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  “I do not know how, or where, it began. Mayhap the day he sat you next to him? Or when we spoke a bit too loudly in the hall.”

  Roysa froze.

  She knew how the rumor had started. Or rather, with whom—the young maid who so clearly admired Terric. Once, the maid’s loose tongue might have angered her. But she only cared about Terric and all the people who were out there risking their lives for the order.

  “It matters not. He will be back soon and—” Idalia took her hand. “I should not have been so hesitant with my approval. He is a man fully grown. As are you.”

  “I am a fully grown man?”

  “Shush. Lance and I worry for you. He’s known Terric much longer than I have.”

  “It will all be over soon,” she said, wondering if hoping would make it so.

  Idalia stood to leave, and she did the same. “Aye. Terric’s plan is good. It will work.”

  Roysa held a single candle in front of her as they walked back toward the hall, moving further and further away from that lovely window and the memories it elicited.

  “It will,” Roysa agreed.

  It will be over soon.

  She’d said the words in an attempt to convince herself they were true, not because she actually believed them. But as they reached the entrance to the hall, she saw something that made her gasp.

  Could it be?

  “Terric?”

  It was too soon. Much too soon. But he was there, speaking to Lance.

  Roysa hiked up her gown and ran to him.

  Chapter 26

  Terric rode with his hands held high into the air. Even still, he knew the danger. All it would take was for one overly excited knight to unleash a rain of arrows on his head. The advance had slowed, at least. Which meant he was already achieving his goal.

  They were far enough away from the bridge, the terrain uneven, that only the thickest of smoke could be seen at this distance. So long as James acted quickly, he doubted any of the opposing force would know what had happened until it was too late. His enemy now was time. Time, and the scout who’d undoubtedly been sent ahead. He did not see one but had no doubt they would have used one.

  “Terric Kennaugh,” he shouted, likely too far away to be heard. Despite his training, Terric’s heart pounded in his chest as it did every time he went into battle. Taking a deep breath, he started again. “Terric Kennaugh, chief of Clan Kennaugh, Earl of Dromsley. I’ve come to treat with Lords Ulster and Langham.”

  One of the two men at the front of the group held up an arm. He estimated no less than two hundred men rode behind them, but all went silent at the gesture.

  “You are a long way from Dromsley, my lord.”

  Terric could not see the man’s face. All of the leaders were helmed. But judging from the way he held himself, Terric guessed he was an older man. Ulster, by his guess.

  “Here to persuade you to turn back, Lord Ulster.”

  The man’s hesitation meant Terric had been correct. “Here? An unlikely location for a negotiation, would you not agree?”

  If the man guessed Terric was plotting something, he might send a man ahead. The scout would catch James, and they’d no doubt both be killed.

  So much could go wrong, but he had no choice but to keep pushing forward.

  “May I approach?”

  There was a pause. Ulster leaned over to the man next to him—Langham?—and then straightened. The mere thought that this could be the man that had sent Roysa running to Dromsley for her life made him murderous.

  “Without your sword.”

  Terric had expected the request but liked it not at all. Without his weapon, he was powerless.

  Nay, not completely. I still have my wits.

  Slowly drawing the sword at his side, Terric tossed it to the ground, thankful his father’s sword was home, in the hands of his twin brother.

  Riding closer, ever so slowly, Terric stopped just in front of the leaders. None of them removed their helms.

  “You march on Dromsley,” he said boldly.

  “We march against your rebellion.” That, from the man next to Ulster.

  “Lord Langham?” he guessed. When the two men laughed, Terric reassessed the situation. If this was not Langham’s banner, whose was it? He’d not seen it before, and from years of fighting at the Tournament of the North, Terric could name as many English coats of arms as he could Scottish plaids.

  “Why are you here?”

  He paused for as long as possible.

  Hurry, James.

  “I’ve no wish for a siege,” he said, still watching Ulster’s companion.

  “You propose a battle, then?” the man asked.

  “Nay,” he said, with another pause. “I propose peace.”

  More laughter.

  “Peace? By undermining King John’s rule? But then, you are hardly an English earl, are you, Chief?” Ulster said.

  Terric’s grip tightened on his reins.

  “I am a member of the Order of the Broken Blade. My country of origin bears no significance. Dromsley Castle is English. My earldom, English. Your king oversteps and will answer for it.”

  If he’d hoped to anger the men, and those behind him, Terric had done a fine job of it. They all spoke at once until Ulster demanded silence.

  “I despise a traitor,” Ulster shouted, clearly incensed.

  “I despise a coward who hides under his armor.”

  Praise the saints. James, get it done.

  Neither Ulster nor his companions took the bait.

  “Your order will be crushed,” Ulster scoffed. “Your rebellion with it. Go back and defend your earldom if you are so able. Our discussion is over. We will even allow you to leave.”

  Unfortunately, I cannot do that as of yet.

  As much as Terric would have enjoyed gathering his sword and living this day, he knew he had not given James enough time.

  “I demand for the others’ identities to be announced.”

  “You demand?”

  They laughed again.

  The men’s horses began to dance under them. The archers and crossbowmen all held their hands on their weapons. He could never outrun so many.

  “You may demand whatever you please,” Ulster said, “but you will receive little. Allow us to pass, or we will go through you, Scotsman.”

  They needed more time.

  “Is that you, Langham?” he shouted. The man’s hand moved to his sword.

  Terric attempted to do the same, which was when he remembered he no longer had a sword. Nor did he have any allies to rush forward to help him.

  He stood alone against a retinue of two hundred men, his only ally a boy who had, if he were lucky, burned down the damn bridge.

  Chapter 27

  Not Terric.

  How was that possible?

  Roysa could not stop staring at the newcomer who stood in the entryway to the hall. It was rude, of course. But . . .

  “You are not Terric.”

  He looked at her, and for one brief moment, Roysa thought she was asleep. Dreaming. How was this possible?

  There was only one way.

  “You are his brother.”

  Terric had not told her he was a twin.

  “Rory Kennaugh of Bradon Moor,” Lance introduced him, much to the steward’s consternation. Abruptly realizing his mistake, Lance stepped aside, moving toward Idalia.

  “Rory,” she murmured in wonder.

  “Do not fret,” came a female voice from behind him. “Rory is accustomed to ladies being disappointed he is not Terric.”

  A sharp pain gripped her in the chest. The woman who’d said the words was stunning, and although she hated herself for feeling jealous of a stranger, she couldn’t deny she did.

  Until she noticed the woman’s long, dark eyebrows, her deep brown eyes.

  Oh . . .

  “Lady Cait, why are you here?” the marshal asked, clearly shocked as he took in the growing party of newcomers just outside the hall.
r />   Cait. Terric’s sister. She and Rory had arrived with his clansmen.

  “Your clansmen have come to Dromsley.” She said what everyone, save Idalia perhaps, already knew.

  “My lord will not be pleased.” Gilbert shook his head. “He will not be pleased at all.”

  She tended to agree. Terric would not be pleased by the fact that Cait had traveled here at such a time.

  Everyone started to speak at once, creating a confusing melee, and Roysa took a step back so she could think. Terric had said his brother planned to send men once the weather broke. But that had only just happened, which meant they must have left sooner. Why? They couldn’t have heard the latest rumors about the northern border lords loyal to John.

  A familiar voice caused her to snap to attention. “Gone? My brother has gone, alone?”

  Rory even sounded like his brother.

  “We should speak privately,” Lance said.

  Roysa dearly wanted to be there when they did, but she had no real place here. It wasn’t her right to insist on anything.

  Rory agreed, reluctantly following the others toward the solar. She nudged Idalia away, seeing her expression of pity that she would not be joining them. “Go,” she urged. “I will speak to you after.”

  As men continued to filter into the hall, the steward led them away.

  “We’ve not been properly introduced.”

  Lady Cait.

  Roysa hadn’t noticed she’d hung back.

  “Lady Roysa, daughter of the 3rd Earl of Stanton and sister to Lady Idalia.” She nodded toward her sister’s disappearing shape. “I believe you know her husband—Lord Tuleen, Lance Wayland of Marwood.”

  Lady Cait pulled down the hood of her mantle, and Roysa resisted staring. It was a difficult task. Terric’s sister had a face so lovely one could stare at it for hours. Her hair was brown, with just a hint of auburn, and her wide eyes were honey brown. But there was something behind them . . .

  “I believe the others are gathering in the solar chamber,” she said.

  Terric’s sister did not move.

  Silence held between them for a moment before Lady Cait said, “They talk of battles and sieges. I would refresh myself first.”

  Roysa understood. When she’d first arrived at Dromsley, she’d been desperate for sleep. Such a long, difficult journey was draining.

  “Of course. Although . . .” She peered around her, looking for the steward. “I do not know this castle well enough to know where you will be installed.”

  When Lady Cait smiled, Roysa felt the power of it—it reminded her of Terric, the way his smile always gleamed in his eyes.

  “Anywhere we might sit for a moment will do.”

  That, Roysa could manage. Taking off her mantle, revealing a vibrant green riding gown similar to one Roysa’s mother had helped her sew, Lady Cait handed it to a maidservant.

  She led Lady Cait to the very spot where she’d sat with her own sister earlier. The delight on her face assured Roysa that she had not seen it before. If Terric had spent little time here growing up, Cait had spent even less.

  “Such a large window. And so much light.” Lady Cait closed her eyes as if the velvet cushioned seat were the queen’s throne. “My backside thanks you,” she said, opening her eyes at last.

  “So will you tell me. About my brother?”

  “Of course.” Roysa watched as Lady Cait stripped off her leather gloves. “You know of the order?”

  Cait rubbed her hands together. “Lance and Guy . . . and Conrad.” She sighed. “I know it well.”

  Of course she did. They had met because of her.

  “And of their mission?”

  “I do.”

  They could see all the way to the stairwell, of course, and only bedchambers lay in the other direction. Roysa felt comfortable to speak freely.

  “John agreed to treat with them, but not until spring. They’ve since heard rumors that the men who remain loyal to the king are moving against the men who signed the charter.”

  “Including Terric?” Lady Cait asked softly.

  “Beginning with him, it would seem, as a symbol of the Northern rebellion on one of the order’s members.”

  “And somehow my brother devised a way to delay the conflict and put himself in danger?”

  Roysa thought it a remarkably accurate account of what had happened.

  “Aye. He felt a siege would only bolster John’s support. After learning the king’s men here in the north move against Dromsley”—she lowered her voice, to be safe—“he rode out to burn down a bridge. One that would delay those marching against us.”

  “Alone?”

  “With one man. He trusted no one with the mission, save Lance, who remains here at Terric’s insistence.”

  Roysa thought the news might upset Lady Cait, but she took it with remarkable calm.

  “When is he due back?”

  Roysa knew the answer, to the hour. She’d thought of little else in the interim. “In two days’ time.”

  “And your relationship with Terric?”

  Roysa hadn’t been expecting such a direct question from the soft-spoken woman.

  “I . . .” She was unsure how to answer that. “I am unsure.”

  “But you do love him?”

  She’d been looking out the window, but that comment drew her eyes to Lady Cait’s.

  Love.

  Idalia loved Lance, surely. But they were the exception, were they not? She had asked her mother if she truly loved their father. If it was possible to love a man you’d been forced to marry. She had said it was, and she did. But she’d said it with a sadness in her eyes. There were different types of love, it seemed, and the love one might grow to feel for an arranged partner was not the same as love freely given.

  Love was such a strange beast. A frightening one.

  “I am not sure your brother is capable of it,” she said.

  “I asked for your feelings, not Terric’s. But I can understand if you would prefer not to share them with me. After all, we’ve just met.”

  But she heard the message beyond the words. Lady Cait still wished for her answer—she waited for it.

  Would she approve of her brother courting a lady so recently widowed? An Englishwoman, no less.

  Roysa wanted to answer, but found she could not.

  “Thank you for answering me, Lady Roysa.”

  “But I did not give you an answer.”

  “You did. And it pleases me well.”

  Chapter 28

  Terric was dead.

  He should have returned over a fortnight ago, but they’d heard nothing of or from him since James had returned to tell them he’d managed to burn the bridge—only Terric had been on the other side, facing an army. Each day was worse than the last. She knew she had little cause to grieve alongside his siblings. Or Lance, who had known him for over ten years. Or the people of Dromsley, who’d adored the son as much as they had the father.

  She was no one, really.

  But if she’d doubted her feelings before, she doubted them no longer.

  When Langham had informed her of Walter’s death, she’d felt nothing. Regret for a failed marriage. Sadness at the loss of a life, even if he had wronged her. But certainly not this all-encompassing sense of despair she felt from the moment she woke until her eyes finally closed for the night.

  “Cait is asking for you,” Idalia prodded, attempting to coax her out of bed.

  How did she do it? Terric’s sister amazed her each day. She knew how much Cait was struggling as well. To get dressed. To eat. To prepare for the upcoming battle. And yet she did it, without complaint. While Roysa could not even lift her head from the pillow.

  She knew what it meant—she was the worst sort of person, whereas Cait was strong. Capable. She knew that, and yet it was simply too much to abide.

  “I cannot.”

  “You must. She needs you, Roysa.”

  “Needs me?” Her voice rose higher with each word.
“She no more needs me than you do any longer. I am nothing to her. To him.”

  Oh God, he was gone.

  Roysa covered her face and willed her sister to leave. She simply wanted to go back to sleep. To forget.

  “Aye, she needs you. How can you not see it?”

  Roysa stared into the dark depths of her hands. Too much light streamed in from between her fingers, so she buried her face in the pillow.

  “She’s not seen him for nearly a year. You are her closest tie to him right now. It comforts her to speak about Terric with you . . . Roysa? Roysa?”

  She had not cried after her wedding night, when Walter had so cruelly taken her maidenhead. Some of the pain could have been avoided, she knew from servants’ gossip, if he had only given a damn. Roysa hadn’t cried after any of his casual dismissals, or his painful, unpleasurable visits to her bedchamber.

  Nor had she cried upon learning of his death. Or his infidelity.

  She had not cried after hearing James’s tale about the bridge, although the horror and grief had stricken her, changed her.

  Suddenly, it felt like all those tears she hadn’t spilled had welled up inside her, stored in her chest. They gushed out of her with the force of a raging river, and she sobbed in her sister’s arms.

  She’d tried so hard to make it right. For her sisters. For her parents. Her father. Even for Walter. But it did not matter. None of what she did mattered. Roysa was nothing but a widow who had fallen in love too soon and paid the price for her folly.

  “He’s dead.”

  Idalia said nothing. She may have rubbed her back, but Roysa couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t feel anything but pain.

  Vaguely, she heard Idalia say, “We do not know . . .”

  But they did, didn’t they? Where else could he be? What else could have become of him?

  Roysa didn’t stop crying for a long, long time. She had never cried so hard, or for so long, in her life. When Idalia handed her a handkerchief, she took it. Tried to stop. To gain control over herself.

  But she couldn’t even control herself. She’d been naïve to think she could control anything—all she’d ever achieved was the appearance of it. Terric had seen that. And instead of helping him realize he suffered from the same affliction, Roysa had let him go.