Margo Maguire (3 page)

“Drogan!”
he bellowed.

Naught mattered but getting to Bryce. Edric skirted ’round another small skirmish, dashing past his battling warriors, aware that Drogan was doing the same. He arrived at the spot where Bryce lay wounded, just as Robert realized that Edric had killed his father.

The Scot roared with fury and turned to strike madly at Edric while Drogan tended to Bryce. The burly huscarl pulled the younger man from the fray as Braxton warriors moved to surround them. Someone tripped Edric and he fell, but rolled quickly away from the ax blow that followed him down. The battle waned as the warriors tired, but Robert managed to flee. The Scots abandoned their dead, and ran from the clearing.

Edric let them go as he knelt beside Bryce.

Shaking uncontrollably, Kathryn somehow managed to crawl to the space under one of the wagons and draw her knees to her chest. Wrapping
her arms ’round her legs, she quivered with cold and fright, and rocked back and forth as if the motion could shut out the brutal battle going on all ’round her.

She had as much to fear from these Saxon barbarians as the Scots who would have raped and killed her. In their rough woolens with their long hair, their axes and maces, they were as terrifying as the Scots.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Kathryn realized that all had finally become quiet. The battle was over, and the surviving Scots were running away.

Though the Saxons were victorious, their mood was somber. One of them crouched before her, a seasoned warrior with an unruly mane of flaxen hair and a bushy beard. He stretched his hand out to her. “’Tis over, lass. Come out.”

Kathryn did not trust him any more than she would a filthy Scotsman. She gave no indication that she understood his words as she considered how she could possibly get away.

“You are safe now,” the Saxon said, his voice grave. “No further harm will come to you.”

Kathryn took a shuddering breath and felt a tear run down her cheek. Absently, she brushed it away. If only Isabel were here—No! She would not wish this terrible predicament on her sister,
but wished she had a few of Isabel’s talents. Her sister would know what to do.

“You don’t understand what I’m saying, do you?” the man remarked. He pointed to his chest. “Drogan,” he said. “I am Drogan of Braxton Fell. Come out.”

What choice did she have? She could not stay under the wagon forever, nor could she run from these Saxons. She could only trust that this warrior, Sir Drogan, spoke truly. All seemed peaceful in the clearing now, as the Saxon warriors tended their wounds or dragged the dead Scots away. ’Twas quiet, too, with only the sound of the wind rushing through the dried leaves in the trees.

She took hold of Sir Drogan’s hand, letting him ease her out from under the wagon. Her legs faltered, but Drogan supported her when she would have sunk down to the ground once again. He draped a thin woolen blanket over her shoulders to cover what remained of her clothes.

The fierce, dark-haired warrior who’d killed the Scottish chieftain approached Drogan, never allowing his icy blue gaze to rest upon her. He was tall, with shoulders broader than those of any man she’d seen in Normandy or England, and a comely face marred only by a narrow white scar that split the dark line of his brow. If the sight of his strong, masculine physique gave her pause, ’twas his
rugged visage that caused her heart to trip. Even though he was unshaven, she could discern the strong line of his jaw, the corded sinews of his neck. His nose was thick and straight, his forehead creased with worry. Or mayhap ’twas anger.

“We’ll carry my brother in the wagon.” He gave a quick nod toward Kathryn, seemingly unwilling to show any particular interest or curiosity about her. A stubborn man. “Bring her,” he said.

“What’s your plan?” Drogan asked.

“The woman will have some skill with needle and thread,” said Edric. “She can sew Bryce’s wound.”

“But I—” Kathryn blurted out the English words before considering that, by speaking, she’d given away her understanding of their language.

Edric’s hand shot out and encircled her throat, his eyes cold and full of anger. He clearly understood her attempt to deceive them, yet he did not hurt her. There was power in his grasp but he did not hold her too tightly.

She yanked away from him.

“Do you refuse, woman?”

“No, I do not.” But she felt shaken by the wrath in his tone, and even more so by his touch. He gave her a look of contempt before striding from her presence.

How barbaric!
“Just because I am female does
not mean I can sew a man!” On the contrary, she was not a very good seamstress at all, and was quite squeamish, besides.

“We’d better go, lass. When Lord Edric sets his mind to something, ’tis not likely to change.”

Kathryn took a deep breath and followed Sir Drogan to the spot where Edric knelt beside his brother. The wounded man lay insensible, his mangled hauberk lying open to reveal a growing bloodstain just under his arm. His face might have been as comely as his brother’s, but it was deathly pale. Even his lips were devoid of color.

“Jesu,”
Drogan muttered.

One of the men placed a leather satchel beside Edric, who opened it and removed the contents. There were rolls of clean cloth and a piece of leather with two sturdy needles pierced through it. “Where is the thread?” Edric grumbled. His voice betrayed the worry and concern he felt for his brother, and as he searched through the bag, Kathryn watched the play of muscles in his arms and the frown of concentration upon his brow.

Drogan knelt beside Edric’s brother and pushed the cloth of his tunic away from the wound. The sight of the gash made Kathryn’s legs feel as mushy as gruel and she slid to the ground beside Drogan. “I don’t think I…”

Her mouth went dry and her fingers felt like
icicles. She wiped her hands on the tops of her legs and looked up. The Saxon could not possibly insist that she sew his brother’s wound.

He paid her no heed as he riffled through the contents of the satchel, finally pulling out a bundle of coarse thread. He tossed it, along with the needles, to her.

“See that you make the edges match.”

Kathryn swallowed her indignation at the orders given by this uncouth Saxon. No one spoke to her thus. She was a baron’s daughter…though the less he knew of that, the better. She did not want to be offered back to her family, insulted and dishonored, mayhap in exchange for a ransom. There was a very good chance her family would not pay it anyway, not for a daughter who’d been violated by Scottish raiders.

She took a deep breath. “Surely there is someone else who knows what to do. I have never…”

“’Tis Graeme who usually does the mending for us,” said Drogan.

“Graeme will be doing no mending tonight.” Edric made a quick gesture toward a nearby warrior who’d bound his own hand in a bloody rag. “And since
you
were the cause of Bryce’s distraction,
you
will be the one who makes repairs.”

Kathryn bristled at his arrogant tone, but Drogan drew her attention back to Bryce before she
could make the impudent remark that was on the tip of her tongue. “Look, lass. His wound is not as bad as it might be. ’Tis only a deep cut through the lad’s thick muscle.”

Kathryn shuddered and risked another glance at the wound in the young man’s side. She considered refusing, but did not want to risk the Saxon lord’s ire. Picking up the needle, she wondered how she could possibly do what Lord Edric demanded. Luckily, Sir Drogan took a clean cloth and blotted blood from the gash. “Start here, lass,” he said. “Bryce won’t feel it at all.”

Kathryn doubted that, but she did not dare hesitate, not with the surly Saxon lord hovering so close, his demeanor so threatening. Besides, he was right. Bryce’s wound was her fault, as was Geoffroi’s fate. Would her culpability never end? She threaded the needle and leaned close to the Saxon’s brother. Sir Drogan took the cloth away and held the wound together as Kathryn made the first pass with the needle.

She could do this. All she needed was to turn her thoughts elsewhere. She could think of one of her sister’s many tales as she worked—stories of valiant heroes and their beautiful ladies.

Yet every hero that came to mind had the face of Edric the Saxon as he pulled the filthy Scot off her and fought him to the death.

Edric rubbed one hand across his whiskered chin and took a shaky breath. Though Bryce’s injury was not a sucking wound of the lung, the younger man was not out of danger yet. Edric had seen many a battle wound go putrid, with death as a result. He would do all in his power to prevent that from happening to his brother.

In spite of her protests, the Norman lass sewed the wound and did a fair job of it. The blanket ’round her shoulders gaped as she worked, giving Edric a view of her full ripe breasts, tipped by pale pink nipples, a sight he’d sorely missed all through this miserable year of his marriage. Every drop of his red, male blood urged him to lay claim to this woman, to take her away from camp and quench his lust while he was far from Braxton Fell, far from Cecily.

’Twas some Norman trick—ensnaring a man with her beauty and the promise of sensual bliss, only to repel him when he would take action. But he would do naught with this woman. And he wanted nary a hint of his lustful thoughts to reach Cecily’s ears, for they had naught to do with the poor state of his marriage.

The Norman woman had small, graceful hands. She’d tried to be gentle with Bryce, but it had soon become clear that more force was needed to stitch
through his brother’s flesh. She recoiled with every pass of the needle, but faithful Drogan talked to her, urging her to finish, as Edric stood and left them, pacing nearby until she finally completed the gruesome task and rested back on her heels.

Bryce moaned.

“Do you hear, my lord?” Drogan called to him. “’Tis a good sign. He’s coming ’round.”

The Norman seemed shaky and uncertain now, but Edric refused to feel any pity for her, and forced himself to tamp down the lust that surged through him at the sight of her. ’Twould be best to focus on his victory over Léod Ferguson and begin planning the destruction of the Scot’s son, Robert. But Drogan distracted him as he questioned the woman.

“What’s your name, lass?” he asked.

She appeared puzzled for a moment, as if she didn’t understand the question. When she responded, it seemed to Edric that she was unsure of her answer. “Kate…I am…just Kate.”

“From where were you taken?” Drogan queried.

“’Twas a place called…Rushton.” Her French accent gave a softness to Edric’s language and he could not help but think of his Norman wife, who’d learned no more than a handful of English words, most of them derogatory expressions that she used liberally upon him and the servants.

“Your people will be wondering—”

“
Non!
Er…” The muscles of her slender throat moved as she swallowed. “I have no reason to go back, not after…” She cast her glance toward the place where Ferguson had assaulted her. Rising to her feet, she pulled the blanket tight ’round her shoulders, clearly conscious of her ruined attire. Below her torn and filthy undergarment, her legs were shapely, her feet and ankles narrow and delicate.

Every muscle in Edric’s body clenched when he thought of the feminine warmth that lay concealed beneath that thin chemise and he damned his unruly cock for reacting so strongly to the wench.

“It does not matter,” she said. “I am no one…I will not be missed.”

Edric narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. He doubted she was no one, not with those soft hands and her perfect command of his language. Yet if she did not wish to return to Rushton—

“Edric?” ’Twas Bryce, awake now.

He turned and answered his brother. “Aye, Bryce?”

“’Twas Robert…I’ll kill him for this.”

“No doubt you will. But you’ve got healing to do first.” Edric gave his brother a sip of water and covered him with a blanket. Then he looked up at
Drogan. “Post a watch and have the men set cook fires. We’ll sleep here tonight and make for Braxton in the morning.”

Then he would decide what to do about Kate.

A
s night fell, the men built small fires and broke out what food they had before making their beds under the trees, but Edric had no appetite. He took his post near Bryce, dismissing Drogan to take his own rest.

“I will relieve you in a few hours, my lord,” Drogan said, placing a comforting hand upon Edric’s shoulder.

“See to the Norman woman,” Edric countered in spite of himself. “She will feel the night’s chill.”

The other two Norman captives had not survived. ’Twas possible Léod would have killed
Kate, too, after she’d served her purpose there in the dirt. Still, she was comely enough for Ferguson to have kept her for himself, or sold her to another rich chieftain.

She sat near the fire with Drogan’s blanket tied securely about her shoulders, so there would be no further gawking at her pretty breasts. At least he was still able to admire her legs without being too obvious about it. Edric gazed at her, at the proud set of her shoulders and the stiff bearing of her spine, and watched the lass’s eyes fill with tears. She tried to blink them away but they streamed down her cheeks, unchecked.

Edric wanted to feel no sympathy for her. He preferred not to think of the ordeal she must have withstood since her capture. He wanted to hate her. She was a Norman, by God. And had she not screamed as his men were donning their gear and preparing for battle, he would never have felt compelled to race into the clearing to rescue her. The skirmish would have been more organized and Bryce’s hauberk would have been secured. Her scream in the midst of battle had been the distraction that made Bryce vulnerable.

Edric clenched his jaw and looked away. The woman was obviously ill at ease, but he refused to show her any mercy. He was not about to make her welcome here, or at Braxton Fell.

He’d had enough of Normans at his holding,
Norman women
in particular.

Drogan managed to find another blanket for the woman. Edric saw him make a place near the fire for her to sleep, then stood by as she eased herself down to the ground. A moment later, Drogan did the same, making his bed nearby.

Edric would have to speak to his huscarl about being overly soft with their Norman captive.

Kathryn would awaken from this horrible dream at any moment. Surely morning would soon come and she would hear the birds singing outside her window at the abbey. After dressing in her simple kirtle, she would join Soeur Agnes in the animal pen and help the old nun feed the orphaned lambs and throw grain to the chickens, just as she’d done most every day since she was nine years old. Then there would be prayers, and afterward, the nuns and all the lay residents of the abbey would break their fast.

There would be no Scottish raider’s flat gray gaze to haunt her sleep, nor cruel arms that could crush her without a moment’s thought.

Kathryn gasped for air as she pushed up from her earthen bed and looked ’round. ’Twas all true. Amid the death and disaster at Kettwyck, she’d been taken from her father’s keep. She said a
prayer of thanks that her family had been well guarded inside the keep, but could not help but worry about Geoffroi. She’d lured him away from the keep, putting him in danger, just as her scream during the course of yesterday’s battle had caused valiant young Bryce to be so gravely wounded. No wonder his brother had looked at her with such hatred, clearly holding her responsible for Bryce’s injury.

Kathryn’s stomach turned. Her own people would view her with contempt, too. She could never return to Kettwyck with honor and dignity. Everyone on the estate would know she’d drawn Geoffroi away from safety. And they would assume she’d become a Scotsman’s whore.

’Twas why she had decided not to tell Sir Drogan her true name, and why she had to convince these Saxons she was no one of consequence. Else they would be compelled to send word to Rushton, news which would soon spread to Kettwyck. Her father would come and return her to face her shame at home.

Nausea roiled in her belly as she forced herself to accept the reality of her situation. She could never go back, but only forward to whatever fate awaited her at the hands of the Saxon lord.

’Twas a bitter potion to swallow. Her sister had worked so hard at persuading their father to allow
them to choose their own husbands and Kathryn had so looked forward to marriage and motherhood. ’Twas all she’d ever wanted—to be a wife and lover to a good man, and mother of as many bairns as God sent her. She went cold when she realized how irrevocably changed her future had become. She would either live out her days as a servant in a Saxon holding, or choose the alternative that had been abhorrent to her only a fortnight ago.

A nunnery.

Her heart seemed to stop beating in her chest. No honorable Norman would take her to wife now, not if her own parents would disown her. She risked a glance at the wagon where Bryce lay, and caught sight of the cold Saxon lord.

What if she spent the rest of her life at Edric’s holding? Kathryn swallowed thickly. The Saxon had made his disdain clear enough. She had no future in his domain or at Kettwyck, either. She had come from a nunnery, and, as much as she despised that alternative, to a nunnery she would return.

Kathryn had heard of a religious house at Evesham Bridge and realized it could not be far from Lord Edric’s estate. The abbess was known as a kindly and pious woman, and if Kathryn could find a way to get there, ’twould be the perfect
place to seek refuge. Mayhap the kindly Sir Drogan would provide her an escort.

She wondered how Edric would react if he knew she was the daughter of Baron Henri Louvet. Though she knew little of politics, she supposed ’twas possible he would ask for a ransom to return her. Her father might be surprised to learn she’d survived her abduction, but would he pay for a daughter he believed had been despoiled by a Scot? The best Kathryn could hope for was that Lord Edric would forget about her once they reached his holding. She would slip away and somehow make her way to Evesham Bridge.

’Twas past dawn, and the Saxons put out their fires and began to pack the horses in preparation for leaving camp. Drogan came to her and helped her to her feet. “There is a secluded spot past that stand of rocks. If you’re wanting a moment’s privacy before we ride, you should take it now.”

Kathryn made use of the short time allotted her. She was fortunate to be alive, and knew upon reflection that it was only right to devote the rest of her life to prayer and charitable works. In spite of her aversion to returning to the monastic life, it had to be better than suffering the scorn of her parents and the contempt of her peers for the rest of her days.

They carried Bryce in Ferguson’s wagon and
rode slowly southwest, toward Lord Edric’s holding. The Saxon lord wore his sword at his side and had an ax slung through a loop upon his saddle. His hair was loose again today, thick and black, worn much longer than the Norman style, with narrow plaits at the temples. He sat tall and straight in his saddle, and wore no cloak, leaving his arms bare to his shoulders. Never before had Kathryn seen muscles so thick or so well defined.

In spite of herself, she could not ignore the breadth of the man’s shoulders and the tapering of his powerful torso to his hips. She’d seen him battle the Ferguson chieftain and been awed by his strength and agility. ’Twas partly Edric’s fault that she’d screamed during the battle and distracted Lord Bryce. Had she not been so awestruck by the sight of him, so terrifying yet so compelling, she might have been prepared when the raiders had tried to drag her away.

As it was, she’d been startled, terrified, and nearly taken again. If not for Sir Drogan, who’d come to her aid, she’d likely have become a captive of the Scots once more. She shuddered at the thought. So far, none of the Saxons had threatened or mistreated her, if she discounted the gruesome task Lord Edric had forced her to perform the night before.

These men had fed her and given her their
protection overnight, though ’twas clear Lord Edric resented her. And he viewed her the same as every Norman would—she’d been debased and dishonored by the Scots, and could hardly call herself a decent woman, even though her virtue remained intact.

Mortified by her recollection of the Scottish chieftain’s vile attack upon her, Kathryn shrank deeper into her borrowed blanket. Ferguson had exposed his thick man-shaft to her and had nearly assaulted her with it. Edric and Bryce had seen her with her skirts shoved indecently askew, with her bodice torn beyond what modesty required.

How could she face even these low barbarians without a blush of shame coloring her face?

Sir Drogan was the only one of the Saxons who showed her the simplest courtesy. Kathryn told him she was unaccustomed to riding, and so even though Edric kept their pace fairly slow to accommodate the wagon, the man stayed close, conversing with her to help keep her mind from the uncomfortable ride.

“Léod Ferguson and his men burned Braxton Fell’s lands two years ago,” said Drogan. “’Tis fitting that he met his end at Lord Edric’s hand.”

“But Lord Bryce is so badly injured—”

“Robert will pay for that dark deed.”

Kathryn did not doubt it. Edric seemed a man
who would take care of his own, no matter what the cost. She wondered how ’twould be to feel the protection of his strong arms and powerful body, but knew she would never experience such a marvel, not with any man.

“You’ve got a torn lip, lass,” said Drogan. “Does it pain you much?”

“A little,” she replied. “’Tis naught when I think what might have happened.”

“Aye. You were fortunate. Neither Edric nor Bryce can stand to see a woman mishandled. ’Tis why they rushed the Scots instead of waiting for a more prudent moment.”

“I’m grateful for it.”

“What of your other injuries? I saw a few bruises—”

Edric turned to call out to them. “Can we not ride in peace, Drogan?” His tone was one of annoyance and Kathryn regretted having his attention called to her. His eyes raked over her, taking in her disheveled appearance, no doubt remembering her shame the day before. He would never believe she was a lady and she quickly reminded herself she did not want him to. The less he thought of her, the better. Then, when she disappeared, he would barely notice.

“Aren’t you the surly one today?” Drogan
laughed. “Léod Ferguson is dead, your brother is alive, yet you can find no joy in the day.”

“There’ll be joy once Bryce is out of danger.”

“We’ll give him over to Lora’s good care and he’ll fare well.”

“Who is Lora?” Kathryn asked her question quietly, so as not to draw Edric’s attention again.

“She is the healer of Braxton, and midwife,” Drogan replied equally quietly, and Kathryn heard admiration for the woman in his voice. “She’ll do well by Bryce.”

Kathryn hoped so, though she did not intend to stay at Braxton Fell long enough to find out. ’Twould be best to travel on to Evesham Bridge right away.

They rode all day, stopping only once to water the horses and partake of a small meal. Sometime before dusk, they came to a narrow brook in a wooded area and Edric gave the order to halt and make camp. Then he picked up a bow and a quiver of arrows and left the camp, heading upstream.

Kathryn also took her leave, but went in the opposite direction. The man might have a fascinating face and form, but his scornful gaze intimidated her. She did not wish to encounter him in the isolation of the woods.

Staying close to the water, Kathryn eventually
happened upon a secluded spot where she removed Sir Drogan’s blanket from her shoulders. She folded it and placed it upon a nearby tree stump, then knelt at the water’s edge and began to wash the dust and dirt from her skin.

Sir Drogan was right—her lip did hurt, but ’twas the least of her worries. Everything about her situation was foreign and painful and she could only hope she had made the right decision about her course of action. Retiring to the nunnery was the only way to spare herself and her family from her shame. Or was it?

She thought of Edric again, of the controlled power she’d felt in his hand the night before, when he’d encircled her neck. He had not frightened her. On the contrary, she had felt defiant, even stimulated by his touch. He had not hurt her and Kathryn was certain he’d restrained himself intentionally, allowing the heel of his hand to rest upon her chest. Mayhap it hadn’t entirely been anger in his eyes.

Kathryn’s blood heated at the thought, but she shook her head in self-derision.

The idea that he’d looked upon her favorably was a mere flight of fancy. Even if there had been masculine interest in his eyes, Kathryn would never submit to a foreign barbarian. Theirs would be an untenable alliance, at odds with all she’d
ever hoped for. Besides, he loathed her for being responsible for Bryce’s wound, and most certainly for her Norman heritage.

And if Bryce died…

Kathryn shuddered, unable to finish the thought. She bent to the cold water of the stream, which did little to soothe the heat in her blood, though it helped to chase away the fatigue of the day’s travels. They’d ridden slowly to keep from jarring Lord Bryce in the wagon, but after several hours in the uncomfortable saddle, every extra moment of riding was painful.

The quiet of the woods was suddenly broken by a low sound, almost like a voice, that startled her. She held still to listen, and when she heard it again, Kathryn realized ’twas the snort of an animal. Slowly, she turned toward the sound, and found herself staring into the biggest, blackest eyes she’d ever seen.

Edric had to get away from the Norman woman.

Hunting was the perfect distraction from his unwelcome awareness of her tempting body and her wary eyes. The sight of her split lip infuriated him, and far too easily, he could imagine touching it with his fingers, soothing it with his mouth.

He made a quiet growl of frustration and started to search the terrain for animal tracks. A deer or
wild pig would serve his men well tonight, and what was left of the meat would be a welcome addition to his kitchen.

There were plenty of animal signs, from the smallest rodents to the tracks of a sizeable deer, and Edric followed the large animal trail. It took him to the riverbank where he stopped for a taste of the cool, clean water and attempted, once again, to force thoughts of Kate from his mind. Her haunted eyes meant naught to him, nor did her disheveled and vulnerable appearance, calling to mind a woman who has just been well bedded.