The Bruised Thistle (The Order of the Scottish Thistle) (2 page)

Seumas looked up as the two newcomers entered the hall. Frigid air swept across the room with their arrival, but it was not the cold that caught his attention—the large, wooden door opposite the great hearth had opened numerous times since dusk as peasants sought shelter from the suddenly plummeting temperatures. Something about them tugged at him. Their lack of grumbling, perhaps? Or the timid way they moved amongst the rabble? Either way, he seemed to be the only one who took an interest. Glancing at the other soldiers he sat with, he was not surprised they had noticed nothing.

“Ta hell ye did, Miguel! Dere were only five av dem!” The Irishman’s indignant retort echoed across the hall. Patrick, always ready to argue, was instigating yet another fight. The bench Seumas shared with the burly man tipped unsteadily as he stood.

“’Tis the truth.” Miguel responded to the insult with as much heat. Though he remained seated, he moved his hand to the dagger at his waist. “You had already turned tail and run.”

Seumas shook his head and lifted his gaze heavenward. His patience with these men was gone. “Do ye need to get on like this every night?”

“Ye don’t care for our company?” Patrick’s bloodshot eyes did not appear to focus as he turned his anger on Seumas, his face a little too close. “Bugger off, den!”

As the leader of these men, Seumas knew what power he wielded over them. They knew it, too, but that did not change how they acted. “Methinks not.” Seumas lifted the mug to his mouth, his eyebrows raised in expectation as he held the man’s glare.

Patrick stumbled backward onto the bench. Seumas caught him before he fell against the wall. “Why are ye such an arse, Seumas? Have ye not got anywhere else to do yer carousing?”

The man was a son of a bitch to be sure. “Nae, Patrick, I have nowhere else to go. Now settle yerself down.”

It was true enough. He had believed he would eventually get over what he had been through in Edessa and stop hating himself. Then he would go home. But he had played the wait-and-see game too long. Now his father was dead, and Seumas had even more reason to hate himself.

Needing a diversion from his troubled mind, Seumas searched the crowd again for the two. The hard frost had come too soon, finding many unprepared, and the Great Hall was cramped with villagers and peasants. Nevertheless, he soon spotted them. Covered with grime, from the hoods obscuring their faces to their cloth-wrapped feet, they blended well enough with the others in the hall, but they had a certain bearing that did not match their outward appearance. They did not shy away or shuffle their feet. The one who led the way, the smaller of the two, had a surprisingly noble posture but hesitated the slightest bit before joining the ever-increasing crowd by the fire. Interesting.

He was intrigued by their presence, but, for their sakes, he hoped he was the only one. The people at this castle were as cruel as their overlord, Lord Bryon. Any who did not belong, no matter the circumstances, would be cast out without a moment’s hesitation. There would be no mercy, even in freezing weather.

Patrick slammed his cup on the table emphatically as he told his next story, the earlier argument already forgotten. The other men at the table were enraptured by the tale, but Seumas ignored it, intent on his study. The bitter mead dribbled down his chin as he took a deep swallow, and he traced his lower lip with his tongue.

They had their heads down and turned away from the room now, but were not cowering at all. Sitting up straighter, Seumas realized they were trying to avoid being noticed.

“Right, Seumas?” Patrick slapped him on the back as spittle came out with his words. “Damn beauty that one, right?”

Seumas exhaled in irritation. He had not been listening, but he nodded to keep from being drawn into the conversation.

“Not that ye could do anything about it.” The man burst into laughter at his own joke. “But do not worry yerself, Seumas. I took care of her. I gave her what she wanted, since ye could not.”

Seumas tensed at the insult, giving the Irishman his full attention as he turned toward him, jaw clenched. Patrick was clearly too drunk to notice that the others had grown ominously quiet. Seumas slammed his fist against the thick wooden table. The Irishman locked eyes with him, and his laughter stopped abruptly. The tin cup rolling along the edge of the table was the only sound. It landed with a dull thud on the rushes covering the floor, and perspiration broke out on Patrick’s brow. He was very unwise indeed to let his tongue loose every time he drank, and he had the crooked nose and missing teeth to show for it.

The blond man across the table took up the retelling. “You might have taken care of her, Patrick, but was she pleased with what you gave her?”

The rest of the men laughed nervously. Uncertain glances came Seumas’s way as he struggled to accept the intervention and let the insult pass.

“I would say ye have the right of it, David.” Seumas’s voice was tight. He appreciated the man stepping in, but he should not have let it get this far in the first place. He had to control himself. He was their leader not because he had earned their respect, but because Lord Bryon thought it humorous to put “God’s soldier” in charge of his pack of mercenaries, and because Seumas had no other prospects. From being a man with integrity and beliefs to a man with no self-respect was a mighty fall. He had to consciously release his clenched fist.

Seumas returned his gaze to the others milling in front of the fire—some sitting, some lying down, all trying to keep warm. The dark-haired woman who had grabbed his crotch last night smiled at him, but he looked right through her. She had been hoping to share his bed, but she had been sorely disappointed, and would be again. Carnal pleasure did not interest him. He had received a wound in the siege of Damascus, and his body no longer became aroused. As such, he neither needed nor wanted female companionship. There was some relief in having his mind in agreement with his body.

A disturbance by the fire startled him back to the present.

“Get your damn dog out of here, Robbie, and do not come back to the heat of the fire until you do.” A squat, gray-haired woman smacked the boy’s ear as she yelled at him.

“It’s too cold, Mum. He keeps slipping back in.” Robbie dragged the mangy canine to the wooden door that led outside.

The leader of the newcomers—a young boy, Seumas thought—seemed to freeze in place as he too witnessed the encounter. The lad stiffened, appearing affronted by the treatment of the stable boy. Like a chivalrous knight, he reacted as if he might actually come to Robbie’s defense. The person behind the lad gave him a none-too-gentle shove. When the little knight glanced back, Seumas caught a glimpse of his filthy, childish face. It was indeed a boy and not anyone he recognized. As he suspected, these two were not from the area.

The second person remained a mystery of uncertain sex and age. Though there was something about the way he moved and the protective hold the little knight had on his arm. Seumas stroked his beard. It could be a female, but the big cloak effectively hid any sign.

They were pushing through the mob to get closer to the fire when the little knight dropped out of sight. He had tripped over Perceval, the mute who lived beneath the bridge leading to the castle. He was a mean one, and the jab he gave the boy was intended to do harm. The little knight grimaced.

Seumas moved in quickly before a brawl broke out.

Without a word, he pulled the little knight out of harm’s way. He kept his eye on Perceval. “Now that is no way to act.”

The frantic hand gestures said it all. His mouth flapped of complaints and mistreatment without a sound while the little knight looked on, darting fearful looks between them. Perceval’s eyes had dark circles and his cheeks were sunken from lack of food.

“Methinks there is something for ye somewhere else,” Seumas said. When he moved closer to whisper to him, the smell of urine and feces was overpowering. “Go see Fran. Ye know Fran?”

Perceval’s eyes brightened and he bobbed his head, recognizing the cook’s name. He leaned in to hear Seumas.

“She is holding some sweet cakes for me, and I want ye to get them.”

The boy’s face fell—he no doubt thought he would have to give the morsels up to Seumas.

“But I do not want them. Ye eat them.”

Perceval did not hesitate. He bolted toward the kitchen door.

“Now then.” Seumas turned toward the little knight, still in his grasp. The mystery companion held back, well hidden. “What have we here?”

“I did not do anything to him.” The boy’s eyes were wide and round. “I got tripped up and fell. That is all.”

“Aye. And yet…I see that ye do not belong here.” Better to let the boy know upfront he had been found out.

The little knight caught himself as he started turning to his mysterious companion. “I do, m’lord.” He tipped his head emphatically, a convincing liar.

Impressed by the act, Seumas smiled at him and included his companion when he spoke. “Stay to the right side of the fire. That is where the young’uns sleep. Ye will be safe there unless they realize ye do not belong...then out ye go. Hear me?”

The little knight nodded.

Seumas glanced at the boy’s companion, but the shadowed face turned away. The dirt-encrusted cloak covered him—or her—from head to toe, but the long fingers gripping the edges of the cloak together were just visible. They were also decidedly feminine.

Seumas smiled and returned to his men.

Someone was watching her. Iseabail woke instantly. Wedged between Calum and the wall, she feigned sleep, keeping her breathing steady though her body tensed. Through half-closed eyes, she scanned the hall. The crackling fire silhouetted Calum’s slumped form. He had turned away in his sleep. The overpowering stench of unwashed bodies gave her a strange sense of belonging after being alone in the woods for so long—she probably stank as much as they. The sounds of snoring and breathing surrounded her.

The men carousing earlier could no longer be heard. They had been well in their cups, so no doubt they were either passed out or had staggered to their beds. Female laughter and low, muffled voices drifted to her from the stairs. Or had they found female companionship? She shuddered. They were mercenaries—hard men who did as they pleased and answered to no one. When she passed the group earlier, she had averted her eyes, hoping to avoid their notice. If Calum had not tripped, they would have been ignored. Now she had unwanted attention.

The draft on her leg was her only warning.

Someone clamped a hand onto her bare ankle. She opened her mouth but no sound came out; her gasp froze in her throat. She had been discovered. If Calum were older she could have called for his help, but she did not want him to get hurt trying to defend her. As usual, she was left unprotected.

Her attacker slid a calloused hand up her leg. Fear quickened her breath. He caressed her calf before grabbing on to pull her away from Calum. She bit into her lip and clawed at the ground as she fought against being dragged further. Her assailant’s throaty chuckle reminded her of her uncle’s, and panic overwhelmed her senses.

I will not be used again.

Determined, she thrashed and rolled, trying to turn onto her back. He bent to grab her legs at the knees, grunting with the effort. The noise made her sick. Her gown slid further up her thighs, and his low sound of carnal appreciation echoed in her head. On her stomach with her ankles held against either side of her attacker, she could not have felt more vulnerable. Or angry. She twisted and pulled, finally wresting one leg free. She tucked her knee to her chest and kicked as hard as she could, connecting with the man’s tender area. Hope blazed through her. He groaned and dropped her legs abruptly. Her knees hit the ground with a painful thud, and she pressed her lips tightly together to muffle the hiss of pain.

Finding herself released, she pulled her tattered gown over her legs and dragged herself into a sitting position. The unmoving body of a chunky male lay at her feet. She looked up to find a large man with pitch black hair standing there, the leather-wrapped hilt of his dagger visible in his clenched fist. The smear of blood on the silver pommel where he’d knocked out her assailant marked this man as her defender. His dark blue eyes narrowed in concentration as he searched her face. He was also the man who had threatened Calum earlier.

“So ye
are
a lass.” He spoke in hushed tones, his soft Scottish brogue sweet to her ear. Alas this was not her clansman but one of the mercenaries. He wiped the pommel on his leg before placing it back into its bejeweled sheath at his belt and crossing his arms in front of him. Motioning to the body that lay unconscious between them, he added, “I would say I was not the only one who figured it out.”

How? She was always being mistaken for a boy at home… Well, maybe not so much of late. But she had been covered from head to toe with the blanket that lay crumpled behind her. It must have slipped off in her sleep. As if reading her mind, the Scot retrieved the blanket.

“Thank you for your assistance.” She blanched at the stupidity of her own words, but nothing else seemed appropriate. She just wanted him to go away.

His eyes were intense before he looked down. “Ye were doing well on yer own, I would say.”

She followed his gaze. It was quite gratifying to see her attacker still holding his private parts, though the goose egg on his head was clearly the blow that had stopped the assault. Her satisfied smile evaporated, however, when she noticed the Scot eyeing her suspiciously.

“Still, I am in your debt.” Her smile froze on her lips. Admitting to a mercenary that you owed them was not the smartest course of action.

His eyes brightened, but she sensed a smirk hidden in that thick, dark beard. “Are ye now? Weel then, tell me what ye are about. I would say ye are not in yer usual sleeping place.”

Her heart raced as he hunkered down beside her, his face so close she could see the laugh lines around his eyes. His low voice resonated through her, and he held her gaze.

He stroked his heavy beard before he spoke again. “Ye have chosen a bad place to rest yerself,
if
that is all ye had in mind. Ye have put yerself in harm’s way.”

She glanced toward the tables, where a few of the mercenaries mumbled and shifted in their sleep. “How, pray tell, have we put ourselves in harm’s way?”

“Pray tell, is it?”

Iseabail covered her irritation with herself with a shake of her head. Pray tell was not a term a peasant used. He was making her feel very defensive.

“I told yer friend,” the man pointed at Calum, his eyebrows raised in question, “brother, perhaps? I told him to stay to the
right
of the fire.” He rolled his ‘r’s as he spoke.

“We are to the right…” Iseabail stopped herself just short of doing the same. She and Calum were trying to blend in with the local peasants seeking refuge from the cold. It would not do to give herself away as a Scot. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Had he heard her slip?

“Ye are not!” His voice had become very forceful, and Iseabail’s breath caught in her throat. He glanced around and lowered his voice. “This is the very spot where the women sleep who are looking for a warm bed to share.”

He raised his furrowed brows as if expecting some sort of response. An apology? She knew they should never have tried to come in from the cold. The woods were the only safe place. Tears threatened, tightening her throat. She would not show her weakness.

She dipped her head and pushed to standing. He was a little too close, and she stood a little too fast. Her head slammed into his hard chin, nearly making her lose her balance. He grabbed her with strong hands, righting her. His firm touch sent heat through her body.

Iseabail jerked away from him. The warmth remained, unsettling her as it made its way into her belly. His bright blue eyes were clear, and his hands hovered just above her arms as if about to touch her again. He looked her up and down as if seeing her for the first time. Her pulse started to race, anticipating his touch.

He glanced at Calum before he spoke again. “I do not suppose ye are?”

His voice was quieter, reassuring. As a hired soldier, this man held authority here and had every right to throw her and Calum back out into the cold, but she did not believe he would. What had he asked her? Was she in her usual sleeping place? No, for that was a soft bed in her father’s castle...

The warmth found its way into her head, turning her thoughts to mush. She fought to clear her mind and think rationally. His expectant look was playing havoc with her innards, but was it fear or that singeing heat? However, when his hands dropped back to his side, there was no mistaking her disappointment. What was she thinking? She needed to protect her family, and this man seemed to be a threat. Underestimating their uncle’s need for revenge when they had escaped was her first mistake. She could not make another. If there were any chance she could make him believe she belonged in the castle, she had to take it.

“Aye, I am.” She tried to sound as forceful as she dared despite the look of disbelief that spread across his face. Had there been disappointment as well? Now why would that be?

A cloud seemed to pass over his face, shifting his disbelief to a beaming smile that showed off the dimple in his right cheek. He now looked quite pleased with himself, and Iseabail feared that did not bode well for her at all.