An Oath Broken (8 page)

D
ressed in her camisole, Sarra tugged the blanket closer. Until her gown hanging near the hearth dried, she should be warm enough. She stole a sidelong glance toward Giric who’d become unnervingly quiet since he’d returned from dressing the rabbit. He’d stripped as well, and now wore trews and a fresh linen shirt from his pack, the meager garb offering a tantalizing display of his muscled body.

Warmth slid through her at thoughts of a warrior like him. A man of fierce values who would fight to keep what was his. What would it be like if he wanted her?

Shamed by her illicit thoughts, she stared at the flames. Since when did she ponder a man’s touch? Shaken by what feelings this Scot aroused, Sarra focused on their predicament. Thankfully the snow that’d fallen throughout the day had stopped, but the wind still howled. If it continued to blow throughout the night, it could build the layers of snow into impassable drifts and leave them stranded.

She tore a piece off the leg of the rabbit that Giric had roasted over the fire. Why had he only cooked half over the fire, then used the remainder to make a stew, which would make the meat last longer? Did he expect to be snowbound for several days? ’Twould explain why he’d become quiet.

A gust battered the hut.

“ ’Tis a fierce wind tonight,” Sarra said.

“Aye.”

How could he be so calm when she was barely maintaining her composure? “Do you think we will be stranded here?”

Giric glanced toward her, then shrugged. “We will find out in the morning.”

The way his eyes darkened when they met hers reminded her of the ruffians who pursued them. A shiver of nerves trickled down her spine. And what of the men who wanted her dead, the surly lot Giric acknowledged that he knew, outlaws, who with the mention of Lord Balliol had left Giric moody and tense? Was this why he was quiet now? In light of her guardian’s connection with Lord Balliol, was he reconsidering his agreement with her guardian to deliver her?

The lazy swirl of smoke, rich with the scent of cooked meat, sifted through the room. Wind howled outside. Though safe and warm, restlessness embraced her.

Giric’s muttered curse had her looking over. He studied a thin red line along the side of his chest; his earlier cut.

Guilt swept her. So caught up in her worries, she’d neglected to treat the wound. “Let me look at that.”

He scowled at her. “’Tis a minor injury.”

Far from intimidated by his gruffness, she lay down her food and cleaned her hands. “Then you will not mind if I check how ’tis healing.”

His eyes narrowed. She ignored his temper. A wound left untreated, however slight, could fester into a serious state within hours. The result could be deadly. “Take off your shirt.”

“Now listen—”

“Who do you think you are?” she attacked. “If you die, I will be left in this wretched wilderness alone.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Is that all you care about, your own blasted self?”

Let him think what he wanted. What did she care? But she did, more than she would like. “Take off your shirt. I will be checking your wound.”

With a grumble about demanding, ornery women, he stood, tugged off his shirt.

Muscle, raw and lean, rippled from wide shoulders down to his flat waist, and she forgot to breathe.

“Are you going to stand there gawking?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I—” She looked at the cloth he’d secured over the wound, now stained with a growing line of blood. Extending from the wrap, a long scar, not fully healed, ran almost the entire length of his side.

What in God’s name had happened?

“Are you going to stand there, lass, or take a look?”

“I . . .” She stepped over. When her fingers grazed his flesh, she trembled.

“Do nae be taking all day about it.”

Bother him for tying her up in knots. Not that he’d acknowledge that he needed her help, the thickheaded clout. Sarra unwrapped the cloth and examined the wound, but her gaze kept sliding over the long, angry scar. From the length and position of the wound, he could have easily died.

And she never would have had a chance to know him.

Saddened by the thought, she lifted her gaze to his.

For a second, something wild flashed in his eyes. With a curse, he snatched the bandage. “I will clean out the wound and put herbs on top. The method has served me well in the past.”

A past riddled with battle and God knew what else.

“The wound needs to be sewn. Where do you keep your supplies?”

“In my bag.”

Thankful for the familiar task, Sarra collected the necessary items. She handed him the wine flask. “Drink a long pull. ’Twill take off the edge.”

Without hesitation, Giric drank a good portion.

After cleaning the wound, she threaded the needle. “Take another drink, then I will start.”

“Blast it, lass, ’tis nae coddling I need but sewing.” With a disgruntled look, he took another swig of wine then secured the top. “Be about it, lass.”

In silence she started her task, finding herself curious about this warrior. At unguarded moments, there was something about his manner that hinted that he was more than a common Scot—a knight, she corrected. Exactly who was he? Or, did she really want to know?

Sobered by the thought, she finished the last stitch. Once she’d cut the thread, she rubbed a concoction of herbs he’d helped to select over the top, then rewrapped the injury. “You can put your shirt back on now,” she said, her mind at odds with her tragic past and the man before her who left her intrigued. She began stowing the herbs.

“Thank you.”

At his quiet words, her heart jumped, but as his hand lay upon her shoulder she stilled.

Giric turned her to face him, his expression a mix between sincerity and frustration. “I am nae fond of being plied with a needle.”

He was apologizing. A jumbled laugh welled in her throat. What had she expected that he’d do when he’d laid his hand upon her? Shaken, she closed down every venue this thought could lead. The ground between them was already too dangerous. “You are welcome.”

His face softened, and the mood shifted to something intimate.

With an unsteady breath she stepped back, gathered the last of the supplies, and stowed them inside his sack. She was going insane. How else could she explain how he twisted her feelings into knots?

She turned and thankfully he’d donned his tunic, but it didn’t shield the memories of his hard, sculpted body. “Do you come from a big family?” she asked, stumbling to find a safe topic, then immediately wished the question back. She had no business prying into his personal affairs.

His expression curious, he studied her as if sizing up his answer. “I have a sister, Elizabet.” With a wince, he knelt beside the fire, picked up a stick lying beside the hearth, and poked it in the coals. “Both of my parents are dead.”

Her heart went out to him, having survived her own devastating loss. “How did your parents die?”

Giric raised the stick from the fire. A golden flame wavered on its end. He blew a puff of air. The flame flickered out, and then a curl of smoke wove toward the ceiling. “My mother died when I was seven. After, my father raised me.”

“I am sorry.”

He shrugged. “’Twas a long time ago.”

Mayhap, but by the stiffness of his action, the memory haunted him. “When did your father die?”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Several months ago in an English dungeon.”

She looked away. That explained his dislike of the English. By rights, she would expect him to shun her country like the plague. So why had he volunteered to escort her? “I am sorry.”

 

Giric caught the wash of sadness on Sarra’s face before she turned away. “’Tis done,” he said, touched by her sincerity. His father’s death was nae the lass’s fault, but until this moment, had he nae condemned all of the English, with the exception of his sister’s husband? A man who served King Edward, but a man whom he admired.

Disturbed that she’d breached the anger he’d clung to since his father’s death, he tossed the stick into the flames and watched it burn.

Ashes to ashes. He grimaced. As if she could make a difference in his life? She was betrothed to Lord Sinclair. “Last spring, Ravenmoor Castle, a Scottish stronghold, was attacked and claimed by King Edward,” Giric started, finding a need to make her understand. “The English king installed one of his knights, Sir Renaud, as castellan. A brutal man, Sir Renaud brandished his contempt for the border Scots. His law consisted of using cruelty to control the neighboring lands.” He paused, the upsetting memories all too clear. “Outraged, our clan chose to fight against his tyranny instead of losing our freedom.”

She turned.

The understanding in her eyes made him ache. How many years had passed since he’d wished to seek comfort in a woman’s arms? “’Twas in one of our attacks against Ravenmoor Castle,” he continued, nae daring to allow his mind to wander further down this path, “that my father became mortally wounded by a bolt to his chest.” He exhaled. “But fate wouldna allow him a kind death. He lay rotting in Ravenmoor’s dungeon until he expelled his last breath.”

Ashamed, Giric looked away. Locked within the cramped quarters of the dungeon, wrapped in the stench of death and fear, he’d been a coward to nae end his father’s suffering. Instead, he’d watched his life slip away, his body cruelly caught in the throes of agony.

“You witnessed your father’s death?”

The raw dismay of her words had him looking over, and his throat tightened with a fierce ache. He nodded, and her face shattered into deep sorrow.

And within this moment he sensed a kinship with Sarra. Only someone who had survived a personal tragedy could truly grasp the heartbreak of another.

Her understanding of his loss unveiled another layer he’d never expected. He’d thought himself a good judge of character. He’d pegged her as a cold and haughty heiress, but at each turn the woman he thought he knew transformed into someone almost elusive.

Intrigued by puzzles, he realized that he knew little of this complex lass. Who was this woman who harbored her doubts beneath a shield of defiance?

“How did you escape?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“In an attempt to help our clan locked within the dungeon to escape, my sister, Elizabet, dressed as a lad and played the part of a squire to the new castellan of Ravenmoor Castle.”

Disbelief spilled over her face. “She dressed as a boy?”

“Aye.” Memories of his sister’s exploits, the audacity of her daring rescue, shocked him even now. “Sir Renaud died in battle, and a new castellan, Sir Nicholas, replaced him.”

Sarra leaned forward. “How did she set you free?”

“She didna. Sir Nicholas did along with releasing the rest of my clan.”

Her brow dipped with confusion. “The new castellan?”

He nodded, proud of his sister’s spirit. “You need to know my sister to understand that only she could make a muddle of it and come out smelling like heather.”

Sarra’s face softened. “Your sister sounds wonderful.”

“Aye, Sir Nicholas thought the same. They were married several months ago.” At her expression of disbelief, he held up his hand. “’Tis Elizabet’s way, I assure you.” Sarra’s soft laughter sent a shaft of pleasure through him, and he joined in.

If a year prior someone had told him that he would allow his sister to wed a blasted Englishman, he would have cursed them to Hades. Looking back, his pigheaded sister’s love for Nicholas, a man he trusted and respected as if his own brother, was her destiny. As his laughter fell away, the burdens of rough travel and the tension of being chased faded. A sense of contentment settled over him that he’d nae felt for years.

Sarra’s eyes danced with intrigued delight. “So now your sister lives in Ravenmoor Castle with a dreaded
Sassenach.
”

“Ouch, lass,” he replied, intrigued she’d used the unflattering slang for an Englishman. “’Tis about the truth of it.”

Her smile fell away. Somber, she stared at him. “And now you are saddled with a cold English heiress.”

“Nay,” he said, finding truth in his words. “I would nae be thinking that.”

Her eyes watched him with a tender yearning, and he saw it then, along with the pain of past memories, her vulnerability.

Shaken, Giric stood, well aware of where an intimate situation like this could lead. “’Tis late.”

She hesitated as if she had something else to say. With a nod, she ran her hand over her gown hanging nearby. “’Tis still damp.”

He gestured toward the woolen cover folded at the end of the bed. “Use the blanket this night.”

She frowned. “What about you?”

“I will be up for a while yet.”

The questions, the quiet yearning simmering in her gray eyes tied a knot in his chest. “Be off with you now.”

 

Sarra hesitated, and then walked to the bed. Hay crunched as she lay upon the sturdy but worn pallet. Stretching out, she tried to settle down for the night, but the fact that Giric’s sister had married an English knight stuck in her mind. It would be easier to dismiss him if his family held no connections to the English. But they did, and at a great personal cost.

She pulled the coarse blanket up to her chin. That he could set aside his resentment toward the English and accept his sister’s decision to marry his adversary left her confused.

Though Giric had witnessed his father’s death in an English dungeon, somehow he’d found the forgiveness to embrace an English knight into his family. Yet, he made little bones about his aversion toward the rest of the English—which included her.

And why should he?

Sadness slid through her. What right did she have to feel regret for his decision to accept the man his sister chose to love? He’d made a choice that she’d never contemplated as an option, to forgive a people who by rights he should hate. Didn’t that make her guilty of snobbery if not more?