An Oath Broken (20 page)

 

A firm knock sounded at the door, and Sarra opened her eyes heavy with sleep. Her thoughts of last night came to mind. Though nervous at her decision, her heart overrode any doubts. It felt so right to wake up beside Giric, to know that he would be hers forever.

“Who is it?” Giric called, his arm possessively around her.

“Lord Sinclair sent me to inform you that his father is awake,” a youthful voice called. “I am to escort you and your wife to Lord Bretane’s chamber.”

Giric’s mumbled curse had her smiling.

“You think ’tis funny do you?”

His arched brow offered her anything but a threat, and her smile grew.

He wedged his hardness against her slick warmth. “Mayhap you willna be laughing once I make love to you?”

Her body ached for him. “I guess we will have to find out.” Had she said that? Yes, and it felt good, wondrously so.

The knock sounded again.

With a muttered curse, Giric stepped from the bed and jerked on his trews. “One moment,” he all but snarled to whoever waited outside their chamber.

At her chuckle he skewered her with his gaze, the intensity of love there making Sarra catch her breath.

A roguish light streaked in his eyes. The tunic he’d picked up and began to don, he tugged off and tossed it to the floor.

Sarra scrambled back unused to this free-spirited teasing, but finding excitement as well. “Giric, I—”

He caught the edge of the blanket and hauled it from the bed with her in tow.

On a squeal, she grabbed for the other side of the mattress. Giric gave a final pull, and she flopped unceremoniously on the floor ensnared within the heap of linen.

His rich laughter filled the room.

“You think this is funny?” she charged as she lay sprawled before him naked, laughter welling in her throat. Never had anyone dared to treat her so, but never had anyone loved her without reserve.

Giric scooped her into his arms. “I will never walk away from a challenge. Especially from you.”

“Lord Terrick?” the voice called from the other side of the door.

He gave an exasperated sigh. “Hurry up and dress if we must leave.”

Moments later, the squire nodded when Giric opened the door. “If you will follow me.” He started down the corridor.

“My lady wife.”

Sarra laid her hand on Giric’s forearm and they followed the lad. Tapestries portraying battles with ancient Picts and druids adorned the walls. Sarra took in each work of art, each masterpiece painstakingly woven.

Fleeting memories of walking these same halls as a child came to mind and she smiled. Then, she’d held her father’s hand. Her smile faded. ’Twas on their return trip from that visit when the reivers had attacked.

Their steps echoed in the turret as they headed up the stairs, and the flicker of torches shuddered along the walls with a morose sputter. Air, cold with the edge of winter, chilled her face.

With a shiver, Sarra glanced into the darkness broken only by shards of yellowed light. When they entered the well-lit hallway, she sighed with relief. Odd that she should feel this way when she was about to speak with her guardian.

The lad led them toward a chamber at the end of the corridor. As they neared, the guard at the entry gave a soft knock on the door, leaned inside, and said something that she couldn’t hear.

Moments later Drostan emerged, sadness in his gaze. “I caution you, my father is very ill. I had hoped that he would be more lucid today.” He shrugged. “Some days are better than others. Be prepared. He may nae recognize you.”

She nodded, prayed her guardian would. With the undercurrents between Drostan and Giric, she needed to convince Lord Bretane to release her inheritance to her, and then they could leave.

The guard opened the door and stepped aside.

“After you,” Lord Sinclair said.

The stench of sickness hit her first. Her stomach roiled as she forced herself to take another step inside. The cheery fire and warmly decorated room did little to dissolve the dismal air within. Giric’s hand gently squeezed her own, and she glanced at him, thankful for his presence.

A hacking cough from a large bed draped with blue velvet drew her attention. Ensconced within the folds of the thick bed covers lay a man, his eyes haggard, his face taut and withered.

Stunned, she halted. This couldn’t be Lord Bretane, the man who’d lifted her high with a wide smile and turned her in a circle as a child, the same man who’d snuck her sweets. That man had towered over her, his sturdy frame muscled and honed from battle, his eyes alight with the glint of humor.

“Father?”

Drostan’s quiet question confirmed her worst fears. She swallowed hard. From her guardian’s struggle for each breath, that he still lived was a miracle.

S
adness etched Drostan’s face as he walked to his father lying in the bed. “You have visitors.”

Lord Bretane remained still. Then his bony hand clutched the bed covers, and his fingers trembled as he turned. Blue eyes hazed with confusion stared at her. Shaggy gray brows scrunched together in a frown, then his eyes flared with delight. “Aeschine?”

The baron laid his hand upon his father’s shoulder. “Nay, ’tis Lady Sarra. Remember you sent her a writ several weeks ago requesting our marriage?”

Lord Bretane’s face twisted into a grimace. “Lady Sarra?” His low-spoken words spilled out in confusion. “I know of nay Lady Sarra.” He scanned the room as if expectant. “Where is Aeschine?”

“Mother died five years ago,” his son answered in a bland tone as if the question was commonplace.

Face pale, Lord Bretane deflated into the layers of sheets. “She is dead?”

“Aye.” Drostan gave his father’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Go back to sleep. The herbs you swallowed earlier will soon begin to help relieve your pain.”

“I will find Aeschine when I awaken,” his father muttered, his eyes slowly drifting shut.

“We will return after you have rested,” Lord Sinclair said, but his father never turned to look, nor give any sign that he’d heard. With a quiet sigh, Drostan walked toward them. “I am sorry. He has been like this ever since his fever several weeks ago.”

Sarra gave a shaky nod. So caught up in her own indignation to be summoned to wed, she’d never considered the possibility that her guardian had acted without his faculties in order. It explained everything.

“We will talk further outside.” Lord Sinclair exited the chamber.

Sarra and Giric followed. The guard closed the door behind them as they walked down the corridor. When they reached an alcove, Drostan turned.

The overwhelming sadness on his face touched her deeply. She understood his pain, had experienced the same regret. Though his father still lived, in many ways he’d already lost him. “I am sorry.”

“My thanks.” Drostan stared at the handcrafted glass where the sun dusted the land within its golden glow. After a long moment, he faced Giric. “I want to apologize for my behavior earlier. I admit that your marriage caught me off guard.” He gave Sarra a wistful smile. “I never deluded myself into thinking that you would love me, but I was looking forward to spending my time at home with someone I cared for. I remembered you as a child, so carefree and loving.” He toyed with the edge of his cuff. “I allowed my imagination to override reality.”

Though surprised by his admission, Sarra remained silent.

“I willna say that I am pleased by your marriage,” he continued, “but life is too short to hold grudges or to linger on regrets.” Lord Sinclair dropped his hand to his side. “My father was wrong to decide who you should marry. Whatever is stealing his senses must have begun months before I realized it. I didna agree with his decision to our betrothal without your consent, and I willna force you to abide by his decree now.”

She glanced at Giric. Surprise flickered in his eyes, but suspicion as well.

“If you love Lord Terrick and he makes you happy,” Drostan continued, “when my father is lucid, I will explain the dissolution of his request for our marriage.”

Moved by his kindness, shame filled Sarra at the horrible thoughts she’d harbored toward him when she’d first received the writ. ’Twould seem that in her chapel before the journey, Father Ormand had spoken the truth. Drostan had grown into a strong and good man. Handsome and caring, he would make a woman a fine husband when he wed.

Her concerns of the self-centered lad she’d remembered with an attraction toward wicked acts no longer existed. Hadn’t the shift in her feelings toward the Scots given credence to how much one person could change?

And Lord Bretane. Who wouldn’t be on edge having to watch their father die a slow, painful death? In light of Drostan’s struggles, he was generous to offer to speak with his father to relinquish his writ.

“You said he does become lucid?” Sarra asked.

“Aye,” Lord Sinclair replied. “On rare moments. Though, over the last few days, those are fleeting.”

Her curiosity piqued, she still wished to know her guardian’s reason for requesting the marriage, if in fact he’d done so while he was lucid. Then there was the issue of her inheritance to settle.

“When he is of sound mind,” Sarra said, “I wish to speak with him privately. There are other concerns that I need to address.”

Interest flickered in Drostan’s eyes. “Of course. Then you will be remaining here for the time being?”

“Yes, until I have spoken with your father.”

 

In support of Sarra’s decision to remain until she’d spoken with Lord Bretane, Giric laced his fingers through hers.

Sinclair grimaced at their entwined fingers.

Giric kept hold of her hand. As if he cared that the baron was present.

Her face flushed, Sarra tried to pull her hand from Giric’s as if embarrassed.

He held tight. They were wed, had joined in the most intimate of ways. Though she’d refrained from showing outward signs of love throughout her life, he refused to allow her to withdraw from him in any manner. He would show her that love was as natural as each breath.

After a long moment, Sinclair nodded. “If that is your wish, then I will take care of the writ.”

“Thank you,” Giric said to her guardian’s son, nae giving a damn if he approved of their marriage or nae. She’d chosen him.

A flash of anger whipped through the baron’s expression, and then it was gone. “’Tis the least I can do. Lady Sarra has had to endure tremendous difficulties during her journey here, unnecessarily so. Lord Terrick, I will see that you receive the gold that you were promised. Though during your travels you became married, your actions were done to protect Lady Sarra. As for the consummation of the marriage, that discretion is hers.”

Giric gave a curt nod. He would have thought a man with such insight would have supported Robert Bruce, the Competitor, the obvious candidate to become Scotland’s next king over John Balliol. Nor would he ponder the matter further. That he’d released Sarra from the writ more than made up for his ill-chosen personal preference for their country’s sovereign.

“During your stay, you are welcome to move freely within my home,” Sinclair offered. “Now I must leave. There is business that I must attend to. I will send a page to notify you when we sup.”

Sarra’s body relaxed. “Thank you.”

The baron nodded to Giric. “While here, if you choose to spar, I would enjoy a round.”

However coated with sincerity, Giric didna miss the subtle challenge in Sinclair’s offer. “I would seek a bout with you as well,” he replied, intrigued by a man who could step away from a woman like Sarra without a fight. “I shall look forward to our match.” Sinclair departed.

After he’d left, Sara turned. “Do you think ’twas wise to accept when he is clearly upset?”

Her question caught Giric by surprise, and he smiled at the concern in her eyes. “You are nae worried about me are you?”

“I—”

He gave a soft chuckle. “’Tis only a spar.”

Her expression relaxed. “’Tis.”

As she stared at him, he grew somber, wanting her with every breath, but more so needing her vow of love. When she found the courage to again give it, he would cherish it always. “Let us nae talk of spars.” He drew her into his arms, and she tensed. “What is it?”

“I . . .” Her expression became tense, urgent. “I believe that your deeds of the past, however illicit, were to aid your people, not derived for personal pleasure. Neither did you kill my parents. Nor do I think that you are now a murderer.” She swallowed hard. “Still, I do not know if I can accept your past.”

Humbled by her forgiveness, he shook his head. “If I could change my past, I would.”

“But then you would not be the man you have grown to be, would you?”

He’d never considered that, but it didna lessen the mistakes of his past or the shame. She’d managed to accept him when he hadna done the same for himself. There was so much he needed to tell her, so much that he wanted to share. Here, where anyone could walk upon them, wasna a place that he could speak freely.

Giric kissed the curve of her jaw. “If we stay here longer, I might do something I will regret—in public.”

A blush stained her cheeks, but excitement filled his eyes.

On a soft groan he lifted her in his arms and strode toward their chamber, doubting they would make it to dinner this night.

 

“Are you sure you want to wait longer?” Giric asked Sarra as they headed toward her guardian’s chamber. “We have remained here over a fortnight and with your each visit Lord Bretane doesna recognize you.”

A pensive frown wrinkled in her brow. “Drostan said that for moments he becomes lucid, and I pray we will stumble upon such a time soon.”

“There is much both of us need to tend to back at our homes,” Giric said. “If he doesna regain cognizance, you may have to speak with his son about your concerns.”

Worried eyes turned to him. “I would rather not.”

He nodded, understanding her apprehension. Since their arrival and after the initial confrontation, Sinclair had treated them with the utmost respect, but Giric hadna missed the displeasure that lurked in his eyes. “We will stay another sennight, then you need to speak to his son.” He didna add that by that time, due to his continued failing health, her guardian could be dead.

Since their arrival, with each passing day, Lord Bretane grew worse. His eyes had sunken into his frame, his skin had grown pale as death, and his ramblings were now commonplace, centered on conversations with his dead wife.

After watching his own father die in the cramped confines of the dungeon, Giric understood Sinclair’s anguish. Though no bars restrained the baron, he lived in his own personal strife. In a way, ’twas worse.

Resignation sifted through Sarra’s expression. “A sennight. Then we will depart.”

Relief swept him that she’d accepted the reality of the situation. “I am sorry that your guardian is so ill.”

“’Tis so unlike him,” she said, her voice soft with memories. “He was always so strong and healthy.”

At Lord Bretane’s chamber, Sarra paused. “I will go in alone.” She gave him a brave smile, but he noted the despair beneath.

“Sarra, I—”

“Please. I must do this.”

He understood her pride, the need to see this through. “As you wish. I am going to practice arms. When I am finished, I will return.”

“My thanks.” With a steadying breath, she walked inside.

He didna want to leave her alone in that dismal atmosphere, but in the past weeks they’d shared with each other, Sarra knew that if she needed him, all she had to do was ask and he would be there.

Trying to shake off his frustration, he strode down the hall, flexed the stiffness from his arms, looking forward to the upcoming bout. Sword practice would help clear his mind.

A short while later after donning his armor, Giric headed toward where men sparred in the upper bailey. Through the flakes of drifting snow, he scanned the paired men who wielded their swords in mock battle, some knights, others a combination of knight and squire.

Two knights fought near the closest tower with fierce abandon. The tallest of the two cursed as his opponent’s blade slashed dangerously close. Then the man side-stepped, turned, and attacked.

His opponent lifted his weapon. Their swords clashed.

Giric studied the pair as they sparred, impressed by the skill of both. Either would be a worthy opponent.

With a growl, the tallest man shoved his sparring partner back. As fast, the men engaged, their curses as quick as the clash of steel. They merged and broke away once again. The tallest man glanced toward him and signaled for the other to stop.

He removed his helm; Sinclair. The baron murmured to his opponent who nodded and left. “Are you up for a match?” Drostan asked as he walked toward Giric, the sheen of sweat beading his brow in direct conflict with the excitement surging through his gaze.

“I have the unfair advantage of nae having sparred, I will select another man.” However much he wished to trounce Sinclair in a match, ’twould be done when both were rested.

“I had just begun to warm up when you arrived.” Sinclair moved his sword through a series of difficult maneuvers with ease. “What do you say that we play for stakes?”

“Stakes?”

Sinclair smiled. “If you have something to lose, it makes the battle all the more appealing does it nae?”

Unease wove through Giric. Did he speak of Sarra? “And what would you suggest as a prize?”

“Your dagger.”

He relaxed a degree. “And if I win?”

“Then you win mine of course.” Sinclair withdrew his dagger. The emeralds embedded in the ornate handle shimmered in the sun. He sheathed the weapon. “So, Lord Terrick, are you game?”

If the man was fool enough to risk such an expensive dagger, then yes, he would happily relieve him of it. “With pleasure.” Giric donned his helm and withdrew his sword. He took it through a series of movements to loosen his muscles, the rush of adrenaline that came with the upcoming challenge welcome. He stepped back and positioned his legs slightly apart, his blade held waist high. “Ready.”

Sinclair secured his helm, then angled his blade and began to circle Giric.

Giric followed his lead and kept him a safe distance. They maneuvered around each other for several minutes, and he assessed his opponent as he knew he was being weighed.

When the sun again shone in his face and momentarily blinded him, Sinclair attacked.

Anticipating his opponent’s tactic, Giric repelled his swing. He dodged the next strike then lunged. Steel screamed as their swords clashed. Their hilts merged. Sweat streamed down Giric’s face, his hand trembling from the contest of force. Metal scraped with a foul hiss as he shoved the baron away, then charged.