Warrior's Lady (2 page)

"Who are you to judge me?" His hand snaked out.

Stinging pain blossomed across her cheek. "An innocent woman."

"God will judge innocence, but here on earth your death will serve as a warning to the clan of Lockhart. One of you will surrender that Stone or all of you will meet a violent end."

Violet.
Clara hoped her own sacrifice would be enough to protect her daughter. Let the bishop's threats be hollow.

Clara looked in the man's eyes again, and fought to keep despair from rising anew at the cold determination in his eyes.

Chapter One

As the sun slowly rose over the horizon, the weary Lockhart clansmen rode through the gates of Lee Castle. They had ridden hard most of the night, eager to return home. Their latest battle against the English invaders had been a triumph. But who knew how long it would be before King Edward III sent another army to take their place? Until then, Camden Lockhart intended to enjoy the fleeting moments of peace.

He led his men through the grassy expanse of the outer bailey.
Home. His haven.
He owed so much to his brother for granting him Lee Castle. His brother had known how much this home meant to Camden after the nightmare of his youth.

And even though he was home, the relief he expected at the sight of the familiar walls did not come. Instead, an odd tingling crept across the back of his neck, as if warning him that all was not as it seemed.

The closer they came to the gate leading into the inner bailey, the tauter his nerves became. His instincts warned of danger. He drew his sword and charged forward. His men did the same.

Camden burst into the courtyard. His heart stilled. His fist tightened on the hilt of his sword. Silence descended.

Seven warriors lay dead, their bodies strewn across the courtyard; the violence of their deaths was obvious from the agony etched on their faces.

But it was not the men who captured Camden's gaze. Nay, his gaze swept across the carnage to the tall, freshly cut cross, driven into the soil at the base of the stair to the keep — a cross that bore the body of his brother. James' dark eyes stared down at Camden, frozen in a rictus of agony. His brother's body had been disemboweled, the sword still protruding from his gut.

James.
Camden's sword fell from his hand, hitting the ground with a thump. The sound echoed through the palpable silence.

A sudden cold sickness clenched Camden's stomach. He dismounted, then raced forward, wrenching the sword from James' flesh. Rivulets of his brother's blood trickled down the blade, engulfed his hand.
Not James.
Camden squeezed the hilt of the murderous weapon until the pain in his hand matched the pain in his soul. He let loose an inhuman sound that filled the silence, reverberating through the Highland hills the unbridled sorrow that swamped him.

Orrin, his lifelong friend and man-at-arms, appeared at his side. Gently, he tried to pry the weapon from Camden's hand.

"I'll cut him down, my lord, if you'll loosen your grip," Orrin pleaded.

The words barely sank through the turmoil that crowded Camden's mind. From somewhere outside himself he watched his men dismount with a speed that belied their weariness, and race forward to assist Orrin. With the utmost care, they lowered James's mutilated body from the cross.

Camden released the pin from his cloak and laid it upon the ground, cradling James in the softness of the wool.

"Why would someone do such a thing to Lord Lockhart and his men," asked Hamish, the youngest warrior of the group, his tone barely above a whisper.

Why?
Camden's mind screamed the same question as he balled his fists, fighting back the rage that threatened — a rage that had been building for the last ten years. 'Twas a rage he'd never given in to — a part of him, that once unleashed might consume him and devour those he loved.

The feel of James' cold blood trickling down his arm brought him back to the moment. Camden forced himself to relax, to breathe the sweet Highland air — air free of the tang of salt and the grit of sand. He had to put his own emotions aside. He had to be strong, brave, dependable. His men, and his brother, deserved that much and more.

"Who would do such a thing?" asked Kyle, another of the younger warriors in the group of twelve men who stood surrounding Camden and James.

"I can tell you who," Orrin said, his gaze fixed on the sword in his hands. "This blade bears the markings of clan Ruthven."

"Ruthven?" Titus, a warrior who had been with the Lockharts for years, reared back, his eyes wide. "The traitors have betrayed their countrymen yet again."

"What shall we do?" Kyle asked.

Hamish drew his sword. "I am prepared to fight."

Camden could not answer past the constriction in his throat. A wave of hatred, black and burning like acid, boiled up from some hidden depth of his soul, pulsing through his blood and cramping the muscles in his gut. He had somehow known the Ruthvens were involved.

"'Twas Dougall Ruthven and a band of Englishmen that attacked us." A weak voice came from the stairs.

Camden's gaze shot to his steward's. The aging retainer clung to the wooden railing near the stairs. His garments were slashed to tatters. Fresh blood oozed from wounds on his shoulder, thigh, and abdomen. Bertie's face was a translucent white, and it looked as though it took every ounce of his strength to remain upright. "That vile Ruthven betrayed your brother. He betrayed us all." On unsteady legs, Bertie struggled down the stairs.

Camden surged forward to help his servant, his friend. "Damn the Ruthvens." The words squeezed through taut white lips. "Dougall Ruthven set us up, drawing me away to Glasgow, then luring James and his men here, knowing they'd be a small contingent and unprepared for battle."

Orrin raced to Bertie's side as well, helping Camden guide the aging servant down the stairs of the keep. Orrin's face filled with barely concealed violence. "Shall I prepare the men?"

Fighting his desire to agree, Camden shook his head. He had to remain logical and in control of him emotions. "We must bury James and his men. Then, we must go to Lady Lockhart and Lady Violet." Camden sent up a silent prayer that his sister-in-law and niece had somehow been spared.

Working in silence, Camden and his men dug graves in the churchyard for the warriors. Then Camden methodically wrapped strips of linen around his brother's body and set it in the Lockhart family plot. He carefully placed James next to their father's final resting place, then he smoothed the soft earth back into place. As soon as he was able, Camden would commission a tombstone to be created in James' honor here at Lee Castle.

And even though Lee Castle was the lesser seat of the Lockhart family, it had been their family home long before James had commissioned Lockhart Castle to be built. It seemed right that James had ended up here, with Camden and all the others who had loved him so well.

Camden braced himself against the ache of sentimentality. He could think on such things later, after he made certain his sister-in-law and niece were safe. Yet even as the thought formed, he realized no Lockhart would ever be safe as long as the Ruthvens still roamed the land. His own life was proof of that.

He brushed the dirt on his hands against the soft wool of his tartan. What they'd done to him … what he'd had to survive … Camden forced the thoughts away. Nay, he would not go back there. He would never give the Ruthvens that kind of control over him again.

"Bring me a fresh horse," Camden called to the men near the stable.

"What do you intend to do?" Orrin asked, his body tensed, awaiting orders.

Camden bent down to retrieve the Ruthven crested sword. With methodical care, he wiped the blade clean of James' blood, then slipped the weapon into the sheath at his back. "Lady Lockhart and Lady Violet shall be my first priority." He stood. "But James deserves a swift revenge." And he knew what to do. A quick and violent end was more than the Ruthvens deserved.

"You are right to think that Lady Lockhart and Lady Violet could be in trouble." Orrin met Camden's gaze, his concern palpable.

"That's why you will take the men and head to Lockhart Castle. As soon as I put my plan in motion, I shall join you there."

"Revenge?"

Camden gave a savage nod. "Justice. This time the Ruthvens will suffer. They have murdered too many Scots, collaborated with the English, and tormented this family for far too long." Fury coiled within him, vibrating with intensity. "It will end here and now, until they no longer walk these lands in human form."

Orrin frowned. "Revenge has a way of coming back to you."

"Not this time."

Camden strode through the darkened streets of Glasgow, toward the alley where the blacksmith on the green near the River Clyde had directed him. The glare of the torch in his hand caused eerie shadows to play across red, stone walls, wet with brackish slime. Mist from the River Clyde hung heavy on the air, seeped through his cloak, while the stench of sewage clotted in his nostrils.

And despite the dreary, ghostly façade the night cast upon this dangerous part of town, Camden found himself smiling. 'Twas the perfect part of town to find what he needed.

His boot heels beat a sharp tattoo on the cobbled street. A figure moved out of the shadows and into the light of the torch.

The glare from the flame made cruel work of the man's haggard and pinched face, and exposed an arsenal of weapons. Three lethal daggers nestled beneath a harness over his chest, and a sword lay strapped to his back. The man waited, hands on hips. "Ye lookin' for trouble?"

"The smithy said you were looking for work." Camden strode closer.

The man relaxed his hands. "What kind o' work ye got?"

"The lethal kind."

The man smiled, revealing brown, uneven teeth. "Murder?"

Camden lowered his voice. "Find and kill all the remaining Ruthvens."

The man's smile slipped. "All o' them?"

"Aye."

"It's gonna cost ye."

Camden's pulse beat thick and urgent in his veins as he unhooked a heavy bag of gold from his belt and tossed it on the ground at the man's feet. "There's half. You'll get the other half when your deed is done."

A soft jingle shattered the silence of the night as the stranger scooped up the bag. "Should I send ye word when they're dead?"

"The blacksmith will release the other half of your payment when you prove the remaining Ruthvens are dead."

The man nodded, then stepped back into the shadows. A moment later he was gone.

"The Ruthvens will rue the day they betrayed the Lockharts or any of their countrymen," Camden whispered into the night. He expected to feel a sense of satisfaction at the thought. He did not.

For the last ten years he had dreamed of nothing but his revenge against the Ruthvens. He'd plotted how he would make each and every one of the last remaining males pay for their part in his own torture and imprisonment. He had wanted them to suffer as he had suffered. And now that the moment was at hand, it seemed less than heroic to hire a mercenary to destroy his enemy.

Clara and Violet need you.
The thought steadied him, brought his focus back to the tasks that remained undone.

He strode back through the alley to his horse. He mounted, then kicked his horse into a gallop. Duty to his family forced his hand. He had no choice but to leave things as they were. Let the stranger execute his revenge.

His kin needed him more.

Chapter Two

Rhiannon Ruthven stopped. She forced her mind to quiet as she concentrated on the blade of soft green grass between her forefinger and her thumb. She held her breath and willed the beat of her heart to slow. The wind whispered through the field in which she lay flat on her back, trying for just a few moments to escape her troubles.

One blade of grass. Pliant yet strong. Simple yet part of a larger whole. And when one blade of grass went bad the others grew up around it, strangling it out. That's the way it should be. Not one bad blade of grass causing all the other blades of grass to be seen as bad for all eternity.

Rhiannon released a heartfelt sigh and flicked the blade into the others surrounding her head. "Why can't people be as simple as nature?"

The moment she gave voice to the words she regretted them. Her thoughts turned to the lecture Mother Agnes had given her when Rhiannon had arrived at Taturn Abbey two weeks ago. It'd had something to do with apples and seeds — she being the bad seed, of course.