Authors: Sophia Johnson
Her arms flew out, searching for balance. The back of her hand scraped against cold, rough stone. Her feet scrabbled to find firm ground but landed in a puddle, only to slip from beneath her again.
Falling backward, she screamed and grasped the brooch over her heart. Her head hit cold, unforgiving stone.
Chapter 2
Northumbria, England, 1072
“Why are King William’s men bringing a Scotsman to Saint Anne’s Abbey, and why cannot I go to Ridley?” Brianna Sinclair’s chin began to quiver and her eyes filled with frightened tears. She rubbed a palm over the tip of her nose, disliking the acrid smoke of the tallow candles placed about the dim room.
The abbess shrugged. “’Tis not the king’s way to tell a woman what he plans. We will learn of them shortly.” She gripped the cross hanging from the thick black cord around her neck, and her lips moved in silent prayer.
“Why has not Uncle Ridley come for me? Everyone knows I am soon to wed Sir Galan at Ridley. Now King William forbids me to leave the abbey until this Scotsman comes! Why, Alana?”
She twisted her hands together and looked at her sister for comfort. “Something terrible is going to happen. I feel it! You do also.”
“Shh, calm yourself, little one.” The abbess’ voice was a soothing blanket of love falling around her sister’s shoulders.
“I know not why. You are the king’s ward. The messenger says
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only that you must tarry until Lord Morgan arrives. Mayhap you will not have to wait long.”
“What if the king has changed his mind and does not want me to wed Galan?” Brianna gasped and pulled back from Alana. “This Damron of Blackthorn is a Scot. They lay waste to all we hold dear here on the borders. I will not wed a barbarian. A Scotsman killed Father! If not for them, I would long since have married Galan and had little ones.” Her arms wrapped around her lower waist as if protecting those not-yet-conceived babes.
“Aye, a Scotsman killed our father. But do not Saxons also raid into Scotland and kill fathers of families there? ’Tis the manner of fighting men on both sides of the border,” Alana said.
“I am told they fight even as they dine. ’Tis common knowledge they rape their brides and beat them each sennight for sport. And baths? They never bathe! I could not abide the stench.” Brianna frowned and tilted her nose as if she sniffed the air.
Alana hugged her young sister close to her chest. “Come now, think on it. Fortunately, we have old Roman baths on our lands. If we had not, we might not have become accustomed to bathing. Our men fight often. They sometimes beat their wives. As for rape—’tis part of a warrior’s reward. They fight the harder for it.”
“I
will not
have him. I want Galan. We will marry afore this beast arrives.”
Brianna dutifully attended the noon prayers for sext. She purposefully arrived late so she would be at the rear of the chapel. Kneeling on the cold marble floor with her head bowed, she peeked up to study the women. About ten paces in front of her, twelve pious ladies knelt in six rows. Deeply engrossed, they recited their prayers.
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She winced, for she had never been able to attain the inner peace that seemed to radiate from the praying women. Was God impatient with her for her rebellious spirit? The priest had told her for she must bow to God and the king’s will in all things.
She eased off her shoes and slipped them under the braided rope at her waist. Breathing a silent prayer for God to forgive her for disobeying the king, she added a much more fervent one that Alana would understand and not be angry with her.
As she backed out of the chapel, her gaze darted around.
No one was about. She would ride to Ridley and wed Galan.
Slipping quietly along the walls, she made her way to the stables where Sweetpea greeted her with a happy whinny.
“Shh, love, lest they hear us. You do not want to live with Scotsmen. Why, they might even find you a rare delicacy.”
Her whispered words quieted the fawn-colored mare. She took in a deep breath, savoring the familiar smell of hay, and listened to the soft huffs of the horses.
The shudder coursing through her body found a twin in her mare. Sweetpea shook herself and tossed her head as if dislodging a horrid thought. Sitting on a small mound of hay, Brianna put on her shoes. The special saddle her Nathaniel had made her to celebrate the day of her birth hung close by on the wall.
Nathaniel had always been there for her whenever she was in trouble. He was a man full grown before she was even born, though he never seemed to grow older. If he were here now, he would tell her what to do, she thought mournfully.
Soon, she had the mare ready to ride. Walking on tiptoe, she led the horse to the stable entrance. Above all, she did not want the men her Uncle Ridley had assigned to protect her to hear her leave. Just as she mounted and settled her foot in the stirrup, her groom came running toward her. She urged Sweetpea forward.
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“Milady, halt! Brigands be in the woods. Ye must await yer guards,” the groom shouted, waving his arms.
Brianna didn’t heed him. She spied a farmer, stooped with age, pulling a creaky cart laden with vegetables through the entrance. Delighted to find the heavy wooden gate open, she streaked across the small courtyard.
She rode hard for several leagues, before she burst out of the dense forest into an open field. She laughed with triumph, for Ridley Castle was but a short distance ahead. Galan would know how to keep her safe.
That noise? Thunder? Nay, ’twas the sound of many hooves beating the earth, the creaking of saddles, and the heaving snorts of horses being ridden hard. Her laughter died in her throat.
On the opposite side of the clearing, a troop of warriors thundered toward her. None had the long blond hair or beards of Saxons. They wore the strange helmets and shields of the king’s Norman soldiers.
They came so rapidly! Did they mean to ride her to ground like a wild animal? She was too late leaving the abbey. Happiness turned to terror. She jerked the reins to turn her mount and flee back to the safety of the woods.
“Please God, please God. Help me!”
No sooner had she breathed the prayer than her faithful Sweetpea stumbled. Tossed over the mare’s head, she felt a scream catch in her throat. The ground rushed up to meet her.
“Do ye ken King William’s thinkin’, Connor? Have I no’
told him I dinna want to wed again, to take this whey-faced Saxon as bride? Over and again?”
Damron shouted above the drumming of the horses’
hooves. It was no strain for him, as he forever bellowed when riled. His Scottish brogue thickened.
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Connor’s deep laugh lightened Damron’s scowl and cooled his temper. His cousin and first-in-command was always able to soften his mood.
Ahead, a beautiful fawn-colored horse burst from the woods.
The rider’s hood fell back and, as he watched, long tresses broke free from their ribbons to fly like a brown silk banner behind the woman’s dainty head. Even from this distance, the sound of her laughter reached them. What had caused that glee? That jubilant mood? The moment she spied them, she foolishly tried to force her horse around to gallop away.
“Lucifer’s nails! Does she not have wits to see she can injure her horse on this ground? Why is she alone?” Damron shouted.
The horse stumbled, pitching the girl headfirst to the rocky ground before it also fell. Damron clenched his teeth and urged his mount to greater speed. On reaching them, he hauled back on the reins. Great clods of earth flew in the air from their horses’ hooves.
He threw himself off the saddle and hurried over to inspect the horse. It struggled to its feet, blowing and stamping, throwing dirt in all directions. Connor knelt to tend the girl.
After Damron seized the mare’s reins and brought the horse under control, he stroked over the animal’s quivering legs while he crooned endearments.
“By God’s grace, she did not cripple the mare.”
Connor looked at him with raised brows. Damron turned his attention to the girl, whose skirts had flown above her knees.
“A few sharp smacks on her nether parts would teach this little fool not to be so careless. Her mare looks to be of unusual stock. She should be a fine breeder.” Damron scowled at the girl’s small form. “Not so this slip of a lass.”
A knight could easily replace a woman, but a well-bred and trained warhorse was his most valuable possession. Damron
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treated his own mount, Angel, better than most men treated their wives.
Nudging Connor aside, he crouched beside the girl. Her head rested against a rock streaked with blood. He moved gentle hands over her head and body much as he had tended the mare. He turned her onto her back and stared at the rock.
“Christ’s wounds, Connor, ’tis shaped like a fist.” He put the odd stone in his cousin’s hand. “Does it not bring to mind our motto: ‘With a Strong Hand’?” He huffed, his face hardened. “This maid is beyond foolish. I have a mind to tell her master he must needs use a strong hand to rein her in.”
After Damron tore off strips of the girl’s shift and wiped the blood from her face, he bound a clean strip around her head. He continued to check the front of her in the same manner as he had her back, feeling over the curves of her hips and waist as his hands moved up to her ribs.
Encountering soft mounds beneath the tunic, he unthinkingly tightened his grip.
’Twas no maiden but a woman grown.
The eagle’s call screeched in Lydia’s ear. The world lurched and whirled in a mad rush of air that went on forever. She felt less tangible than a gnat’s wing. At last, the sensations changed, eased and fell away. She felt herself slide like a baseball player onto home plate on muddy ground, then into something solid.
Her head throbbed. Her ears roared. Her lids wouldn’t obey her mind no matter how hard she tried. They stayed clamped shut and refused to open. Nothing on her body responded. As she focused on each breath, she willed herself not to panic.
With each heartbeat, mind and body merged. Her skin tingled. She felt the ground beneath her. She heard men’s voices and the gentle huff of a horse. One eyelid struggled open enough for her to see a face that had to be pure imagination.
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“Ohmygod. Ohmygod.”
A man leaned close to study her lips. Surprise lit his face.
“Devil take it. Ye willna curse. Are all Saxon lasses so ill bred?”
In her blurred vision, she saw two identical images of a face from hell. Her eyes widened at the sight. As fierce as that double image looked, it was two too many for comfort. Finally, the faces merged to one. A shiny conical helm with a gold-plated nose guard covered the man’s head. It hid all but his eyes and jaw. He looked like a giant hawk, with icy green eyes that stared into hers.
She studied those eyes. A spark of recognition caused mo-mentary panic. Why? What had she to fear from him? The man scowled. Trying to return the favor, she winced from the effort. She touched her throbbing forehead, finding cloth bound around it. It was warm and wet. Blood? Had this man tended her? Fingers tightened on her breasts. Startled, she realized the strange face belonged to hands that now squeezed her tender flesh.
“You damned toad! Take your hands off my breasts.”
Though she meant to sound assertive, her words were little more than a squeak. Appalled at her display of weakness, she squared her jaw and jutted her chin.
A bark of laughter drew her glance to the left. A second man knelt there. He had removed his helmet. Coarse brown hair flowed around a face with amused brown eyes. He grinned at her with lips that looked as if they often smiled.
“Hm. I ken ’tis the first time a lass has likened you to a lowly creature, cousin.”
“Lucifer’s horns, woman. Ye
willna
curse.”
Damron’s brow furrowed into a ferocious scowl. His hard gaze locked on hers as he eased his hands from her breasts.
She knew he did so at his leisure, letting her know it was his decision, not hers.
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He clasped her arms instead and ignored her efforts to pull away. “Lucifer’s teeth. What do ye think ye are doin’?”
“Lucifer’s teeth have nothing to do with it. Aren’t you listening? Or have you yelled so much you’ve made yourself deaf? I told you to remove your hands. I’ve a good mind to report you for molesting me.” She glanced at the sky and muttered, “When did the rain stop?”
“It hasna rained today, rude lass.”
“Why are you in costume? Where’s the regular guard?”
Had she missed reading about a Highland Festival today?
“In costume?” The man leaned closer. “Regular guard?”
She started to glower at him, but decided against it. Her previous efforts hurt too much. Instead, she squinted her lids and tried to look mean.
“You’d better leave before I get
really
angry.” She gritted her teeth against the thudding pain raging through her head and tried to pry his fingers from her arms.
The man with the pleasant face burst into laughter.
“Connor. Leave off.” The harsh words sounded threatening.
“Quiet! Both of you. I have a splitting headache.” She made her own demand as loud as she could. The results impressed her.
She studied what she could see of the tyrant’s face. It wasn’t much. Why didn’t he take off his helmet? Conflicting smells came from this body so close to hers. A whiff of sandalwood merged with sweaty maleness, leather, and the pungent odor of armor and horse.
“Oh, hell and damn. Why won’t you go away?” She caught her breath as tremors of foreboding flowed over her like waves.
Damron ignored her. No one, much less a wee lass, had ever had the nerve to order him, the future Laird of Blackthorn, about.
He turned his glare on Connor, warning him he was on touchy ground. His cousin muffled his amusement. His warriors and the king’s escort were listening and watching. He
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