Sword for His Lady (28 page)

“Do you want to be adopted, boy?” Ramon asked.

Donald blinked, the question catching him by surprise. He turned to look at the cook, his lips twisting into a giddy smile. He cleared his throat and looked back at Ramon. “Aye, my lord.”

“And swear loyalty?”

Surprise flashed across Donald's face a second before he fell to his knee. “Forever, my lord!” His voice was so loud, several of the men sleeping on the floor of the hall woke and sat up to see what was happening.

Isabel held her breath. But Donald looked up at Ramon with a glitter of satisfaction in his eyes. She realized she'd never seen the boy so happy. Ramon didn't miss it. He tightened his lips to keep them in a hard line.

“Done.” Ramon turned his head toward the cook. “Now stop keeping your mother up so late with worry. She needs her rest, my men eat a lot of food.”

Donald sprang up, his feet barely touching the floor. “Aye,” he answered as he put his arm out for the cook. She took it as tears made shiny tracks down her wrinkled cheeks.

Ramon shook his head but his lips curved before he turned and scooped Isabel off her feet. Once she was settled into their bed he grunted at her, “My men are taking bets on how easily you will bend me to your will.”

“They would not.” She slapped his shoulder before he pressed her head back down. “Admit you enjoyed seeing that boy happy.”

“I'll run him through if he steps out of line.” There was a hard note of finality in his tone. She smoothed her hand along his chest.

“Sometimes, all any of us need is a second chance at life. I am grateful for my second chance with marriage.”

“As am I.”

It was simple to slip back into sleep now. Ramon's embrace cradled her as she felt her child move again.

Aye, she was grateful for the chance to know love.

* * *

The White Tower was imposing, just as it was intended to be. Prince John sat inside it with his brother's barons. Occupying the head of the table, king in everything but name, which vexed him because it meant each baron had a vote. They also had the right to wear a baron's coronet with eight points on it. No one except a royal was allowed a crown. It was Richard's seal on their position, his blessing on their rulings.

John didn't care to share the crown with anyone, but he was only a prince. He would need the support of these men if he wanted the crown. The people of England were growing tired of Richard's Crusades and the cost they had to shoulder for his glory, both in gold and lives. That dissatisfaction was something John might use to his advantage. No one wanted to be ruled by a king who didn't want to be in the country.

“You killed Baron Raeburn.”

“In a fair fight,” Ramon de Segrave answered clearly. “He poisoned my wife. My challenge was just.”

Two of the other barons nodded in agreement. “Raeburn bought his title,” Baron Smyth said. “He was no true baron.”

“But your action caused his army to fall under your command,” John argued. The rest of the barons' expressions tightened. None of them wanted any baron to have more resources than they had.

Ramon stared at him. “The army in question is under the command of my captain, Ambrose St. Martin. He is worthy of the title of baron.”

John stroked his beard. Ambrose St. Martin was a huge, golden-haired beast of a man. He stood behind his lord with a solid stance.

“His task will be greatly vexing if you elevate him. Raeburn's men lacked discipline and honor. But to disband them would have flooded the borderlands with villains. The Welsh lairds would have been happy with that. More men to use against us. Even if only half of them are salvaged, it is better.”

“I see the worth in your actions,” the prince muttered. “Ambrose St. Martin, you are raised by my hand to the title of baron.”

There were a few narrowed eyes, but John enjoyed knowing that not everyone was pleased. It was important to keep every baron guessing. They'd think to rule him otherwise. But there was one thing that John intended to do.

And that was to rule in his own right.

He'd be the king of England, and soon too.

As for Richard, well, John doubted his brother would ever return from the Crusade. It was an added bonus that his brother had done nothing about ensuring he had an heir.

That left the throne of England for him, and John was going to be very happy to accept it. More than one of the barons had noted how things were going to be. Segrave and St. Martin would now be indebted to him as well.

England was as good as his.

* * *

Isabel looked up as the church bells began to ring. There were shouts of joy in the kitchen as everyone hurried out to greet the returning lord.

She moved slower, her belly big and round.

It was the heart of winter, the trees frozen and everything covered in white. A terrible time to travel, but she enjoyed watching Ramon as he led the way back into the yard.

He would never put off his duty because the road was too cold. She wondered how she had ever dreaded his arrival.

He pushed his face plate up and aimed his dark stare at her.

“I seek the Lady of Camoys!”

“Only Lady de Segrave is here,” she replied.

His lips curved into a satisfied grin. He slid from his stallion and marched up the steps, his armor clanking with his motions.

He cupped her chin, his fingers cold, but she rubbed her cheek against them to warm them.

“I am here, my lord.”

“And I have come to be your devoted husband, madam.”

He leaned down and kissed her, to the delight of those watching. Mildred snorted, but Isabel was far too absorbed in the kiss to pay attention to her.

* * *

Isabel's toes were warm now. The ice of winter was gone as warmer air surrounded them all. The scent of newly turned earth was thick.

“Bear down now…harder.”

Mildred was showing no mercy.

Isabel groaned, feeling as if she must be splitting in two. She couldn't seem to draw in enough breath, but Mildred had no sympathy.

“Bear down, Isabel! Harder, I tell you, you must do it with the pain.”

“I am trying…” Isabel panted.

“Harder!” Mildred's voice snapped like a whip.

The birthing table was hard against her back but Isabel curled up and grabbed her knees. Two maids pressed their hands into her back to help keep her there as she bore down. Her body was splitting again, opening as the pressure built until it burst, and her baby slipped through into the world. She felt it moving, passing from her womb to where the midwife waited.

The midwife caught the baby with steady hands and eased it free. “A son,” she declared as she swung the baby by its heels and thumped it firmly on the back twice. When she turned him up, she rubbed the infant briskly with a length of fabric. His tiny body shook, his hands opening and closing before he gulped air and let it out in a wail.

Isabel sobbed, reaching out for her baby. The maids all cried out, helping her to cradle the baby because her arms were shaking from the effort of the birth. Mildred tucked the fabric around him, her face crinkled up with her joy.

Isabel's son screamed, the sound echoing through the kitchen and out into the great hall. A cheer went up from those waiting beyond the closed door. Ramon's squire began pounding on the door.

“Lady…lady…my lord waits,” he called. “What word?”

He wouldn't actually enter the birthing area, for it was a woman's place, but he flattened his hand and hit the door frame.

“A son!” the midwife called to him. The pounding stopped as the sound of the boy running through the hall echoed into the kitchen. A moment later, there was a roar that Isabel recognized very well.

After all, it was the man she loved.

The baby drew in a shaky breath and opened his eyes, locking gazes with her.

Love was a fine thing indeed.

A very fine thing.

Read on for an excerpt from

The Highlander's
Bride Trouble

Scottish Highlands, 1487

“Ye may be dismissed for the night.”

Abigail Ross, the Earl of Ross's daughter, didn't really look at her maid, Nareen Grant. She was too busy breaking the wax seal on the letter she'd just received. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled as she unfolded the parchment. Its crinkling echoed loudly in the quiet chamber. She was well past the blush of youth, but it was clear affection had no time limit. Even in her late twenties, Abigail was excited by her love letter.

Although, perhaps “liaison letter” might be a more appropriate description. Abigail enjoyed her lovers, and she enjoyed knowing she didn't owe them the obedience a wife would.

“Go on, Nareen. I know ye like yer sleep.”

Abigail drew out the word
sleep
. She looked up for a brief moment, making it clear she knew what Nareen would be doing under the veil of night.

Abigail knew Nareen's weaknesses too. It was the only reason Nareen served her, so she might enjoy freedom as well.

“The moon is full,” Abigail muttered before looking back at the letter. There was a subtle warning in her tone, indicating she would turn a blind eye only if Nareen returned the favor.

Nareen inclined her head before leaving the bedchamber. Once she passed through the arched doorway that separated the bedchamber from the receiving chamber, she allowed her pace to increase.

She wasn't interested in sleeping, and luckily, her mistress didn't have any issues with her nighttime rides. Of course, in return, Nareen was expected to ignore the unmarried lady's lovers. So it wasn't luck, it was an agreement. One Nareen enjoyed benefits from as well.

She shuddered, a tingle of fear rising from the dark abyss where Nareen had banished several memories she never wanted to think about again. Sometimes it was very hard to forget her cousin Ruth and the horrors Nareen had suffered while with her kinswoman.

Yes, the arrangement made it possible for Nareen to escape being under the care of her kin, and the unsavory plans Ruth had been making for her.

Nareen turned her attention to the moon. She could see it glowing through the seam in the window shutters. Just a faint sliver of yellow light, it was like a beacon, drawing her toward joyful abandon. The whisper of chilly night air coming through didn't bother her a bit. In fact, it was invigorating.

Outside, she didn't have to worry about being trapped within stone walls.

Nareen steeled her expression as she went through the doors that led to the stairs. Two Ross retainers stood there, making sure the earl's daughter was well guarded throughout the night. They each held a five-foot-tall wooden staff topped with a wicked and deadly looking spear top. The metal gleamed in the moist Highland air. Their gazes followed Nareen as she left, and they stiffly pulled on the corners of their knitted caps.

No one really spared her much attention as she made her way through the partially lit passageways. Several of the torches had been blown out by the vigorous wind.

Nareen skipped down the stone steps, making the three stories to the ground floor in a flash. Abigail would be traveling again soon, if the letter held an invitation. That meant Nareen would be on a tighter leash once the highborn lady found a way to wheedle her father into granting her permission to return to court. The earl had sworn he wouldn't allow it, but Nareen knew he'd soften. Once the wine began to flow, the Earl of Ross lost his will. Abigail always exploited her father's weakness to suit her whims.

So tonight, Nareen would ride.

Many would tell her it was the demons causing the gusts of wind. Nareen scoffed at them. There were legends that went back farther than the Church. Tales of Celtic lore that were still told around the winter fires. She preferred the stories that told of strength and daring, to the Church's teachings that tried to convince her to fear the witching hours.

Nareen pulled her arisaid up from where the length of Grant tartan draped down her back, and laid it over her head. During the day, the piece of wool was secured at her waist, and of little use except to make it clear she was proud to be a Grant. But at night, it would shield her from rain and keep her warm. She pulled it around to cover her shoulders before venturing into the yard. Most of the Ross retainers taking their ease in the yard looked her way, but they returned to whatever they were doing once they recognized the Grant colors.

She was just the mistress's attendant.

That position suited Nareen well. She didn't regret leaving her cousin's keeping, not even when it reduced her to being a personal servant. At least she need not worry about Ruth selling Nareen's maidenhead.

Nareen shuddered. The woman held no power over her now. Nareen had seen to that.

The horses greeted her when she entered the stable. Her mood improved as she reminded herself that she was free of Ruth and her unsavory plans.

Her mare tossed its mane in greeting. Nareen murmured softly to it in Gaelic as she eased the bridle on. Her mare pawed at the ground, eager to stretch her legs.

“Me thoughts exactly,” Nareen said as she slid onto the back of the animal. The gate watch raised the gate for her, but not without a stern look of disapproval.

Nareen didn't bother to look back. She leaned low over the neck of her mare and let the animal have its freedom. The horse picked up speed, chilling Nareen's cheeks as they raced across the open land that surrounded the Ross castle.

* * *

Saer MacLeod turned his head, listening to the night. He kicked dirt over the small fire he'd built to cook his dinner, and it died, leaving him in darkness.

It wasn't that dark. He'd endured nights that were as black as a demon's eyes, and this one wasn't anywhere near that deep.

But there was something—someone—riding toward him. There was no way he was going to greet that stranger anywhere but on the back of his horse.

There was a whistle from his man. Baruch held up one finger.

Saer didn't reach for the pommel of the sword strapped to his back. A lone rider wasn't that much of a threat.

“I thinks it's her…” Baruch rode up close to his laird's side. “Just like the Ross lad told me, she's riding by moonlight…”

“Good,” Saer muttered. He felt a surge of impending victory and savored it.

Nareen Grant had turned him down and dismissed him the last time he'd seen her.

He intended to make sure she knew he was not so easily brushed aside.

* * *

Nareen was sure her heart was beating as fast as her mare's. The animal slowed, having spent its first burst of speed. Her arisaid had fallen back, baring her head, but she enjoyed the bite of the night air. She laughed, at ease for the first time all day. But her elation evaporated when her mare's ears lifted. Nareen tightened her grip on the reins as she searched the shadows. “Who is there?” she demanded.

“Ye take a risk by riding out at night, lass.”

Her company emerged from the shadows cast by the edge of a woodland patch, where the forest trees thinned and gave way to the slope.

“But yer command of the mare is impressive, Nareen Grant.”

He was a large man. She could describe him as huge, but resisted the urge because there was already a chill tingling on her nape. If he knew her name, it was possible he was an enemy of the Grants. She tightened her knees, making ready to flee.

“Ye have naught to fear from me.” He nudged his horse farther away from the shadows. Her heart froze as the moonlight illuminated his hard body. There was no mistaking his prime condition, and his voice was deep and young enough to confirm she might be in true peril if he turned hostile.

“Name yer clan,” she stated boldly. She lifted her chin and stared straight at him. A weak plea would never do.

There was a husky chuckle from the stranger. “Are ye sure ye are in a position to demand things of me, lass? Most Highlanders do nae care for a lass who spits fire.”

“I do nae care for anyone who will nae speak the name of their clan without hesitation. Such actions mean ye have no honor.”

He rode a full stallion, the horse just as impressive as its master. The animal was prime quality, telling her he had coin in his purse, but that fact didn't reassure her. Many times, noble lords were far more unscrupulous than a common villain. The law favored them in every way, and they took advantage of it.

He nudged the beast with his knees until it turned and the moonlight washed over his face. She gasped, recognizing him instantly. And a little too well for her liking. A rush of heat flooded her cheeks, for she had just accused a laird of having no honor.

“What are ye doing riding on Ross land in the dark of night, Saer MacLeod?”

He moved his horse closer to her mare and leaned down to pat the neck of the sturdy beast he rode. Her attention was drawn to his hand, fixating on the way he stroked the animal. There was a confidence in his motions that sent a tingle across her skin. He was more than bold, he was supremely at ease in the night—so much so, she envied him.

More heat teased her face, this time flowing down her body.

“This is hardly dark,” he said at last.

She jerked her gaze up to his face to find him grinning at her. She tossed her long braid over her shoulder, detesting the way he made her feel vulnerable. “Ye're right, it is hardly dark, which is why I am enjoying it. Good-bye, Laird MacLeod.”

She tightened her grip on the reins and sent her mare in motion again. She wasn't running away; it was simply a matter of doing what she pleased. Aye, indeed it was.

Abigail already told her what to do most of the day. Of course, it was far better than answering to a husband or to her cousin Ruth.

Her dark memories stirred again, so she leaned low over the neck of the horse and felt the wind pulling the shorter strands of her hair from her braid. The steady beat of the mare's hooves filled her head, but there was something else too, a deeper pounding. She turned her head to find Saer MacLeod keeping pace with her, an amused grin on his lips.

She kneed her mare, urging the animal to go faster. It was an impulse that irritated her because she was letting herself be goaded. There would be no responding to Saer MacLeod.

She pulled up, the mare settling into a slow walk, tossing her head as Nareen worried her lower lip. “I'm sure ye have important things to do, Laird MacLeod.”

He guided his stallion in step beside her mare. “Ensuring ye do nae get set upon by the MacKays is important. I hear they have no love for the Ross. They claim the earl killed their laird and have vowed vengeance.”

“I am a Grant.”

“But ye serve the earl's daughter,” Saer countered. “There would be more than one man who would consider that enough to include ye in their feud.”

Her heart was beating faster. She drew in a deep, slow breath to calm herself. “I do nae need yer protection.” Her tone was far from smooth, further irritating her. She didn't need the man hearing how he unsettled her.

He grinned more broadly in the face of her temper, a cocksure, arrogant, full curving of his lips that sent a tingle through her belly. She was amusing him and nothing else.

“I do nae need yer permission to ensure ye come to no harm, Nareen. Just as I did nae need yer brother's consent to let me ride along with him to deal with yer cousin Ruth.”

She jerked, involuntarily pulling on the reins. The mare stopped, snorting with frustration. Saer reached out and stroked the animal's neck again. The horse quieted immediately and made a soft sound of enjoyment.

Nareen's mouth went dry at the way his touch pleased.

She wondered… “Let me mare be.”

Nareen tried to pull the horse away. Saer reached out and captured her hand to keep her from commanding the mare.

The contact was jarring, his warm flesh shocking her. Her own fingers were chilled from the pace of her ride, but his were warm and inviting. More than a warmth that chased away the night temperature, this was a heat that touched something deep inside her. She licked her lower lip because it was too dry, drawing his gaze to her mouth.

She jerked her hand away.

“I told ye at court, I want naught to do with ye.” At last, she'd grasped enough of her composure to say what she truly needed to.

“Aye, ye did.” He patted her mare's neck, stroking the velvet surface of her skin with a long motion before answering. “Look at me, Nareen Grant, and tell me if ye see a man who is easily told what to do.”

His tone was soft and menacing, carrying a warning that even the mare sensed. A chill shot down Nareen's back, her gaze locking with his. She was keenly aware of him, her lips tingling with anticipation. She felt like there was something inside him that was drawing her closer, some force that reached out to stroke her, entice her to do his will.

He jerked the reins right out of her slackened grip.

“What are ye doing?”

Saer didn't answer her. He held the reins, and her mare began following his stallion as he sent the beast forward. Her only option was to drop down the side of the animal while it was in motion. One look at the ground warned her against such a rash action. Moonlight illuminated the rocky ground they rode across, promising her a rough landing.

But she was still tempted, because Saer's back promised her something else. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and tied at his shoulder. She was as fascinated by his back as by his keen gaze. A long sword was strapped across his back at an angle so the pommel was behind his left shoulder and easy to reach with his right hand. There was nothing ornate about the weapon, just solid purpose. He was bastard-born and raised among the isles. The Highlanders called him a savage, and his actions proved he was exactly that.

He took what he wanted, just as he was taking her.

She looked at the ground again, but the sound of water drew her attention to where he was leading her. The noise grew until it was loud enough to drown out the steps of the horses. He guided them around a granite outcropping and down to where the moonlight shimmered off a river. It was swollen from rains farther up in the Highlands, the moonlight lighting the white peaks raised by the current.