Shana Abe (2 page)

A part of him registered that Alister was surprisingly slender in his arms, though he wouldn’t stop struggling long enough for Roland to handle him gently. Instead he crushed the boy into him with sheer force of muscle, turning the boy’s head until Alister’s ear was by his lips.

“Listen to me,” he whispered urgently. “Stop fighting! There are guards everywhere, you know that! Don’t be a fool!”

It seemed that his words had some impact after all, for suddenly Alister grew still, his breathing ragged and muffled beneath Roland’s palm. The boy’s heartbeat thudded heavily against the arm Roland had pinned to his chest; he could feel the faint trembling shaking the slight body. One less cautious
would assume it was fear making him shake so. But Roland was quite certain this young man knew no fear of him.

It was fury shaking Alister, plain and clear. Pure fury.

Interesting, that the weight of the form in his arms was not so heavy as he had expected. Curious, the softness of the shape he held pressed to him. Not like a boy at all, not even a young one.…

“Ah,” said Roland.

The puzzle fell into place with sudden clarity. He took his hand from the thief’s mouth and pulled off the black hood.

He released her as her hair tumbled free past her shoulders, a glorious sight even in the murky light. It was red, he noted distantly, not the reddish orange of just about every Scotsman he had met, nothing ordinary like that, but a deep, rich red. More like the color of a fox, Roland thought. A gorgeous, furious fox.

There was a penalty to be paid for his bemused distraction. He saw her arm pull back just before she punched him in the jaw, snapping his head to the right. He took a step backward, cradling his chin.

“Ah,” Roland Strathmore, Earl of Lorlreau, said again. “Lady Kyla, I take it. How delightful to meet you at last.”

Chapter One

SCOTLAND MARCH 1117

A
rainbow danced across the smooth expanse of thick paper, turning the flat vellum into a moving spectrum of colors, sharpening the inky black of the letters written upon it.

“Alister, do stop,” said Kyla Warwick absently, trying to make sense of the lines scrawled there.

“I can tell you what it says,” said her younger brother, turning the crystal prism he held up to the sunlight. “I heard Uncle Malcolm speaking about it. He was quite loud.”

The rainbow paused and trembled on the paper, transforming the particular word Kyla was studying to bright violet. Even without the color, this word stood out from all the rest.

“Strathmore,” she said under her breath. “Lord Roland Strathmore. Earl of Lorlreau. How interesting.”

Kyla cupped her chin in her palm and stared past the errant sunbeam that stole through the gloomy parlor. The view from the window in front of her showed only a moderately clear day, a handful of thatched huts with shuttered doors, half the slope of a hillside covered in green, and misty purple-and-white peaks in the distance.

The idyllic scene was more striking for what it did not show than what it did. She could see nothing of the trouble haunting the edges of her window view There were no English soldiers surrounding the manor. None of the serfs of
her uncle’s estate walked about on their daily business. The hillside was deceptively peaceful, only an idle wisp of smoke curling up from a hut betraying the presence of people at all.

Kyla knew, however, that the soldiers were out there, making their plans, and the serfs were inside, sharpening their harvest tools, of all things, to meet them.

“You haven’t thanked me yet for pinching the letter.” Alister held the prism closer to the desk, turning it until the rainbow flitted like a fantasy butterfly across the profile of his sister. Without looking at him she reached out a hand and pushed his to the side, so the brilliant light slid over her and back onto the paper.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She read the name again, then sighed, tracing the uneven corners of the note with her fingers, as if to feel for some hidden meaning she might have missed. Alister put the crystal down on the desk and touched her arm tentatively.

“Don’t worry, Kyla. We won’t let him get you.”

She looked at the freckled face of her only living family member. He was so young still, only twelve, much too young for the sharp anxiety that hovered behind his blue eyes.

“I am not worried, Alister. I am merely thinking.”

“I won’t let him get you,” he repeated.

“Nay, I know,” she said. “I am far more likely to go after him.”

Alister dropped his hand from her arm, caught halfway between the manly desire to comfort and the childish urge to hide in her arms. She watched him struggle to maintain the man, but it was so hard to see that she smiled over her fears and grabbed his hand. “I know you would protect me. You have done such an excellent job of it so far. It cannot be easy looking out for me, I’m always in some sort of trouble or another.”

“No,” Alister replied seriously. “You’re actually quite good. You’ve only just been in trouble recently.”

Now she really smiled and took him into her arms,
hugging him tight, willing him to be a little boy for just a bit longer. “And you have kept me sane throughout. What would I do without you?”

Immediately she regretted the words, knowing what they would remind him of, feeling him stiffen in her embrace. She held him tighter, searching for the right thing to say to hide her blunder.

“You won’t be without me,” Alister said, very still. “You’ll always be here, won’t you?”

“Aye, my love, I always will. Never fear.”

She wanted to add more to comfort him, she wanted to erase the memories she had inadvertently brought forth, but she couldn’t think of what more to say. The pain rose in her throat, blocking any further words.

Their gentle mother, murdered. Their beloved father, dead a few weeks after, despite how hard Kyla had tried to keep him alive. It was now her responsibility to protect her brother. She was the elder by six years. She was the one who had led them to Scotland during the harrowing winter without being caught, but this disastrous chase had stretched them both so thin she could barely think straight any longer.

She was going to end it, no matter the cost. And the letter from Roland Strathmore had given her the means to do it.

“You won’t die,” Alister said, fierce. He wrapped his arms around her neck and squeezed. “Not you, Kyla. I’ll save you.”

She nodded into his neck.

On the desk the prism was suddenly lit with a blinding spark that fell just in her eye. That was the only reason she was crying.

“
O
ut of the question.”

Malcolm MacAlister, the dour result of generations of Scottish pride, brushed past his niece without a second glance. He was on his way to a meeting with his steward and the leader of the village men to address the matter of the note
from Strathmore that had been delivered early this morning. Kyla kept his pace.

“Uncle, hear me out.”

“Enough. I am busy, Kyla.”

The narrow corridors of the manor house prevented her from walking beside her uncle, but did not stop her from dogging his steps. They were almost to the end of the hallway, and then he would disappear behind the doors of his study and she would be powerless. She had to make him listen before that.

“Please,” she said, holding her skirts in both hands to keep up. “Please. Let me see him. Let me hear what Strathmore has to say—”

Malcolm rounded on her suddenly, both of them stopping short. “And how did you happen to learn of the missive, dear Kyla?” His hazel eyes gleamed down at her. “It was not meant for you. This is men’s work.”

“I beg to differ, Uncle. It was
addressed
to me. I believe that makes it my work.”

Malcolm shook his head. “You think you know what you say, but you’re only a woman. You know nothing of war and death. You could not possibly understand what is at stake here. I will handle this.”

This bald proclamation startled her, then fueled the anger blooming inside her. “I
am
a woman, as you say, and I know naught of war, but plenty of death. I have seen enough to last me forever. I do not want to see more, not when I could prevent it.”

“You! You can’t prevent it! What, think you that you hold some magical key to unlock the hearts of the English? Think you that you can see into the minds of these men who have sought for centuries to conquer our family? Foolish chit, you have seen the message he sent. Can you not recognize a ruse when it’s in front of your nose?”

“What if it isn’t a ruse? What if Lord Strathmore would actually leave us be if I went to him? Can you take that risk?”

The message came back to her vividly. The words were surely etched in her mind for all time:

She had not needed the rest of his title to discern his identity. Roland Strathmore, King Henry’s own Hound of Hell, so he was named, had bothered to write her personally to end the nightmare she was now living. The fact that he was her ex-betrothed might or might not have influenced the personal effort he had made to contact her. She didn’t really care. All she knew was that she couldn’t allow this opportunity to slip through her fingers.

“Of course it is a ruse. The mere fact that you would question that makes clear the weakness of your thoughts.” Malcolm paused, giving her his full attention. “I do not doubt you mean well, Kyla. I do not doubt your heart is set on goodness. But you cannot trust a beast. These English are no better than beasts, believe me.”

“Nay.” She faced him calmly, trying to force reason into her tone. “I have heard Strathmore has honor. If he sent the note, then he must have the means and the mind to meet his condition.”

“Fool,” said her uncle flatly. “It is Strathmore who gave the command to attack us not yet an hour past. The soldiers are coming even now. Will you still trust him?”

Without giving her time to answer he walked off, slamming the door to the study behind him.

Kyla stared at it open-mouthed, absorbing what she had just heard. Could it be true? Was the letter nothing more than a lie from the servant of Henry, after all?

Were the soldiers coming?

No. She refused to believe it. It would be too ugly to end her hopes like this, not after she had determined that the sacrifice of herself was such a small price to pay for the security of Alister, and her father’s good name.

Conner Warwick, Baron Rosemead, had once assured his daughter that the man she had never before met but would spend the rest of her life with—the Earl of Lorlreau—was an honorable one. And Kyla knew her father would not lie to appease her. Conner had valued honesty too much for that. He would have asked the king to break off the betrothal if he thought for a moment Kyla would be harmed by it. And she knew Henry had liked her father enough to do it, had he asked.

Aye, Conner had been popular with all who knew him, a big bear of a man who bestowed smiles and astute advice with equal friendliness. Even the sober king was not immune to his constant good humor and keen observations.

It must have been so, Kyla often thought, for her father spent more time at Henry’s court than at their own manor house not three days’ ride away. The king needed him, Conner would explain sadly to her mother, the patient Helaine, who would comfort him with gentle pats and kisses, then send him back to Henry in London.

Perhaps that had been her weakness, Kyla thought now, heading blindly back to the living quarters; perhaps her mother had been too kind in letting her husband always go bowing to the whims of the sovereign. Perhaps if she had only shown a little irritation with Henry’s repeated demands upon Conner’s time. Surely he would have attempted to stay at home with her more.