An Oath Broken (12 page)

“You are welcome to stay here longer,” Fergus said, his breath white puffs in the cold morning air.

A hawk’s cry echoed in the distance. Other horses secured in their stalls shifted.

“My thanks, but we canna remain longer.” Giric double-checked the rest of the tack. “I will stop by on my way back.”

His friend nodded. “You—”

Sarra’s scream pierced the morning.

Terror shot through Giric, and he bolted from the stable. As he rounded the corner, his heart dropped. Léod and his men encircled Sarra outside the hut.

Her eyes wide with terror, she brandished a dagger in her hands, waving it at whatever man dared to step toward her.

Furious, Giric drew his broadsword, bolted toward the motley group. “Get away from her!”

The men glanced toward Giric, but held their positions, their swords readied.

Sarra glanced toward Giric.

With her distracted, the redheaded Scot caught her hand wielding the blade. With a quick twist, he pulled it free, subdued her against his body, then pressed her dagger against the soft column of her neck.

Fear for Sarra’s life slammed Giric. “Release her!” On a curse, he swung the flat of his blade against the largest man.

The man’s eyes rolled and he slumped to the ground.

Giric turned to take on the next aggressor. Before he could focus on one, three of Léod’s men grabbed him, one clamping hard upon the hilt of his sword and preventing him another swing.

The leader strode up to Giric. “The lass is ours now.”

“Release them!” Fergus yelled as he rushed toward them.

“ ’Tis naught for you to worry about,” Léod spat.

“Fergus,” Giric warned as the elder halted before the group, “go back inside. ’Tis my affair to deal with.”

“They are on my land and threatening my guests!” Fergus’s shrewd eyes studied Giric. “And what affair are you talking about?”

Léod’s eyes widened in understanding. “’Twould seem you are as ignorant as Terrick when he first accepted his task,” he stated in a low, fierce tone. “Because neither you nor Terrick knew of Lady Sarra’s political connection, we willna kill you.”

Giric struggled to break free, trying to think of a way to save her. “She is nay threat to you.”

“Nae any longer,” their leader replied. “Without her, Sinclair willna be using her dowry.” He gestured toward his men. “Take her away and be done with the task.”

The red-haired man dragged Sarra toward where their horses were tethered near the outskirts of the village.

Panic slammed Giric’s gut. “Nay. I forbid you to take her. She is—” His mind went blank with possible arguments that would save her life. Then, his gut wrenched as a way came to mind. Blast it! “—my wife.”

The red-haired man dragging Sarra whirled. He glanced at Léod, who eyed Giric with keen interest.

“Blast it, all of you hold,” Fergus boomed. He shoved his way through the burly lot until he stood within the circle of men. He glared at Léod, Giric, then to where Sarra stood within the rugged man’s grasp. He turned to their leader. “What the Hades is going on?”

A sated smile edged Léod’s mouth. “Terrick was just telling us about his new bride.”

If Giric could have wrapped his hands around Léod’s neck, he would have cheerfully wrenched the last breath from his miserable life.

Confusion on his face, Fergus stared at Giric. “The lass is your bride?” He shot a curious glance toward Sarra, whose face had blanched as pale as the winter snow, then he faced Giric.

Blasted trapped. Nor would he involve Fergus and his wife further. Giric nodded toward Sarra. “Aye,” he said, his voice rough with anger, “she is my wife.”

An unwitting partner in sealing Giric’s fate, Fergus met Sarra’s gaze. “Is it true, lass?”

Her eyes wild with desperation, Sarra stared at Giric.

With his blood humming through his veins, Giric steadied himself. If she verbally concurred with his declaration of marriage, by Scottish law, they were legally wed. Mayhap he could somehow spare her the opportunity to say the words.

“Tell him, lass,” Léod pressed.

“Leave her alone!” Giric yelled, but Léod stepped toward Sarra, his face ripe with menace.

“Answer me,” their leader demanded.

Sarra floundered, then gave a clumsy nod.

“What was that?” Léod demanded. “You will speak to me when I am talking to you, lass.”

Giric fought against the men who held him. “Sarra do nae—”

A shudder rippled over her body. “Ye—Yes.”

A
fter Sarra’s confirmation that they were wed, a satisfied grimace edged Léod’s mouth. He nodded to her captor. “Let the lass go.”

The man withdrew the knife from her neck and released her.

Sarra stumbled forward.

On an oath, Giric sheathed his blade as he ran to her and drew her against his chest. Her body trembled against his as he glared at each man, his gaze halting on Léod.

The bastard. Giric pressed a kiss on Sarra’s brow. “Stay here.” Anger raged within as he strode to the men’s leader, a man he knew well. He and Léod had reived together since their sixth summers, and had both trained beneath his father’s hand. Although as Giric was in line for a title, every so often he’d caught Léod watching him with envy. Over the years he’d ignored the man’s resentment, the slights, and the snide comments.

Until now.

A pace away, he caught Léod’s neck, pleased to see fear on his face. “If I ever find you within a league of Sarra, I will kill you.” He shoved.

Léod stumbled back, sprawled onto the snow.

His heart pounding, Giric glared at Léod’s men. “The same for the lot of you.”

Their leader picked himself up and began to brush off the snow. Hatred burned in his eyes, but caution as well.

As much as Giric would like to beat Léod to a pulp, Sarra had experienced enough terror this day, nor could any actions change their fate.

’Twas done.

He curled his hand around the hilt of his dagger. “Out of my sight!”

Léod’s lip curled with fury, but a glint of satisfaction lingered as well. He gestured to his men. “Let us go.” They headed toward their mounts.

Fergus glanced to each of the men with utter confusion outlined on his face, then his gaze landed on Giric. “What in Hades is going on?”

His throat choked with emotion, Giric shook his head. “I will explain later. Right now I need to speak with Sarra inside, in private.”

Fergus’s eyes narrowed, then understanding dawned in his expression. “Aye.”

Walking to where Sarra stood trembling, Giric lifted her in his arms and strode toward the hut. “Giric?”

At her rough whisper, he pressed a kiss on her cheek, fought for calm. “You are safe.” Blast it, he shouldna have chanced staying here last night. Because of him, she’d almost died. Neither was her trauma done. Once she learned the truth of his past, she would never forgive him for this day’s mayhem, nor would he ask her to.

He’d taken a risk.

Failed.

With a silent curse, Giric shoved open the door and carried Sarra inside.

Esa glanced up from a tub of water where she was scrubbing clothes, her face covered by sweat, and her skin flushed. When she caught sight of Sarra, she dropped the garb and the worn stick, and rushed over. “God’s deeds! What happened to the lass? There is blood on her neck and she looks like she has seen a ghost!”

“Blood?” Sarra’s fingers shook as they skimmed over the narrow line.

“She just had a bit of a run-in with Léod and his friends,” Giric said, his voice rich with sarcasm as he damned himself. With care he set her down, then wiped the blood from the cut the knife had made on Sarra’s neck and wished he could erase their confrontation or their marriage with such ease.

Esa grimaced. “I will be talking to Léod when I see him again, you can be sure of that. It matters little if he is nae fond of the English. Lady Sarra is a guest in our home.” The anger in her eyes faded to motherly concern. “Come now, lass.” She took Sarra’s arm and with Giric’s help, guided her to a chair at the table.

Tremors whipped through Sarra as she tried to slow her breaths. “I-I thought I was dead.”

His eyes dark with regret, Giric knelt before her and drew her into his arms. “You are safe now.”

She welcomed his strength as she fought the nightmare of when the fierce warrior had held the knife to her throat. On a shudder she closed her eyes. Oh, God. She would not think about that. Not now. If not for Giric . . .

“ ’Tis all right now,” he whispered, his soft encouragement giving her an anchor in her torment. Another tremor swept through her. She clung to him as a sob built in her throat. He’d saved her life. How could she ever repay him?

Esa set a steaming mug on the table. “Drink this tea, lass, ’twill help calm your nerves.”

Sarra fought back the tears as she stared at the fragrant brew, wanting naught but to remain in Giric’s arms. Here she was safe.

The door opened and Fergus stepped inside. His worried glance rested on Sarra. “How are you, lass?”

She shivered from the rush of cold air he’d let inside. “B-better.”

Fergus speared a glance at Giric then nodded to his wife. “Esa, I need your help outside.”

“I will be there in a bit,” Esa replied. “The lass needs—”

“Now.”

Her husband’s terse command had Esa’s eyes narrowing, but she snatched her worn wool wrap and donned it. “I will be back in a mite,” she said to Sarra, her gaze softening. She turned to Fergus; her expression promised they would discuss his terse manner once outside.

When the door closed behind them, Sarra sagged against Giric. His heartbeat pounded slow and steady. Long moments passed, each becoming entwined in the other, and she rested against him until her shudders abated and she felt naught but his warmth.

On a sigh he placed a kiss on her brow, and then held her before him.

At the anguish in his gaze, foreboding crawled through her. Questions she’d not thought to ask during the confrontation slammed to the fore. “Why did the men let me go?” The nerves she would rather hide edged her voice. At the distress on his face, she remembered his claim that she was his wife and her stunned amazement that the men had believed him. At his silence, she fought to keep calm. “Giric, the men left because they believed we were married did they not?”

He released a rough sigh. “They did.”

Relief poured through her. “Thank God they were so foolish to believe such a tale. When the men heard—”

“ ’Twas no tale,” he interrupted, his voice rough.

Panic swirling in her gut, she clutched his cloak. “We cannot be! There was no priest to witness and sanction our union, and I have signed naught agreeing to such.”

Regret darkened his gaze. “I am sorry.”

Her heart pounded. “’Tis nae true!” She tried to shove free, but he caught her shoulders. “Let me go.”

“Sarra, the men released you, because now we
are
wed.”

Hysterical laughter welled in her throat. “No!”

He tried to take her hand, but she stumbled back. “Sarra.”

“We are not married! Why do you insist on this lie?”

Sadness flashed in his eyes, and then his gaze became empty. “In Scotland,” he explained, his words cold, “when a couple declares they are married before witnesses, as we did moments ago, ’tis done.”

Why would he continue with this nonsense? “’Tis a barbaric law that I have never heard of, nor will I participate in.” She lifted her chin. “I am English and cannot be bound by the decree of a heathen country, and . . .” Her guardian’s words during her youth came to mind, of his explaining the unique way that couples in Scotland could wed. By the rood, what Giric had explained, ’twas all true!

He moved toward her.

She took another step back. Sickened, she understood. “You planned this all along,” Sarra charged, hurt that he could use her emotions with such callousness.

Blue eyes darkened. “What are you talking about?”

She scoffed. “As if you do not know? How could I have been so foolish, so trusting?” Trust. She clenched her hands, remembering his request. “You asked me to trust you when all along you planned this.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his words ice.

“You knew the men who pursued us,” she charged, her voice rising, “
and
you plotted with them right up until this moment to ensure my wealth would never fall into hands that would support John Balliol.” Her breath fell out in sharp rasps. “Admit it. We were never in any danger. From the start you used me, played me to believe that you cared.”

His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “Is that what you believe, that I would use you for my own political gain?”

She ignored the ache in her heart, the whisper from her conscience that assured her that he would never betray her. “You will not use my money to back Robert Bruce, the Competitor. Not a penny do you hear!”

Giric started toward her, his steps predatory.

She took a step back. “Do not touch me again, ever!”

“I do nae give a blasted damn about your money.”

“Not as long as it falls in the right political hands? At least be honest in that.” A sob caught in her throat. She’d wanted him, desired him, but every step of the way he’d never cared for her. His words, everything he’d done for her was all a lie.

And for that she could never forgive him.

Tears blurring her eyes, she bolted for the door, not caring where she went. At this moment, she wanted to be anywhere but trapped here with him.

Giric caught her before she made it halfway across the room.

She flew at him all nails and anger. “Release me!”

He backed her up and pinned her against the wall, his face taut, and his eyes raging. “You will hear me out.”

Sarra twisted in his hold. “Let me go. Have you not done enough?” He held firm, his body snug against hers, his eyes hot, and at that moment, if she never saw him again, ’twould be fine with her. She glared at him, angry with herself that she could want him still. “I hate you.”

He remained silent, watching.

“Did you hear me? I hate you!” A sob stumbled through her words, and she tried to discern his reaction, but he stared at her, his eyes void of emotion.

With a curse, he released her. “We must leave. Lord Sinclair awaits our arrival.”

By the rood, in the chaos she’d forgotten her betrothed. As if he mattered now? “Go where? Surely ’tis unnecessary to continue on? I doubt I could explain our marriage to Lord Bretane or his son.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “You shall nae have to, I will.”

She gave a cold laugh. “And I am supposed to believe that?”

“Though we are married, you are untouched,” Giric explained with riotous calm. “Due to circumstance, I believe an annulment can be obtained. In the end, there should be naught but a delay in your marriage to Lord Sinclair.”

Did he expect her to believe that he hadn’t contrived their union and would give her up without a fight? What trick was he planning now?

Giric watched her, his eyes hard.

Thoughts to flee raced through her mind, but if she tried to run again he would catch her. As if she had a chance to escape in this rugged hill country.

Or survive.

She swallowed hard. At this moment, as her husband, he had every right to stop her.

She stilled.

What was she doing giving in? In the past she’d faced the challenges of running Rancourt Castle. Was this situation any different?

Granted, this wasn’t as simple as bartering for a fair price of grain or working to diffuse a rift between her people, but the situation still required calm and deliberate thought. Like it or not, however temporarily, she was married. She would face their farcical union and its dissolution head-on.

Having regained a degree of control, she gave a curt nod. “We will travel to my guardian’s.” If all went well, they would acquire an annulment. After, she prayed that she could convince her guardian that it would not be necessary for her to marry his son, nor forsake all of her holdings and be exiled to a nunnery. If the time to choose a husband came, she wanted the decision to be hers and hers alone.

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Bundle the rest of your clothes and bring them to the stable. I shall be waiting.” Snow slipped inside as he exited.

Shaking, Sarra stared at the door.
Please, God, let this be a horrid nightmare.
In the next moment she would open her eyes and wake up in her own bed. But as she scanned the interior of the aged hut, the truth stared back at her. Her nightmare had just begun.

 

The midmorning sun streaked into the stable as Giric stared at Fergus and Esa. “I should have explained everything to you both from the start. I am sorry I didna.” He blew out a rough breath. “As I said, I wasna sure how to explain.”

“Blast it, if you had told us about the dire state of Wolfhaven Castle,” Fergus stated, “I and a few of the men would have ridden with you to procure—”

“Nay. I will nae reive again,” Giric said, vehemence hard in his voice. “My father condoned that way of life, but I will nae. From now on, any coin I earn shall be through fair means.”

Fergus eyed him for a long moment, and then his face creased into a smile. “You are fortunate, at least the lass cares for you.”