Authors: Sophia Johnson
straightened and eyed them, noting their grins quickly fled and their gazes looked heavenward.
Damron waited as ten Saxon warriors bearing the Sinclair crest on their shields galloped toward them. They did not approach with swords drawn, for the king’s escorts were readily visible.
A man, who appeared to be a groom, vaulted off his horse.
He hopped from one foot to the other, craning his head to peer around Damron.
“Who is this ill-mannered lass? Why was she unescorted?”
Damron scowled, his hands fisted on his hips.
“My lord, ’tis Lady Brianna Sinclair. She lives with her sister at Saint Anne’s. My gentle lady started afore her escorts were prepared.”
The woman on the ground threw out her arm and knocked Damron on the ankle. “I’m not Brianna, I’m . . .”
The groom, wringing his hands, broke in. “We could not catch up to her. She is long used to evading her escorts.”
Damron’s face tightened, his lips thinned. He had sent the herald ahead to inform the abbess of Saint Anne’s to expect him.
This
rude girl was Lady Brianna? Why had she left the abbey, and why was she riding west toward Ridley?
This wisp of a lass, who bristled with defiance, was his docile, obedient bride? As if he could somehow burn her to cinders and she would disappear, he glowered at the Saxon woman he was forced to marry. Not caring if he sizzled the lady’s ears, he shouted, “Lucifer’s pocked arse.”
No doubt she heard him, for her eyes rolled up and she looked to have slipped her mind again.
He vaulted onto Angel’s back. Heaving a disgruntled sigh, he spread a heavy plaid across his lap. His brows furrowed, he motioned for Connor to hand her up to him. Fortunately, Connor kept his amusement tightly contained while Damron settled her to his satisfaction.
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He snapped an order to her groom to ride ahead to Ridley and tell them of the injured lady. Looking around at her Saxon men, Damron spoke in disgust.
“Gowks, all of ye.” Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he ordered, “Ride to the rear.” Once they were under his control, the fools would soon learn not to disgrace themselves.
Angel’s gait started too roughly, and Brianna moaned. He signaled the big stallion to a gentle walk as he studied the woman in his arms. Her hair, a deep chestnut color, flowed long and thick with curls that clung to his fingers. Brown brows were shapely arches above long-lashed eyelids. A small, aristocratic nose, generous full lips tilted up at the sides. Her lower lip looked plump and inviting, begging to be teased. Her small body felt delicate and helpless. His rage began to ebb. His arm tightened to draw her closer. She smelled of roses and sunshine.
Not for long. The girl whimpered. Before he knew the reason for her distress, she spewed her stomach’s contents on his tunic.
Though he cursed, his hands were gentle as he wiped her face and held her head high so she would not choke.
They traveled the forest road and came out at a large, grassy area to the front of Ridley Castle. Expecting them, the gatekeeper had raised the portcullis. Armed men lined the wall walks and the inner courtyard.
They crossed the drawbridge and passed through the barbican. Damron’s eyes roved over every inch of the ground and walls. He noted anger in the glares directed at him and saw the men’s hands tighten on their sword hilts. Though he kept his eyes straight ahead, he did not miss a single detail.
Damron was suspicious of the lass the king would burden him with. Lady Brianna appeared far from the meek, biddable girl William had portrayed. Also, the king had casually mentioned a petition from Sir Galan of Ridley seeking per-
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mission to marry. Had he sought Lady Brianna? Mayhap William had not told him all?
Once he and Baron Simon of Ridley entered the baron’s solar, Damron waited patiently while the baron read the king’s missive informing him that Damron had complete authority over the Sinclair and Ridley honors. Ridley eyed him warily, no doubt wondering at the king’s actions.
“I would know more of the Lady Brianna.” Damron leaned forward in his seat. “Is the lass often fashious and disobedient?”
“I have never known Brianna to be anything but mild of manner and obedient. She never disobeyed her father, God rest his soul. She has been an angel with me.” Baron Ridley’s face flushed with indignation.
“If not disobedient, is she mayhap prone to reckless urges?
To be willful and not seek manly guidance afore she acts?
Mayhap to refuse it?”
The baron’s eyes opened wider. His face turned redder as Damron’s harsh voice demanded answers. “Nay! She has always known her place.”
“Why then did she flee the abbey when she knew I was to arrive?” Damron’s eyes narrowed to slits as he studied Ridley.
“I know not why. Mayhap she sought only to take exercise and became frightened on seeing your warriors.”
“Exercise?” Damron snorted with disbelief. “Alone? With her escorts far behind her?” He shook his head and posed the one question that most begged an answer.
“Is the lady oft alone with a knight in your service? A Sir Galan?”
The baron fairly hopped with agitation. “Nay. Never are they alone. Our Brianna would not dream of such base behavior.”
Damron nodded. He would learn more on his own than what this man would tell him. To his way of thinking, at the very least the young woman was headstrong. She could have
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easily worked her wiles on such an easygoing man as the baron and met Galan in secret.
In their chambers the following evening, Damron paced from the door to the window opening and back, time and again. “What think ye of all we have learned, Connor?”
“At Saint Anne’s this morn, Abbess Alana vouched for Brianna’s honor.” Connor sat on a stool close beside the window.
He turned a small cup of ale around and around on the table, admiring the painted design on it. “She believes her sister bolted from fear of the unknown. What possessed William to even hint to Sir Galan that there could be a marriage between the two? Her honors are too vast to bestow upon a mere knight.” Connor rolled his shoulders, then stretched his arms out with a sigh of pleasure.
“In his cups, of course.” Damron had no need to hide his irritation, for Connor well knew his dislike of their old friend’s overindulgence in food and drink. “’Tis a cruel thing that he does.”
“Dinna fight so hard against this edict of King Malcolm and King William’s, Damron. They must needs foster peace on the borders. William could have demanded you as hostage at Abernethy. Instead, he proposed a union between a powerful Scottish family and his own Saxon ward. ’Twas a clever move. Only you would think a lovely young bride with such wealthy holdings a punishment.
“’Tis natural he demanded you. He thinks to do you further honor.” Connor raised a hand, questioningly. “’Tis his way. Do you not remember the first year we fostered with William’s family and he gifted you with your destrier, Angel? You disarmed the knave intent on stabbing him in the back. A future Scottish laird and the future king of England—what an unholy pair you made.”
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Connor chuckled. “You always with a scowl on your face and William forever in a temper.”
Damron returned to his arguments and refused to talk of those early years after his father’s death, when he divided his time between Scotland and Normandy. He strolled over to the bed, picked up a plump pillow and kneaded it as he walked a few paces. Whirling, he threw it back on the bed.
“This ‘lovely young bride’ is a Saxon.” He spit the words out like they somehow tasted foul. She was older than most brides because of the Conquest. William had said she had seen twenty summers. “She is scrawny and weak. How will she survive Highland livin’ in the best of summers, much less in months cold enough to break the tarse off a man?”
He glared at the braziers of hot coals placed about the room. He threw off his tunic and padded barefoot to the wooden shutters. He opened them wide and stood motionless, welcoming the cold air flowing over him.
“Why must they need fires when ’tis warm?” he muttered.
He stared at the glittering stars. They looked like clusters of fireflies in the evening sky. He didn’t want another wife; he had loved before upon first sight. Her face and form had been of rare beauty, his Genevieve, but her character was steeped in darkest deceit. He shuddered.
He longed to punch William’s arrogant nose. Eight years earlier, he and William had been together in the Norman court.
Damron had been wed to Genevieve but a short time then. He had visited his mother’s kin in Rouen and returned to the court a sennight earlier than expected. He had ridden hard to surprise his love with a locket, studded with precious sapphires, securely resting in his pocket. ’Twas Genevieve’s name day.
Instead, it was Genevieve who had surprised him.
Damron had no wish to marry again. He could not trust a woman. A jagged scar near his groin was a constant reminder why. Now King William and King Malcolm forced Brianna
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on him. A wife was naught but trouble and heartache. His leman, Asceline, tended his needs and well knew her place.
He had no need of a wife.
He blinked away the images that haunted his mind, realizing Connor had called his name several times.
Connor’s gaze searched Damron’s face. “What is your intent?”
“I must needs watch Brianna for a sennight. Her behavior is by far too strange for the biddable, sweet-tempered lass William described. What has he not told me of her?”
“Aye, she did not appear to be easily led by a man.” Connor strode over to a corner table and poured water in a basin. He washed his face and hands, then splashed cold water over them.
“One saving grace is that, since I am their new overlord, I can draw much-needed men from the Sinclair and Ridley garrisons.” Damron felt some small satisfaction. “We could well use the extra warriors to supplement Blackthorn’s army, with the Gunns always nipping at our borders. They are becoming e’er more bold of late. I want no more of our families grievin’ because we did not have enough warriors to protect them.”
Images of his slain father and brothers, along with Connor’s parents, filled Damron’s mind with pain. He thought about their loss when he and his cousin had been eleven summers old.
He snagged the green tunic he had thrown on the bed and tugged it over his head. “I will judge for myself what manner of person she is.
Honor!
” He snapped the words in disbelief.
“Aye,” Connor said, drying his face. “Abbess Alana believes a woman can have honor the same as a man. A strange belief.”
“’Tis not possible.” Damron secured his sword about his waist. Its weight soothed him as he strolled to the door and glanced back. “Wait for me in the great hall. After I look in on Brianna, I will join you.”
* * *
Sophia Johnson
Lydia awoke in a darkened room. Somehow, she must have lost her contacts. She squinted, trying to make out the vague shapes around her. She was in a bed unlike any other on which she had slept. The sight of the wooden frame, complete with a white canopy and heavy green bed curtains tied at each post, made her blink in disbelief.
Across from the foot of the bed was a door with leather hinges and a strange latch instead of a doorknob. Beside it stood a heavily carved wood trunk. A brace of candles illuminated it.
Her headache reminded her she had been visiting the ruins of Blackthorn Castle when the winds of the freak storm had tossed her down on the stone walkway. At least she thought that was what happened. Other images kept intruding.
Like a camera snapping pictures, visions flashed before her eyes—strange horsemen galloping toward her, the ground flying up to meet her after a horse stumbled, her fear as she braced for the fall. Odd. She’d never ridden a horse in Scotland.
How could she have these visions? And men shouting.
Who were they? And why had she called out to God to help her? Now where in blazes had that memory come from? Was it a dream? She winced as an angry jab of pain rocketed through her head.
She’d better solve her problems in order. There seemed to be many of them. Where was she? She didn’t recognize the room. Why had they brought her here after the storm instead of to the Bed and Breakfast where the museum staff knew she always lodged?
Hearing a soft rustle of clothing, Lydia turned her head to see a young woman sitting in a chair close by. She had black hair and sky blue eyes. Her face looked familiar, and she appeared close to Lydia’s age. The woman sensed her gaze, for she shot up from the chair and hurried over.
“Oh, Brianna, you truly did it this time. He says you ran away.
I thought you were going to die when I saw all that blood. That
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horrible man ordered everyone about like he was the king, and Papa let him.” She stopped rambling long enough to draw a breath before she continued. “Mother said that after they left the solar, Father’s face and neck were red, his hair stuck up, and he looked like a cock.” She jammed her fists on her waist and frowned in-dignantly. “Mayhap she has trouble with her sight? He has never looked like a chicken to me.”
Brianna? Does the woman mistake me for someone else?
Of a sudden, fear clogged Lydia’s throat.
My God! She speaks
Old English, and I understand her. And that obnoxious man
earlier. He spoke Norman French, and I answered him in the
same tongue.
Though she had a master’s degree in historical linguistics, along with one in genetics, she had never thought she’d one day use any of the earlier languages. She’d had a flare for them. She sent a thank you heavenward to her parents, for they had been renowned historians and taught her a love for all things ancient. After listening carefully to the rapid fire of words, she spoke.
“My name is not Brianna. It is Lydia Hunter. Who are you?”
“’Tis I, your cousin Elise. Can you not see me? Of course you are Brianna.” She nodded so vigorously her chin hit her chest. “You are a Sinclair, and Sinclairs are not hunters. Are you playing a game? When you fell on the rock, did it hurt your eyes, too? You have been asleep for two days. Mother said your brain might not work too well, but she never said anything about eyes.”