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Damn. Malcolm did not particularly wish to cross swords with an opponent scarcely older than a squire. After ten years of battle, Malcolm craved peace. But he would do whatever he must to secure the holding for his king and his clan.
“I have made it abundantly clear that I willna, sir, and I am afraid I canna afford to give ye more than a quarter of an hour to change yer mind, or ye will feel the brunt of our convictions in this matter.”
There was another pause.
“Then I accept that time, sir, to confer with my people in regard to your proposal.” The younger man disappeared once again, leaving Malcolm confident as to what the outcome would be.
He might have lost his taste for battle, but he had yet to lose a fight.
Rosalind hadn’t fought a battle before, but it seemed she needed to win one today.
In one breath she cursed Gregory Evandale for deserting her, and in the next prayed he would come back soon. Why hadn’t he married her before joining King Edward’s wars? He’d claimed he needed to acquire loyal men and the king’s approval for their marriage. Hadn’t he done so by now?
After descending the outer walls, she flew across the courtyard, the thin soles of her decorative slippers providing little protection from the hard stones. Men and women, young and old, busied themselves making preparations to defend the keep. Several large fires were already lit to heat cauldrons of water. Men hauled rocks up the walls with pulleys, along with garbage from the kitchens and, Rosalind guessed, the contents of the chamber pots. Beaumont’s crude knights moved stealthily up the walls, positioning themselves with arrows to shoot at a moment’s notice.
Looking about her, Rosalind knew they were makeshift efforts, but that could not quell the immense pride she experienced to see their hard work. She was almost to the keep when John intercepted her.
“Well?”
“We have a quarter of an hour in which to confer.” Rosalind snorted in disgust, her heart still slamming erratically in her chest after her confrontation with the enemy warrior. “The arrogant Scot thinks we will give in to him and his band of heathens without a fight.”
“Your father would be proud of you today, Rosalind. I know it with every old bone in my body.” John clapped a reassuring hand on her shoulder before hastening off to continue preparations.
A wealth of emotion squeezed her insides, the familiar ache of loss accompanied by fear. Hope. Desperation. Heaven help her, she wanted to make her father proud. And her mother. And dear William, whom she’d adored…. Praying for strength, Rosalind darted inside to help Gerta in spite of the chills that wracked her weakened body. In all likelihood, their defense of the outer walls would not last long, maybe not even through the night. But the inner bailey and keep were much stronger and built to withstand a long siege.
Yet…
Something bothered her. She tried to push aside the pain in her pounding head long enough to think clearly. To plan her strategy and plot for all possibilities. She could not shake the sinking feeling she’d overlooked something.
For the life of her, she could not remember what. Cursing her illness and muddled thoughts, she hurried to the great hall to see Gerta barking orders to everyone in sight.
“We have less than a quarter of an hour until we must defend ourselves,” Rosalind shouted over the din of villagers scurrying to carry crates of harvest fruits and root crops into the keep. Gerta hesitated for only a moment upon hearing the message, then redoubled her efforts to move foodstuffs and other provisions inside the inner walls.
Scrambling up the stairs to her chamber, Rosalind dispensed with the last of her father’s robes as she sailed through the door. Throwing open the chest at the foot of her bed, she rummaged through her few treasured possessions—a gown of her mother’s, a poem Gregory had penned for her long ago, her box of herbs—and finally found her father’s jeweled dagger.
Although she doubted she would ever have use for a weapon meant for hand-to-hand combat, Rosalind felt more protected with Lord William Beaumont’s blade on her person. Perhaps she might gain a bit of her sire’s strength today when she needed it so desperately.
Glancing briefly into a small looking glass, Rosalind blinked in surprise at the banner of bright flaxen hair swirling about her shoulders. Since her parents’ death, she had worn her locks in a severe fashion, pulled tightly back in an intricate knot of braids. Even in her sleep, she’d kept the waist-length tresses plaited.
Her neatly dressed locks had not fit under her father’s head covering, however, so she’d unfastened them. Now it was rather disconcerting to see the abundance of hair floating around her body like a veil. For a moment, she almost resembled the girl she had once been before marauding Scots had robbed her of so much.
But she was that gentle girl no longer. The amethysts on the hilt of her father’s knife shone in the dull glass, reminding her how far she would go to protect her people. The fever that weakened her body gave her cheeks deceptively healthy color. Rosalind’s luminescent green gown shone none the less for being crammed beneath her father’s heavy houppelande and outer robe. She remembered her mother’s lesson that in order to command respect, your demeanor must warrant it. And although her hair floated recklessly about, all else about her person befitted her station.
Beaumont might not have a lord in place this day, but she remained mistress of the holding. As lady of the keep, she would not hesitate to take up arms to defend all that was left of her father’s dreams for his family and his people.
Thus armed with his blade, Rosalind prepared to lead her people into battle.
Chapter Two
“Ready? On three. One…” Wiping the sweat from his eyes two hours later, Malcolm shouted above the noise of battle. The cursed castle folk were fighting with the desperation of the damned. Scorched fur on his cloak and a smear of rotted quinces on his forearm only stirred his anger.
Devil take young Will Beaumont for risking lives in a battle he had no prayer of winning.
“Two…” With the last surge of the battering ram, his men would break through the outer ward and then the people of Beaumont would be trapped inside the keep, at Malcolm’s mercy.
“Three!” Twelve men, with Malcolm at the lead, hefted the battering ram on their shoulders and ran at the portcullis once again.
This time the shuddering crack reverberated through Malcolm’s bones as the stubborn oak gate relented. Victory teased him, close enough to taste. Beaumont was a mix of old and new fortifications, the four round outer towers strong and stalwart, but the northern gate a weak spot with its wooden reinforcements.
Now, Malcolm’s warriors poured through the freshly made breach into the outer courtyard, their boots pounding over the stones so heavily that the earth trembled with their weight.
They were close now. Beaumont would be a jewel in the crown of the Scots’ defenses along the borderlands, and Malcolm would make it impregnable. The keep had not been well maintained, with signs of old battles evident along the outer walls. Now that he was inside the village, he could see well-tended gardens between the crofters’ cottages. Underneath the stench of rotting kitchen remains tossed down on his men from the outer walls, he could still smell fresh hay from the nearby stables. Beaumont was indeed a prize.
Forcing his thoughts back to the victory now well within his grasp, Malcolm directed his men to imprison the enemy knights who scurried across the ward to the keep. Malcolm’s were faster, and more than a little angry that the English had fought them with flaming arrows, boiling water and worst of all, the contents of the castle chamber pots. His younger brother was still railing at having his garments soiled in such ignominious fashion.
But the Scots took their vengeance now. Fifteen of the nearly thirty men who defended the outer walls were quickly taken prisoner. Judging by the look of the captives, a mixture of old and young, the Beaumont defenses were on their last legs. No true warrior fought among them. Malcolm allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, knowing this siege would not last much longer.
His gratification vanished as an arrow sailed past his head, a mere hairbreadth from his ear.
“Christ’s bones,” he muttered as a fresh slew of arrows rained down upon the heads of his men.
Shouting orders to take cover, he sought the protection of a slender sapling, the outer ward of Beaumont boasting few trees or bushes. He slapped his helm back into place over his eyes, but the shower of arrows halted as quickly as it had begun.
No doubt such desperate men sought to use their arrow supply judiciously. Even so, two of the Scots were struck in the most recent onslaught, and six other of his men had been either killed or seriously wounded in the battle at the outer walls. A needless waste of life. He lay the loss of his comrades at Will Beaumont’s feet.
The cursed fool. Apparently Lord Beaumont possessed enough bravery to order a hopeless battle against his conquerors, but lacked the grit to participate in the skirmish himself.
“What say ye now, Malcolm?” Jamie McNair shouted from his position behind a small stone well. “Shall we poison their water?”
Malcolm stifled a chuckle, mentally thanking Jamie for diverting his dark thoughts. “Still a bit out of sorts about yer fine garments, I see. Ye’re not usually so bloodthirsty.”
Jamie plucked at the sodden fur lining his leather houppelande, his dark eyes narrowing. “’Tis ruined, brother, and well ye know it. Damn foot-licking English.” He glanced up at the walls of Beaumont and then back to Malcolm. “How do ye plan to get inside their keep?”
“We’ll explore the outside.” This was the part of battle Malcolm enjoyed the most—the tactical preparation, the search for a chink in the defenses. Once he ruled his own lands, he would use the knowledge he’d gained at war to maintain peace. “I’ll meet ye around the back of the keep and we’ll see what we’ve found.”
Beaumont Keep was hardly a feat of fresh construction with its low towers laced with centuries-old Roman bricks. Yet the four-rectangular-tower layout had proven solidly defendable when well manned and Malcolm had no doubt that with a bit of effort the keep could be impenetrable.
Not today, however.
“Och. Ye would bring down more pox-bitten English arrows on yer flesh and blood?”
Malcolm grinned as he prepared to bolt to the next tree, more than twenty yards away. “Stay low.”
He could hear Jamie muttering even as he started to run, until the unmistakable hiss of an arrow whizzing through the sky reached Malcolm’s ears. Resisting the urge to raise his small wooden shield above his head, Malcolm put all of his effort into reaching the tree before him. The hissing grew louder, forcing him to dive headfirst for the shelter of the thick walnut.
Thwack!
The force of the arrow roared through him as it struck the shield still clutched in his hand. Bemused, he stared as the flaming arrowhead ignited the shield with lightning speed. The heat of the burning wood finally penetrated his dulled wits, and Malcolm withdrew his grip from the rapidly disintegrating armor. Although not an heirloom, the shield had been crafted by Laird McNair for his son. Malcolm was disappointed to see it ruined, but it had served its purpose today, protecting him from what would no doubt have been a mortal blow.
From the stout defense of the walnut tree, he peered up to the northern watchtower, from whence the missile had come. He blinked to clear his vision, knowing his eyes must deceive him.
Yet there she was.
A woman.
Standing defiantly on the crenellated parapet, she did not even bother to duck behind the safety of the wall now that she had discharged her deadly shot. She lowered her crossbow, her gaze never leaving her intended victim.
Briefly, Malcolm wondered why none of his men were firing upon such an exposed target, but a quick look around the bailey showed him those few who spotted her now gawked in disbelief.
The fey creature was no kitchen maid. She reeked of nobility. Her green-yellow gown shimmered with the precise hue of newly unfurled spring leaves, and even from Malcolm’s considerable distance, he could see the voluminous folds and rich color conveyed wealth. A golden girdle sparkled around her hips in the sinking sunlight.
And her hair…
The woman’s hair outshone her adornments. It floated in a halo about her head and shoulders, rippling clear down to her waist. Loose flaxen strands caught by the breeze gave the impression of gentle disarray. She looked like a pagan sacrifice to the ancient gods of spring. Her appearance bespoke purity, yet her stance remained insolent and proud, her eyes trained on her quarry with the instincts of a natural predator.
His blood surged hotly through him—part lust and part fury—as he watched the noble beauty turn away and descend from her post. Who the hell was she to be up on the keep walls, practicing her archery skills on his head?
Cursed she-demon.
Distancing himself from the undeniable temptation the woman presented, he turned to his task of surveying Beaumont Keep. The mystery of the green-gowned siren would wait until later.
“Malcolm McNair, ’tis mighty slow ye’re moving.” A familiar voice hissed at him from the cover of a few bushes nearby.
“Ye canna tell me ye made it all the way around the keep, Jamie.” But there was his younger brother, hidden behind a tall hedge, now on the other side of Malcolm.
“Aye. And what has taken ye so long? Could it be ye were beset by a fairy from above, to be still standing there, gaping upward?”
Malcolm made a mental note that he owed his brother a pounding. “Nay, ye quarrelsome wretch, merely a crossbow-wielding strumpet who wished to incinerate me with a flaming arrow.” No matter that she’d tried to torch his arse, Malcolm had to admit he admired her skills with a bow. “What did ye find?”
Jamie leaned close, heavy eyebrows waggling with good tidings. “I found a southern tower half in ruins and plenty of options to gain entry. But we best wait until night falls to cover our activities.”
The news negated the pounding he owed Jamie. Malcolm grinned at his brother, reminded of his good fortune to be a McNair.
“Well done.” He gestured toward the setting sun, mere inches above the horizon. “We willna have long to tarry. Come explain to us all at once.”
Stealthily, they moved back to the front of the keep to rejoin Ian and make their plans for wresting Beaumont from its unfortunate lord. And although Malcolm knew his thoughts should be fixed on his impending victory, he couldn’t stop an unwelcome surge of lust over the prospect of meeting the she-devil up close.
Rosalind had kept her gaze trained out the narrow slit in her solar for the past two hours, to no avail. All she had to show for her effort was a headache grown steadily worse. The sky loomed black as pitch under the new moon, and she perceived no movement of any kind in the outer bailey.
“Perhaps they have camped outside our walls for the night,” John suggested. He perched beside her, as nervous and restless as his liege lady.
“Perhaps.” But don’t rely upon it. Something was definitely afoot. Rosalind could sense it in the deep chill that had taken hold of her bones. Where could the invaders have disappeared?
The inner keep of Beaumont was secure enough….
Or was it?
A thought hit her with all the force of a Scots battering ram as Rosalind realized what had been niggling at her all day. “John, did we post men around the south tower?”
Color drained from the steward’s face. “I never thought—”
Rosalind pushed past him and tore through the keep, the foursquare plan of the fortification mirroring the design of the outer walls on a smaller scale. She raced down the stairs from her living chambers, across the great hall and through the southern chapel to the crumbling staircase that led to her parents’ former rooms. At first she thought his footsteps followed behind her, echoing her own. But by the time she reached the abandoned old tower, she realized he must have been waylaid for she was well and truly alone. Unease tickled her spine.
The narrow southern tower, built of timber and rock, had been completely destroyed in the fire. The wood had burned out from underneath the stone, leaving the tower a crumbling heap of rubble. Under Gregory’s guidance, Rosalind’s tenants had helped her wall off the tower from the rest of the keep, and now no one ever cared to go there. The past was better left forgotten in that heap of stone.
Until today.
Why hadn’t she recalled the weaknesses of the southern end of the keep? It was the illness, she knew, that made her fuzzy-headed. She never would have overlooked such a thing if she had been well. The wall the serfs had built stood strong considering the unskilled workmanship that had fashioned it, but lacked the solidity of the rest of the structure. The makeshift barrier wasn’t as high as the watchtower bastions on the other three corners of the keep, nor was it as thick.
Fear twisted her gut as she finally beheld the wall with her own eyes. But there were no savage Scotsmen in the southern tower. No sledgehammers chipping away at the stones.
All was well.
Weak with relief, Rosalind turned on her heel to fetch sentries for the southern wing, but was yanked back by two strong arms.
A yelp of fear rose in her throat, squelched when a large palm covered her mouth. The arms around her were thick as tree trunks, crushing her against a heavily muscled chest.
Rosalind’s heart pounded until the beating deafened her.
“What a surprise.” Though her captor’s words were a hoarse whisper against her ear, Rosalind detected the lilt of Scotland in his speech.
Her blood chilled in her veins.
“The coldhearted siren is a living, breathing woman, after all. But I warn ye, dinna make a sound.” The huge palm edged away from her mouth.
She remained pressed to the hard wall of his chest, and although she could not see her enemy, his chin hovering over her head attested to his intimidating height. Some barbaric fur that he wore tickled her neck, the scorched scent of the cloak intensifying her fears. He wouldn’t be pleased with her just now, after their resistance.
Rosalind fought the terror that filled her by remembering the people of Beaumont who counted on her for protection. She must remain calm. Steady. Seeking her voice, she forced herself to edge words from her lips.
“Are you the only one who has made it inside?” Perhaps if she screamed, her people would arrive before the rest of the Scottish slime oozed through the cracks.
“Aye, but dinna doubt there will be others any moment.”
At her sharp intake of breath, his hand clamped tightly over her mouth once again. “I warned ye, lass, ’twill go the worse for ye if ye call out.”
True to his words, a soft thump sounded nearby in the darkened corridor. From the shadows, another Scots voice echoed over the stones.
“’Tis the lass from the watchtower,” a blue-painted beast of a man observed as he dropped softly to the floor beside them. “She’s no phantom, but a wee fair maid.”
“Aye, fair of face and a fair shot, too,” another Scots voice chimed as a third blue savage appeared, climbing down a rope she spied dangling along the wall. The third warrior was not quite so massive as the other two, but still a head taller than Rosalind. The newcomer wore a silver broach of a mythical griffin, the same device she had spotted on the warlord’s cloak earlier. “’Twas yer head she was aiming for, Malcolm. If ye were a damn sight slower she might have taken it.”
Malcolm.
She knew whose broad arms now held her fast—the dark-haired warrior who had drawn her eye earlier. The same Scots knight who had called up to her from the battlements.
Her whole body trembled with fear, with memories of the Scots’ wrath the last time they had visited her borderlands keep. The hulking giant stood to one side of her, the more refined knight to the other. As a cold sweat broke over her brow, still more of the blue-painted knights materialized, dropping down one by one from the rope slung over the southern edifice.
All Rosalind’s preparations for a siege were for naught because she had never given the crumbling tower a second thought. The people of Beaumont would suffer for her oversight.
