An Oath Broken (21 page)

With a nimble twist, Sinclair stepped to the right and escaped his drive. Barely. In response, Drostan lifted his blade, swung.

Rotating, Giric thrust his weapon to ward off the blow.

Again their blades locked.

Strain creased Sinclair’s brow, but the fervor of battle glittered bright in his eyes. “A good match,” he said between breaths. Like a madman he shoved him back then charged, his blade aimed straight at Giric’s heart.

“Saint’s breath!” Giric dove. Snow crunched beneath him as he landed hard. He rolled to his side, his opponent’s following swing missing his shoulder by a hand’s width. With a curse he sprang to his feet finding Sinclair already raising his sword for his next attack.

If ’twas a fight the bastard wanted, by God he’d teach him a lesson. ’Twould seem the baron’s ire at his marriage to Sarra would be unfurled here. Sinclair would learn that no man would take what was his.

Their blades rang out with a bitter scrape. Sweat melded with anger. Giric worked his sword, each swing fueled with determination. When his opponent began to weaken, with an impassioned cry he attacked.

Caught off guard by his charge, Sinclair swung his weapon in a defensive blow.

Anticipating his move, Giric shifted to the side and slammed his blade to work with Sinclair’s desperate swing. With brute force, he angled both blades into the air.

Inches apart, their swords locked, he glared at Sinclair. With the twist of his wrist he could throw his adversary’s blade to the ground. “Concede,” Giric hissed.

Sinclair’s eyes narrowed.

“Lord Terrick,” a guard called from the main gate. “A runner has arrived who says that he must speak with you immediately!”

“ ’Twould seem you have been given a reprieve,” Giric spat. They both knew he’d won. He shoved him back.

Fury burned in Sinclair’s eyes as he caught his footing. He sheathed his blade. “A pity our match is to be interrupted, but know this, ’tis far from through.”

“Aye, that it is nae.” Giric secured his sword, shoved back his mail hood and padded coif. “When I return, we will finish.”

“That we will,” the baron replied, “but as your host, I would be remiss nae to accompany you.”

Giric remained silent. That bastard likely wanted to eavesdrop. More than ready for the day he and Sarra would ride away from Dunkirk Castle, he headed toward the rider waiting in the courtyard.

As he neared, he recognized Sir Neyll, one of his knights who’d ridden with him when they’d left to escort Sarra. Fear tore through him. He wouldna be here unless something was wrong!

Sinclair glanced over. “You know him?”

“’Tis one of my men.”

“You are expecting news?”

“Nay.” And that was what worried Giric the most.

As he closed, Sir Neyll dismounted. He handed his mount to the stable hand and walked to meet Giric, his stride purposeful, his expression grief stricken. “Lord Sinclair,” Sir Neyll said with a respectful nod, and then his gaze shifted to Giric. “I come bearing urgent news.”

His mind laden with worry, Giric nodded to their host. “I would like to speak with my man in private,” he said, refusing to share information that could be personal with their host.

“Of course.” Sinclair started toward the practice field.

Giric led Sir Neyll to the solar. Once inside, he shut the door and turned. “What is wrong?” The regret flashing on his friend’s face shot fear through his heart.

“’Tis your sister.”

Panic swept him. “What about Elizabet?”

“I am sorry.”

“Blast it, tell me!”

“News arrived that while out hunting, she fell from her horse.”

Nay!
“Is she alive?” he demanded. “Tell me if she is blasted alive!”

“Barely.”

“Will she live?” He couldna help the desperation clawing through his voice. After their mother’s death, he’d raised his sister when his father had shunned her.

“No one is sure. Her husband requests your presence immediately.”

Giric nodded. “We will leave posthaste. Meet at the stable.”

“Aye.”

As his man departed, Giric hurried to find Sinclair. Any details of the release of her guardian’s control could be dealt with by courier. As he exited the keep, Sinclair was starting up the steps.

The baron scanned his face with cool interest. “I pray naught is wrong?”

“An urgent matter needs my attention,” Giric stated. “Sarra and I are leaving at once.” He headed inside, and his host followed.

“Is your destination far?”

“Four days. Three if we ride hard.” Giric took the tower steps two at a time.

“You canna push Sarra like that,” Drostan said as he kept pace.

Giric halted and whirled. “She is my wife—”

“She has barely recovered from your journey here,” the baron said, his words rich with concern. “She is a lady and unused to such harsh travel. What if she leaves with you and due to her already weakened state, becomes ill? Will you take that risk?”

The baron’s angry, vicious attack during their spar a short while before weighed in Giric’s mind. “She will travel with me.” Lord Sinclair may have stated his acceptance to their marriage, but he had his own ideas as to the lord’s pleasure of his and Sarra’s union. Or rather, displeasure. Though the travel would be difficult, she’d proven that if necessary, she could keep pace.

Red slashed Lord Sinclair’s cheeks. “’Tis foolhardy to subject her to such adversity. She is—”

“Departing with me posthaste.”

“You are foolishly putting her life at risk.”

“The decision is nae yours to make.” Giric strode to her guardian’s chamber, entered.

Sarra started, then rose. “I have only . . .” Concern darkened her eyes as she glanced from one man to the other. “What is wrong?”

He wanted to hold her, to tell her of his fears for his sister. “I must speak with you.” He shot the baron a cool glance. “Alone.”

Irritation flashed in Sinclair’s eyes. “If you need further assistance, I will be below.”

“My thanks,” Giric replied.

Their host departed.

Sarra frowned at the baron’s terse manner, and then faced Giric. “What is wrong?”

“I just received news that several days ago, my sister was thrown from a horse.” He shook his head, his throat thick with emotion. “They do nae know if Elizabet will live.”

“Oh God!” Sarra hugged him. “I am so sorry,” she said, her words rough with emotion.

Her compassion left him humbled. The haughty woman he’d first met at Rancourt Castle would have shunned him, dismissed his plight, and walked away without a second glance. Now, she gave of herself without question. He threaded his fingers through her hair. “We must leave immediately.”

She pulled back, her eyes rimmed with tears. “I want to go with you, but I need to stay and speak with Lord Bretane.”

“I refuse to allow you to remain.”

“Why?”

She may as well know the truth. “I do nae trust Sinclair.”

“Giric, however much I want to go with you, if I leave now, I may never have the opportunity to speak with my guardian again.” She laid her hand over his. “We agreed to leave in a sennight. Give me that. I am safe here. Drostan would never harm me. And alone, no doubt you will travel faster.”

Saint’s breath.

“Until our marriage, I have handled matters on my own. I will be fine now.” She gave him a trembling smile. “Go, your sister needs you. Whatever happens, I will follow within a sennight with appropriate guard.”

“Sarra—”

“Please, Giric.”

He released a rough sigh. Mayhap he was being overprotective. Nor would she be alone. The castle was filled with people. Servants who served Sinclair, his mind added. Blast it.

“Giric?”

Bedamned! He didna like the thought of her remaining here without his protection, but she deserved his trust. “Stay then, but I still do nae like it.”

Her eyes softened. “I know, but I will be fine, truly.”

“Come.” With her at his side, he strode down the hall. At this point, each moment could make the difference if he saw Elizabet alive. Blast it. He didna want to think about that. He’d already lost his father. Was fate so cruel it would take his sister as well?

“I will be fine,” Sarra assured him.

He halted and drew her into a heated kiss. “I love you, Sarra. Never forget that.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes. But her returning words of love never came.

Time, he assured himself.

At their chamber, he collected the few items he would need then headed to the stables.

They met Sinclair as he exited the keep. He glanced at Sarra, and then lifted his brow. “She is nae going?”

“We have decided that she will remain—for a sennight,” Giric replied.

“I will ensure Sarra’s safety while she remains and provide a proper guard when she travels,” the baron said. “You have my word.”

Giric stared at him hard. “See that you do.”

Sinclair’s eyes narrowed on him, the dislike clear, but another emotion, satisfaction, stirred there as well.

Fear for Sarra overwhelmed his senses. “Sarra, ’tis nae too late for you to accompany me. We will return after I have taken care of everything at home.”

She shook her head. “Giric, we have already discussed this.”

They had, but here, with Sinclair paces away and his warrior instinct shouting its warning, he didna feel comfortable leaving her in the bastard’s care. Or was his dislike for Sinclair warping his normally keen senses? Blast this entire situation. If only Lord Bretane had been cognizant, her remaining here wouldna be an issue.

“You are worrying for naught,” Sarra said, pulling him from his musing.

Giric leveled a look on Sinclair that assured the lord if she wasna kept safe, he would pay for it with his life. “Mayhap I am. Come.” He took Sarra’s hand and they walked to the stables.

Thankfully Neyll sat astride his horse, and a lad held Giric’s steed as well as Sarra’s, readied for their departure.

“Lad, the lady will nae be needing her mount.” Giric turned to Sarra one last time. “Take care. My heart will be with you, always.” He gave her one last hard kiss, and then mounted. With his heart filled with love, his mind raw with terror for Elizabet, he kicked his steed into a gallop.

The clatter of hooves over the drawbridge gave way to a muted strum on a blanket of snow. They galloped on the cart trail that sliced across the open field then entered the shadow of the forest.

Overhead, angry gray clouds began to spew thick, fat flakes that promised to make a difficult trip more dangerous.

An icy burst of wind hurled the falling snow into a blustery cloud and for a second blinding him. Giric slowed his mount to a canter, nae taking a chance of injuring him. He glanced to where his friend rode at his side. “Looks like a storm is blowing in.”

“It does.” Sir Neyll tugged his cloak tighter. “’Twill slow us.”

“Aye.” Time they didna have to waste. The whirling snow that had blocked their view moments before settled. Able to see, Giric urged his mount faster.

They crested the next hill and over the treetops, naught but hills and forest spread out before them. The rugged beauty, isolation he normally appreciated, now became his enemy.

Sir Neyll fell behind.

Giric glanced back, found his friend pulling up. He slowed. “What is wrong?”

“My horse seems a bit lame.” Sir Neyll waved him forward. “I will catch up to you.”

Giric hesitated.

“Go on with you now.”

Torn to leave his friend, in the end he acceded. If Sir Neyll’s mount proved lame, he could always lead his horse back to Dunkirk Castle. “Take care.” Giric kicked his mount forward.

Without warning, pain ripped into his back. He fell forward and grasped a handful of his horse’s mane. His steed shifted, and he almost lost his grip. The world hazed around him as he tried to keep consciousness against the pain. His grip on the reins loosened and his horse slowed to a stop.

Warmth seeped down his back. Confused, he reached behind him; his fingers nudged the shaft of an arrow.

Had Sir Neyll been shot as well?

Pain shooting through his back, he turned, expecting to find his friend splayed on the ground, an arrow embedded in his chest. In stunned disbelief, he watched as Sir Neyll lowered his bow.

What in God’s name?

Grayness hazed his vision. Though he tried to remain in the saddle, his body refused to cooperate. On a groan Giric slammed onto the ground, somewhere in the anguish thankful for the blanket of snow to cushion his fall. A hysterical lunacy swept him. If he didna bleed to death, he’d freeze.

Either way he was dead.

Hoofbeats sounded, and then paused at his side.

With immense effort, Giric stared at a man he’d once claimed as friend. Too late, he remembered how Sir Neyll had addressed Lord Sinclair with proper respect and address.

Sir Neyll glanced to where blood spilled from Giric’s wound into the snow. Satisfaction creased his face.

“My sister?” Giric demanded. “She was never in any danger was she?”

“Nay.”

“Sinclair?” he said, damning his knight’s betrayal.

“You will nae be a threat to him any longer.”

“Why? We have known each other all our lives.”

Sir Neyll spat by his side. “You are an earl, and I have naught but a horse and a pair of worthless spurs. With the gold I am being paid to see you dead, I will have more than you would ever have paid me.” He galloped toward Dunkirk Castle.

Sarra!

Giric struggled to kneel, and the world hazed around him. He had to warn Sarra! Wind whipped around him as he shoved to his feet. Pain screamed through his body and he began to tremble. He collapsed. Sprawled within the snow, he felt a sense of doom crash over him.

He was going to die.