An oath broken, p.10
An Oath Broken, page 10
As the morning wore on, they climbed the steep hills littered with fallen trees, clusters of bare bushes, and patches of open field. At the top of the next knoll, in the distance, Giric spotted what he’d been searching for, an overhang caked with layers of snow and half-hidden by a thick shield of evergreens.
He guided his horse through the snow-laden branches and into the rock’s shadow, then drew to a halt.
Sarra turned. “What are you doing?”
In answer, he dismounted, held up his arms to aid her dismount. “Come.”
She watched him with distrust.
Annoyed by her guarded expression, he caught her waist and hauled her from the mount. Outrage flared in her eyes as she stared up at him, her body inches from his, his mind already racing into forbidden territory. “We will hide here until the men have passed and are a safe distance away.”
“You are sure they will not find us?” she asked, the doubts woven within her question making it more like a charge.
“Few know of this place.”
She took a step back. “Like the hovel we stayed in last night?”
What did he expect after he’d reminded her of their journey to her betrothed this morning? In her mind, at least, she’d forgotten her sharing her fears, and their kiss hours before. When she looked at him now, she saw a Scot, a man she who incited naught but her suspicions.
“You are safe,” Giric half-growled, then walked to the edge of the overhang. Snow crunched beneath his feet, and the breeze slid across his skin as he knelt behind a boulder and surveyed the glen below.
In the distance the tiny flecks of men grew. Thankfully the wind had erased any signs of their passage through the valley.
As expected, the Scots paused near the base of the glen and searched their surroundings. The Scot with the grizzled beard turned to the others and made an angry gesture with his hands.
Giric smiled, well familiar with their leader’s quick temper. Obviously Léod couldna decide which route he and Sarra had taken.
“There is naught amusing about this situation,” Sarra whispered as she knelt beside him.
He stiffened. “They are debating which way we went, and by the look of it, canna decide.”
“What did those men mean when they linked John Balliol with my betrothed?” she asked, nerves in her voice.
“’Tis naught to worry about,” he replied, irritated that his personal dislike for a contender for Scotland’s crown should shroud his mission in any manner. Until their pursuers had stated the royal affiliation, he’d nae connected neither the father nor son’s intent for marriage to Sarra to any political reason.
Now he saw the intent with biting clarity. Once wed, Lord Sinclair could use Sarra’s fortune to support John Balliol’s cause, with a political reward of being elevated to a higher station for his efforts.
“’Tis my life,” she stated, jerking him from his musings. “If there are circumstances that affect my marriage, I should be told.”
Through her anger, he saw the worry, and his heart went out to her. “As you know, with King Edward’s guidance, the Guardians are in the process of selecting Scotland’s new king.”
She gave a curt nod.
“Lord Sinclair is a close friend of John Balliol, claimant for the crown. Though Robert Bruce, the Competitor, is the better choice for our Scottish king, Balliol is a powerful man who holds ties to his English counterparts including John de Warren, one of the English king’s most trusted earls.”
“And you believe ’tis my money and not I that is behind the betrothal?” she asked, resentment creeping into her voice. “That he wants to use my wealth to bolster John Balliol’s claim for the crown?”
“You are a beautiful woman,” Giric said, irritated to be caught in a position to defend what could be the truth, and to realize that her dreams might include romantic notions. “His motivation for a union could easily be due to his desire for you.”
“Save your praise for another. I need not pathetic words to flatter me. I am an heiress,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “I realize my value to the man I wed. ’Tis learning that I am a political pawn for Scotland’s cause that catches me by surprise.” Her last words ended in a bitter clip.
“I do nae need to craft false words of your beauty,” Giric snapped, irritated she would dismiss a man’s reason to wed her for her looks. She was breathtaking and didna even realize it.
Sarra’s eyes darkened with anger. “Is that not part of your task? Deliver the heiress safe and sound. Mayhap keep her happy as well? Or does the fact that Lord Sinclair intends to use my fortune to support Sir Balliol and not Sir Robert Bruce, the Competitor, raise your ire? Tell me,” she said, her words ice, “how far would you go to halt what you believe is Lord Sinclair’s intent?”
Damn her. “I have nae—”
“Like it or not,” she pushed on, “you have given your word as a knight to deliver me to my betrothed. Except I do not believe sleeping with the prize was part of the agreement.”
Saint’s breath, now they were back to that. “I was trying to keep you from blasted freezing to death.”
“Were you?” She folded her hands over her chest. “I wonder how Lord Sinclair would view your caring act? Or is it common for an escort to climb half-naked into a woman’s bed or for her to awaken with her protector’s hand on her breast?”
The lass was so blasted smug. On an oath, Giric caught her shoulders. “What is it that bothers you? That I lay in bed with you and touched you or that you liked it?”
Sarra shoved against his chest. “You self-serving—”
“Or the fact that this morning you instigated the kiss?”
She opened her mouth to reply.
“The truth. Or canna you admit that you wanted me?” He arched a brow and witnessed the silent battle in her eyes, understanding her value for the truth, a value he cherished as well. From her recount of her past, he understood the cost, but for a demented, self-tortuous reason, part of him needed her to confess that she desired him as well.
“I was exhausted.”
Giric cupped her chin in a gentle hold. “And now?” He lifted her mouth to within inches of his, the silent draw to claim her lips humming through him. “If I kissed you here?”
With a hard jerk, she pulled from his grasp, her breathing fast, and her expression unsure. “Leave me alone.” But her demand trembled with fragile need.
“As I thought.” He waited for her to refute his words, then her shoulders slumped. The denial in her eyes faded to acceptance.
She stared at the valley where the Scots now circled at the base as they tried to discern which direction he and Sarra had taken. “You are not what I expected,” she finally said. “I wanted to hate you.”
Her tender confession moved him. “I know.” Turning her to face him, he slid his thumb along the curve of her jaw, and she trembled beneath his touch. He wanted her. He could already taste her mouth, warm and willing, soft with the wanting. Her eyes darkened with need, and he was tempted to make his fantasies reality.
A hint of vulnerability shimmered in her gaze. “I still think you are obstinate, overbearing, and a bit smug.”
“Some have said the same.” With regret Giric slid his hands along her shoulders, and then released her. He drew in a deep breath sharp with cold. He wanted to believe that naught had changed between them, but one look at her told him otherwise.
Shaken, he glanced where the Scots were searching for tracks along the valley floor. “A compromise,” he said, calling himself a fool to invite camaraderie between them. ’Twas a bargain with the devil and he knew it. In a fortnight at most she would be gone from his life. Why couldna they at least depart as friends? “Trust me to take care of you.” Even as he said the words, he realized that above all else, her trust was what he wanted the most.
“Why should I?”
“Because I give you my word.” She hesitated, and he held his breath, her decision holding more importance than he would want.
“I will trust you—on that.”
He nodded. “Agreed.”
Below, the men had regrouped with several pointing toward the north. They started riding away.
“After they are out of sight,” Giric said, “we will head toward a small village where I am known. We will remain there for the night, and then continue to Colyne’s brother’s home.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you insane?”
Aye, for allowing her to get under his skin. “Those trying to find us will nae be expecting such a bold move.”
“You are right, ’twould be the decision of a lunatic.”
He took her hand, finding he needed to touch her. “Though a risk, a minor one comparatively, and by staying in the village, we can rest before continuing on. Trust me.”
She took a deep breath. Her hand trembled in his. Sarra nodded.
Elation surged through him. As much as he wanted to draw her to him, he let her go. He had what he wanted. In this she’d given him her trust. It would be enough.
The sun sat high in the sky as Giric guided them from their safe haven, but she agreed they’d used the time wisely. While they’d remained beneath the cover of the overhang, they’d eaten and rested his mount, plus with their pursuers headed on a northward trek, they’d increased their chances to escape.
For a while.
The Scots chasing them would not give up so easily, nor had she forgotten the other part of the band that rode to their south. The men’s determination to ensure she never reached her guardians was spawned by loyalty, not gold. With a frustrated sigh, she turned her attention to their travel.
Deep snow, persistent wind, and sheer exhaustion had her leaning against Giric’s muscled chest. He draped his cape around her, and she snuggled against his solid warmth, but doubts left her uneasy. Had she erred in offering him her trust, even to a small degree? A part of her wanted to reject the Scot who reminded her of her past, but another was drawn to the man whose actions and genuine concern lured her to care.
He guided his mount along a stand of ash, then up a steep incline littered with clumps of brambles glazed with snow. They crested the hill and a small village came into view.
The last streaks of the setting sun bathed the misshapen community within its golden rays. Sod homes, similar to the hovel where they’d stayed last night, but in better repair, lay clustered together on a narrow flat of land crowded around an aged rowan tree. The tree’s tangled limbs sat barren of leaves, and clawed toward the sky.
The simplicity of the setting touched her. Like the gnarled tree, the people within this mountain village endured the fury of life, and against the odds, persevered.
As did Giric. In their discussions he’d shown her that he would bend when the cause demanded it, but when the need came to protect, he was steady and strong.
Hooves crunched as his mount trudged through the crusted drifts. With a shiver she glanced skyward. A hint of stars glittered through the wash of purple. Without the cover of clouds, ’twould be a bitter night.
The smoke curling from the holes in the roofs promised warmth. Mayhap his decision to stay at this small village was wise. Indeed, ‘twas only for a night.
As they entered the outskirts of the humble village, a burly man, dressed in a thick woolen cape, stepped from the largest home, a claymore secured in a leather sheath strapped on his back.
A dog barked from the shadows as Giric guided the horse toward the man. The scrape of hooves on the hard snow splintered into the silence.
The man whirled. With the swiftness of a seasoned warrior, he withdrew his sword. “Halt,” he ordered, his burr rich, thick, and filled with threat. “State what would you be wanting.”
“’Tis Terrick,” Giric called out. “We are seeking shelter for the night.”
Sarra tensed as the man eyed them. By the way the fierce Scot studied them, even if he agreed, she doubted she could sleep one wink this night.
“Terrick?” the man charged, his voice cautious.
“Aye,” Giric replied.
The Scot stepped closer. The ferocity of his expression warmed to a welcoming smile. He sheathed his claymore, and Sarra sagged with relief.
“You are an ugly sight on such a cold winter’s night,” the burly man said.
Giric gave a hearty laugh that eased her fear a degree further. “’Tis not saying much from a man who would kiss a sheep.”
“A blasted upstart.” The Scot chuckled. He met her gaze, and Sarra held her breath. He arched a thick brow and glanced toward Giric. “A might fancy piece if you be asking me. You didna steal her for ransom did you?”
Sarra stiffened in his arms, and Giric muttered a silent curse at Fergus’s jovial charge. The last thing he wanted was to bring up his past and incite Sarra’s suspicions. “Do I look like the type who needs to be stealing a woman?”
“ ’Tis a jest, lad.” With a chuckle, his friend motioned them down. “’Tis colder than a witch’s toes this night. Both of you come inside. From the looks of the lass, her teeth should begin to chatter any moment.”
With a nod, Giric dismounted, but he saw the silent questions in her eyes along with the fear. Understanding her nervousness at staying in an unfamiliar Scottish village, he slipped his hands around her waist and set her before him. Before she could speak, he turned to his friend. “Fergus, this is Lady Sarra.”
She slid him a surprised glance, and then nodded toward the burly man.
“A pleasure to meet you, my lady.” Fergus rubbed his hands together. “Come, ’tis too cold on me bones to stay outside.” The Scot walked to the nearest hut. He shoved the thick oak door open, and the rush of smoke and cooking meat greeted them. “Look who I found outside,” he called as he stepped inside.
Sarra hesitated at the entry. Wind tugged at a strand of hair that had come loose in her snug plait as her eyes searched his with a quiet desperation.
“’Twill be fine,” Giric assured her, and she followed him inside. The haze of smoke and cooking meat melded with the dried grass and herbs tied overhead to dry. Several beds were shoved into the far corner, and a loft that Giric knew held another pallet lay above.
A sturdy oak table with rugged benches sat to the right, and the hearth, filled with wood, burned near the far wall. Several chests lined the left wall, and he knew these would hold coin, silks, sugar, or any other valuables they owned.
A short, plump woman, stirring a pot over the fire, turned. When she spotted Giric, delight sparked on her face. She trudged forward and gave him a fierce hug. “’Tis a blessing to see you again.” She held his face in her hands, her eyes scanning every inch. “Are you faring well?”
Embarrassed by her mothering, but helpless when it came to this woman who was more like a mother to him than a friend, he smiled. “I am fine, Esa.”
She huffed. “I have known you since you ran around in your trews all sass and what for. Fine indeed.” Aged eyes lined with crow’s-feet narrowed. “I will be the judge of that.” Then her sharp gaze found Sarra.
“Esa, this is Lady Sarra.”
The elder woman paused at her title.
Sarra gave a hesitant nod.
“There is nay reason to be shy.” Esa glanced at Giric. “I had nae heard that you had found a quiet lass to be courting?”
“She is nae . . . We are . . .” Blast it! “We have journeyed a distance,” Giric said, disliking the speculation on Fergus’s and Esa’s faces. The less they knew of his escort, or of the man she would marry, the better. “I would be grateful if you would be sharing a bowl of stew. Lady Sarra is weary and hungry.”
With a tsk, Esa nodded. “’Tis poor manners I am showing. Remove your cloaks and hang them by the fire.”
After, she gestured toward the table, Esa moved to a huge kettle hanging over the fire. Inside a brown liquid bubbled that smelled like heaven. After ladling out a bowl of stew, she set it on the roughly carved table. “Sit and eat.”
“Go on,” Giric said when Sarra glanced toward him.
She cleared her throat. “But you need—”
He laid his hand over hers. “I will join you in a moment. I need to stable my horse. Do nae worry, all will be well.”
On a nervous sigh, she sat and began to eat.
Aware of Esa’s keen eye, he prayed she’d nae question Sarra in his absence. “Thank you, Esa.” Giric exited the hut, Fergus on his heels. Night edged through the winter sky as he stepped outside, the air, void of the sun’s warmth, already bitter cold.
Fergus closed the door and walked by his side. “Are you going to tell me why you are away from your castle in the dead of winter carting around an Englishwoman and a noble at that?”
“ ’Tis a favor,” Giric answered, but he didna add it was for his people and his pride. Walking to his mount, he caught his reins and led him toward the stable.
Fergus gave a grunt. “The lass doesna carry your child?”
Stunned by the question, Giric halted. His horse nudged at his shoulder.
His friend gave him a firm slap on the back. “I will take that as a nay.” He started forward, and Giric fell into step, the horse’s muffled clops echoing behind him. “That you would be liking the lass is obvious. Only a reason of dire urgency would force anyone to be out in this blasted cold.”
“Aye, we have already traveled through two snowstorms.”
“Which way are you heading?”
“East.”
The elder Scot shook his head. “You will nae make it far. Several men returned from a hunt late this morning. The blizzard sealed off the pass.”
Saint’s breath! The pass after Colyne’s brother’s home was notorious for becoming impassable in poor weather, but he’d hoped they’d make it through before the snow had grown too deep. Now they would have to wait a few days, a sennight, perhaps more. For as quick as heavy snows sealed the pass, the winter sun would open it. If nae, they would have to travel south and take their chances of running into the other half of Léod’s men.
