True Love Brides 02 - The Highlander’s Curse (6 page)

“I can only hope,” Andrew acknowledged. It was most unlikely that the squire would return in time to help Orson back into his saddle.

Orson clearly reached the same conclusion. He seized the reins of Andrew’s destrier, his eyes narrowing as he prepared to force his seniority upon the younger knight.

Andrew nearly winced. If Orson asked outright, would it be folly to decline? He knew a refusal to be of assistance would not be received well and braced himself against Orson’s temper.

He did not dare to loose his own, even to defend himself.

He was saved by Percy’s shout.

“My lord!” the boy cried. “My lord, I have found it!”

Orson’s astonishment was complete. “What have you found, Percy?”

“A wolf pelt, sir.” Percy stumbled out of the forest, his hair disheveled and dirt on his clothes. His face, however, was lit with relief. “A beautiful wolf pelt, stretched and cured, all silver grey with black tips. It is huge, sir, and luxuriantly thick. I should think a lady might believe it a fine gift.”

Orson smiled, his gaze dancing over the forest on either side of the road. His distaste for the region was clear. “A perfect gift for a bride in these parts. Well done, Percy! Bring it quickly.”

The boy faltered for only a moment, his surprise at the unusual praise more than evident, then disappeared back into the forest again.

Andrew was skeptical about the quality of the pelt, for he could not believe any soul would abandon such a prize. But the pelt proved to be every bit as magnificent as the boy had claimed. Indeed, it was the finest Andrew had ever seen.

And it was familiar.

The sight of it put a cold weight in Andrew’s belly, though he hid every sign of his reaction from his fellows.

Who had committed this travesty? Andrew would ensure that whoever had killed this wolf paid a high price.

Meanwhile Orson smiled as he fingered the luxuriant pelt, the sight of his fingers in the fur enough to sicken Andrew. He knew the other knight would not only give the pelt to the lady, but concoct a tale of his own valor to accompany it.

“We should agree, Andrew, upon how many wolves we have killed upon this journey,” Orson said. “It would not do for our tallies to differ when the tale is told.”

“Three,” Andrew suggested impulsively, not really caring about the detail. Perhaps the hunter was at Seton Manor, for there were not many holdings in this vicinity. If Orson took the pelt and presented it as his own kill, the true hunter might argue the matter with him.

Orson considered Andrew’s suggestion, then nodded. “Three. It is a fine number. Not so many that we appear rapacious; not so few that we appear incapable. I took this one, and the female he defended. You took the male who came to his aid. That one was mangy and the female was small, so we did not keep their pelts.” He flicked Andrew a cool glance. “The tale will travel from one sister to the other, upon that you can rely.” He whistled and Percy fell to his knees before him, creating a mounting block with his body. Orson ascended to his saddle, as regally as a king.

Orson wagged a finger at Andrew. “I shall show you, my friend, how the most can be made of an opportunity seized.”

Andrew made no comment upon that.

It was a fine Sunday, although there was no sunlight in Annelise’s heart. It had been two weeks since she had met the hunter in the woods, two weeks since he had failed to come to the hall, and she had not managed to drive him from her thoughts.

Much less his sweet kiss.

Her nightmare of the wolf continued each and every night, leaving her awake and terrified in the dark. Some nights, she was snared in the dream until she died. Others, she managed to awaken at the beginning of the attack. The hunter never came to her rescue in these nightmares, and Annelise feared the portent of that.

But the white wolf appeared in each dream and always it wept.

It was most odd. Annelise had never experienced a recurring dream before, and she wondered at its meaning. She would have felt foolish asking Isabella, for her younger sister was both busy and pragmatic. If she had confided in any of her sisters, it would have been Elizabeth, for Elizabeth could see the Fae and was inclined to be less skeptical of matters not easily explained. But Elizabeth remained at Kinfairlie.

Annelise thought that revisiting the glade might have been the next best choice, albeit in daylight and not alone. She wished to see if there was any trace either of the white wolf from her dream or the hunter whose kiss still heated her skin. But that was impossible. Once Murdoch had heard the tale of the wolf, he had forbidden either Annelise or Isabella to leave the enclosure of Seton Manor.

After a fortnight of such close quarters, Annelise felt trapped.

She lingered in the chapel after the others left the morning service and said an extra prayer for the hunter.

She decided he must have a good reason for not keeping his pledge to her. Perhaps he had tracked a second wolf, and it was one not so readily defeated. Perhaps it had led him far from Seton Manor. He was the manner of man to willingly undertake a noble quest, she was certain of it, and one who would not be swayed from his objective by temptation.

Was temptation all she had offered?

Annelise wanted to be so much more. Had he already forgotten her? Annelise could not bear the thought, although she imagined a man of such handsome appearance would have known many fascinating women.

She rose from her knees when her prayer was done, brushed off her skirts and made to return to the hall. She did not even reach the threshold of the chapel before Isabella flung open the door and peered around it. Her sister’s eyes were alight with some tidings and Annelise immediately feared that another suitor had come to dine.

She could not bear it. She knew that Murdoch was disappointed in her shyness, but it was not within her to charm men at will.

Isabella surprised her. “Your admirer has finally arrived!”

Annelise’s feet seemed to become fixed to the floor. Her heart stopped then raced as she was filled with a mix of fear and anticipation.

“I do not understand,” she said, as calmly as she could. She could not bear to be teased by her sister, not about this.

“The hunter!”

“How can you be certain?”

Isabella stepped fully into the chapel and pulled her hands from behind her back. Annelise gasped when Isabella revealed that she held a wolf pelt.

Annelise ran to her and seized the pelt, not caring if Isabella teased her for her enthusiasm. It was a beautiful pelt, the fur thick and wrought of a thousand shades of silver and pewter. It had been cured by someone who knew how to do such deeds, for there was no scent to it. She remembered that afternoon all too clearly, the spark of hunger in the creature’s eyes and her relief when it had fallen dead. There had been blood, but there was none on the pelt.

Was it from the same wolf? Was it from
him
? It was as large as the wolf she remembered, that much was certain. She turned the pelt in her excitement, her fingers sinking into its luxurious softness. Her heart stopped when she saw that the fur was darker at the head and the legs.

The same wolf.

“He is here!” she whispered and pushed past Isabella. She heard Isabella laughing at her, but did not care. Her footsteps flew as she raced out of the chapel and across the small courtyard in the core of Seton village. Seton Manor did not have a full bailey, but there was a yard near the stables and Annelise heard voices there. She ran toward the sound, the timbre of men’s voices becoming clearer as she approached.

Murdoch glanced up when Annelise raced around the corner and came to a sudden halt. A smile touched his lips and Annelise knew she must look disheveled. Two men stood before him, both in chain mail, and an unfamiliar squire was leading a large bay destrier into the stable. The shorter man still held the reins of his destrier. The third horse, a palfrey, drank from the barrel of water kept for the horses while its reins dangled loose.

But this was all wrong. Annelise halted in confusion.

These men were
knights
.

Her hunter had worn a kilt. He was no knight, though his valor was not in question.

More than that, her hunter had been taller than either of these men, and broader of shoulder. His hair had been dark blond and his skin tanned, while these men both had dark hair. The taller one, who seemed more senior, had chestnut hair, while the shorter had hair as black as ebony. Annelise clutched the wolf pelt in her uncertainty.

Where was her hunter? Knights did not run errands for woodsmen.

How had these men gotten the pelt?

And why had they brought it to her?

The two knights turned to face her, the taller one bowing deeply. “Fair Annelise. How enchanting to meet you.” He stepped forward and claimed her hand, bestowing a kiss upon its back as Annelise watched in silence. He was handsome enough, but there was something about him that Annelise intuitively disliked. He smiled at her with a confidence in his own allure that made her eyes narrow. “I trust you like my gift.”

She frowned, pretending to be confused. “Gift?”

He looked pointedly at the pelt. “Which you have received.”

“You brought this?”

“Of course. A tribute to your beauty, a wolf slaughtered by my own hand.” He arched a brow, even as anger rose within Annelise. “It is evidence of both my valor and my intentions.” He bowed again. “We battled three such fearsome creatures, Andrew and I…”

Annelise took a step back, fighting to keep her tone polite. “But I do not know you.”

The knight chuckled, even though she had interrupted his tale. “Not so well as you will, my fair maiden, that much is certain.” He reached for her hand again. Annelise locked her fingers in the pelt, evading his touch, and saw the flash of irritation in his eyes. Then he smiled, as if all was well, but Annelise noted the tightness around the corners of his mouth. Here was a man accustomed to winning his way, one who did not like to be declined.

Yet she, meek Annelise, would defy him until her dying breath.

He bowed deeply. “Orson Douglas at your service, my lady.”

Annelise indicated the pelt. “Where did you get this?” she asked, knowing she was being rude but needing to hear the fullness of this rogue’s lie.

“I have told you already.”

“Tell me again, if you please.” Annelise was aware that both Murdoch and the other knight were watching her closely, but she did not care.

Orson straightened and his smile turned chilly. “I scraped it from the hide of the monster himself, of course. After I killed him.”

Annelise was outraged. This knight lied! He stood in Murdoch’s courtyard, a guest of the holding, and lied to her very face. It was a violation of his vows, of Murdoch’s hospitality, and of every trait that made a suitor desirable. It was audacious and appalling—and disgusted Annelise.

She knew who had killed this wolf. She would wager that she knew who had cured the hide. The pelt had been stolen from her hunter.

Maybe he had been killed for it. Annelise would not put such an act beyond the abilities of this knight. She took a step back and saw again the anger light in his gaze. She would die alone before she accepted the offer of a man like this.

But Annelise doubted that Orson would readily accept her refusal.

“I do not believe it,” she said, lifting her chin.

The knight inhaled sharply at the implication. His squire developed a fascination with the tending of the horses and the other knight watched Annelise closely.

“Orson has ridden far to court you, Annelise,” Murdoch said, a warning in his tone.

“How very kind,” Annelise said, lifting her chin. “I am sorry, but I am not convinced of your tale. I saw this wolf killed and I know you did not do the deed.”

Color rose on Orson’s neck. “And who did strike the blow, my lady Annelise?”

“I do not know his name. A hunter.”

“A nameless hunter.” Orson chuckled, his disbelief in her word vexing Annelise. “And where might I meet this mysterious man?”

Annelise found herself flushing. “I have not seen him again.”

“And perhaps never will,” Murdoch interrupted smoothly. “Perhaps you should forget this hunter who no one has seen but you, Annelise, and thank Orson for his gift.”

Isabella had confided in Annelise that Murdoch thought the hunter a fiction, but Annelise had never expected him to challenge her on it. “He is real!” she insisted, but Murdoch only smiled tightly.

“And Orson is here.”

Annelise looked between the intent knight and her host, and knew she was not believed. “I fear I am not well, sir,” she said to Orson. “If you will excuse me.”

Orson looked as if he might not do so. Annelise did not wait to hear his protest, but marched into the hall, hearing Murdoch make apologies for her behavior. The knights laughed, as if much amused by the folly of women, and Annelise’s anger grew yet more. How could any soul believe she could wed a man who lied to her and discredited her own word so readily? She took the stairs two at a time, showing unladylike haste, then retreated to her chamber. She slammed the door behind herself and locked it, her heart thundering at her boldness.