting her tongue, she was more than aware of Nicholas’s arm wrapped around her waist, holding her against him as they rode. Once more, she was forced to brace her hands against his forearms for support. She was conscious of his hardened muscles, his strength, and the scent of leather and sandalwood clinging to him.

“I must admit I was skeptical when Maston said you have a sweet temperament, yet speak your mind and race your horse like a heathen,” he remarked. “These traits do not go together well. It’s obvious he loved you and overlooked your flaws.”

Flaws? She tensed with indignation, wondering if she should be pleased or offended by his remark. “What right do you have to question my faults when it’s widely known that you have so many of your own?”

A low growl rumbled in his chest. If she didn’t know better, she would have said it was a laugh he cut short.

“My faults are many, my lady,” he finally conceded. “I’m certain you’ll come to know every one of them as my wife.”

Stiffening against him, she became uncomfortably warm. “You presume a lot.”

His deep voice vibrated against her, filling her entire body with his strength. “Though you weren’t present at our betrothal, I saw your signature upon the proxy.”

Ah, he had her, now. Having been taught to read and write by the castle priest, she’d indeed signed the proxy when they were betrothed a year earlier. But she’d only wanted to please her father. When Maston had explained that he wished her to wed Nicholas Ramsay, she’d trusted her father’s choice beyond reason.

“Why would my father choose you for my husband when there were so many other wealthy lords that sought my hand?” she asked.

He was silent for some time, the grunts of his horse filling the void. “You are mine, and that’s the end of it.”

Not waiting for her reply, he spurred his stallion into a lope.

*

When they arrived at Sutcliffe, the sun glowed high above the rolling hills surrounding the valley. Ysabelle opened her eyes and stared with amazement at the crenellated walls of the castle. A bolt of joy shot through her.

Home!

“I thought you might take me to Dalhousie or Castle Ramsay,” she blurted.

Nicholas tensed against her. “Those holdings belong to Alex, not me. They’ll never be my home.”

She knew that Nicholas’s stepfather, the Laird of Clan Ramsay, lived at Dalhousie.

“Didn’t Archibald Ramsay provide you with a home?” she asked.

Nicholas snorted. “I claim no Ramsay dwelling as my own.”

His contempt for Lord Ramsay was obvious. Alex had told her of Nicholas’s childhood, but surely the Ram had a crude hut somewhere in this vast world.

“Where is your home, then?” she asked.

Looking over her shoulder, she peered up at him. A brief flash of pain filled his eyes, then was gone. So quick that she thought she must have imagined it.

He nodded at his horse and touched his sword and shield. “My steed and blade have always been my home. They are all I ever needed, until now.”

“It’s sad to need only a horse and cold steel. Surely they give you little comfort.”

“It’s a bastard’s lot in life, to make the best of a situation thrust upon you.”

“If it’s of your choosing, then I pity you.”

His brows quirked. “Who would choose to be born a bastard? It’s not a title I would foist on anyone, least of all my own child.”

She shook her head and turned to face forward again. “I pity you if you’ve chosen to live alone, wandering the earth with a band of mercenaries, making war on the helpless.”

His low voice raised the hair on her nape. “I seek no pity from you, lady. Never have I made war on the helpless, I assure you. But I am a warrior, and it’s true I have wandered the earth and seen much evil and death. Now, I choose to take a wife and settle my charger into a cozy barn where he’ll grow fat from inactivity. No longer do I seek to ride out into battle, but neither will I run from a fight.”

His words pierced her heart. “Your actions have brought war to my doorstep.”

“I regret that, though I was compelled in my actions. I don’t wish to bring your people any bloodshed, but neither will I give up what is rightfully mine.”

She clenched her teeth, determined not to soften her will toward him. She must not forfeit Sutcliffe’s safety for her own desires. “But you seem to enjoy war.”

At first, he didn’t respond. Looking down, she saw his gauntleted hands tighten upon the reins in front of her. “Did my meddlesome brother tell you that?”

“No. My father spoke of your prowess with a sword and spear. He said you’re relentless in killing, even when your enemy has surrendered.”

She remembered her father’s pleased tone and gleaming eyes when he’d related the Scots Ram’s accomplishments. Her father had spoken as if he were solely responsible for Nicholas Ramsay’s prowess in battle. Even then, Ysabelle had wondered why her father admired Nicholas Ramsay so much.

Nicholas scoffed. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“My father was the only man I ever trusted. He would never lie to me about you or anything else, for that matter,” she said.

She felt Nicholas shift in the saddle, his chest rubbing against her shoulder blades. “Is that so? You believe Maston would tell you the truth in all things?”

She got the impression he was silently laughing at her, and she didn’t like that he questioned her father’s honor.

“Of course. Father and I were very close. He would never lie to me.”

Nicholas leaned his head down and rested his chin on her shoulder, pressing his cheek against hers. The bristle of his beard rasped against her skin as the timbre of his deep voice blended with his Scottish burr. “You are right. Maston could not lie about something he knew nothing about. I don’t deny I have fought in many wars, but I have never killed for pleasure. Now, I seek a home and family.”

His words pulled at her heartstrings. Such a declaration amazed her, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. “With me?”

“Yes, with you.”

Ysabelle felt a tightening in her chest. She’d walked into this verbal ambush, finding herself lost in his words. She didn’t know how to be angry with him when he confided such things. But somehow, she wanted more from the man she wed.

She jerked her face away and sat forward, trying to put some distance between them. “I won’t sacrifice my people’s wellbeing to satisfy your greed.”

The destrier waved its massive head and the jingling of harness chimed around them. Nicholas didn’t answer, but he tensed and she felt his anger. Tapping his heels against his horse’s flanks, he urged the steed forward.

“What do you plan to do?” she asked as their party halted beyond the palisade gates of the town.

His dark head lowered and his breath whispered past her ear. Shivers rose along her spine.

“We will be wed and Sutcliffe will be our home, just as Maston promised,” he said. “You will give me heirs and we will raise our children within these walls. I will defend this legacy to the death.”

Ah, just as she’d thought. He would use her, as Malcolm and her king had planned to do. “Do you think only of riches?”

“No, I think of honor, duty, and loyalty. I think of planting and harvesting fields. I think of home and family, none of which I’ve ever had, until now.”

His candor startled her. A pang of sympathy filled her. How lonely he must be. Never fully accepted. Never able to call any place home. Deprived of any birthright.

Though he’d been quite gentle with her, memories of his brutal behavior filled her mind. “Don’t speak to me of honor and loyalty. You’ve spent most of your life earning coin for killing others when there were many professions you could have chosen instead.”

He looked sideways at her. The breeze lifted his long hair, feathering it across his gruff cheeks. “The men I killed were not innocent, but warriors armed and dressed in full battle gear. Never have I harmed a woman or child.”

She wanted to believe him. She truly did. It would make his abduction easier to bear.

Opening her mouth, she sought to ask him more questions but he kicked his horse and they rode forward until they faced the castle. It was a formidable site sitting along the River Tweed. A great fosse had been dug around the keep, filled with sparkling water that rippled with the wind. Only the gatehouse was exposed to possible attack and even that could not be breached without the drawbridge being lowered. Six towers linked the crenellated battlements. Except for the forest blocking the view to the south, the lookouts could see everything from miles around.

Lord Maston had planned well and reinforced the castle as the years had passed. The fertile lands surrounding the keep provided their people with rich crops and flocks to feed them through the cold winters.

They skirted the river, approaching the gatehouse. When they could go no farther, Ysabelle waited, wondering what Nicholas would do.

“Open!” At the sudden roar of his voice, the stallion jerked against its tethers. Ysabelle flinched, her fingers tightening on his arms.

Muted grumbling came from high atop the battlements. Thomas, the captain of the guard, looked down at them. The familiar sight of his weathered face and tawny hair brought Ysabelle cheer. She needed an ally.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Thomas yelled.

“Lower the drawbridge, mon,” Nicholas ordered. “The Lady Ysabelle has returned and seeks entrance.”

Thomas peered at them, his eyes rounding with amazement when he recognized Ysabelle. More guards joined him on the battlements, clutching crossbows and spears.

“You have no right to speak for me,” she bit out the words in an angry whisper. “Nor do you have a right to enter Sutcliffe uninvited.”

Looking askance at him, she saw Nicholas’s face harden. When he spoke, his hot breath grazed against her ear. “Then, invite me, Ysabelle. Why would you refuse your betrothed?”

Hah! Her betrothed.

“My lady?” Thomas called. “What is your will?”

Nicholas pulled on his metal helm as he clutched the hilt of his sword. A wedge of dread weighted her chest when she thought of him attacking her home. She could make out his piercing eyes and grim mouth beneath the gray helm. The cruel Scots Ram had returned. “How can you expect me to believe you don’t cherish battle when even now you plan to force your way inside Sutcliffe?”

“I fight only to keep what is mine.”

She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “You are audacious and arrogant.”

“Yes, my lady, and I’m also cold and hungry. I’m weary of sitting here, so make a decision.”

She’d never been so angry in all her life, but she had no other choice. Her father had chosen this man for her and she’d agreed. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to crawl into her own bed and sleep. Then, she’d like a hot meal in her father’s clean hall. She would council with Father Edward, the castle priest, and enjoy a hot bath, a cup of wine, and sit beside the fire to warm her toes and think of what she must do.

If Nicholas gained entrance to Sutcliffe, it would be impossible to dislodge him.

Anger boiled within her and her voice trembled with fury. “I am sick of unruly men trying to force me to do their bidding. You all need to be taught some manners.”

“I am eager to learn much from you, my lady,” he said.

She would love to teach him the feel of her fist against his jaw, but common sense prevailed. How she wished she had the strength of a man.

Looking at the vast company of warriors Nicholas had brought with, she saw Alex sitting rigidly on his horse. Gone was his carefree smile, his blue eyes hard and narrowed. Her father’s guards were also fierce men hardened to battle, but guilt nibbled at her mind. This was her betrothed. By her father’s word, Nicholas had a right to be here.

They all waited upon her. What she decided now would impact each of their lives. The weight of responsibility was like a boulder pressing on her heart. She didn’t want to cause their doom.

The horse beneath her shifted and pawed the ground. Ysabelle’s gaze skittered across the gray stone of the battlements. Starlings winged overhead, their happy chatter filling the air.