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  She turned so quickly she slammed into his brother.

  Terric froze. He’d tried not to watch her, and Rory, at the evening meal. He’d tried not to glower as his brother made her laugh. But as Rory’s arms wrapped around Roysa’s shoulders to keep her from falling, he could not shake an ugly thought from his mind.

  Of Isobel. And her disappointment that Terric was not his brother.

  Roysa stepped back quickly, and Terric’s shoulders slumped in relief. He chastised himself for acting a fool, but he could no sooner have stopped the thought than he could stop the upcoming battle.

  “You’ve guests,” Rory said.

  “My father?” Roysa asked.

  While it was true Stanton should have returned by now, he could tell from Rory’s expression the visitor was someone else entirely.

  Someone unexpected. Which could be very good or very bad.

  “A Lord Berkshire, according to your steward. His men are still beyond the gates. He is eager to speak with you.”

  “Berkshire?” The name was not a familiar one.

  Terric looked at Roysa, who seemed embarrassed to have been caught alone with him. He hoped she wasn’t worried about the rumors. Terric could give a shite about what anyone said about them, and besides, his brother was unlikely to gossip.

  “Do you know of him?” he asked her.

  She frowned. “A border lord, I believe. But I know nothing other than the name.”

  “Pardon me,” he said, walking past her and trying not to inhale. But temptation got the better of him, as it often did with her. He stopped just beyond her, the scent of citrus blossoms familiar and pleasing.

  He knew it was foolish—it certainly wouldn’t help him keep his distance until this was done—but he couldn’t leave without touching her. He simply couldn’t.

  “I will be just a moment,” he told Rory, who nodded and left them.

  Alone.

  Hauling her against him, Terric lost himself in Roysa’s lips. She opened for him, and he did not hesitate. He used his mouth, his tongue, to tell her what he could not.

  He loved this woman with a ferocity that made him reckless.

  Pulling away, Terric continued toward the hall without looking back.

  Saint Rosalina indeed.

  “Welcome to Dromsley Castle.” Terric ushered the stranger into his solar, flanked by Lance, Rory, and Gilbert. The man had given up his sword without complaint, but they were all still a bit wary. With good reason. Their visitor had refused to explain his visit to any save Terric.

  “I would have waited till morn,” Berkshire said as he entered the room, “but fear there is no time.”

  The man’s tone gave Terric pause. As did his late-night arrival.

  “Sit,” he said, nodding to the chambermaid, who had brought ale in behind them. She moved to Berkshire, extending her hands to take his mantle.

  When he removed it, Terric stared at the man’s chest in shock.

  “Brother?” Rory’s concern was evident.

  But Terric did not respond. Instead, he shifted his gaze up to the newcomer’s face. “You.”

  The man had not attempted to hide the coat of arms on his surcoat, which was the only reason Terric had not drawn his weapon. The man could have easily taken it off before coming here.

  “Terric?” Lance sensed his unease and moved toward him.

  “Explain. Now.”

  As he spoke, the others fell in around him. Rory, Lance, Gilbert. All knew instinctively Berkshire was some sort of threat.

  “I mean no harm. Would not be here, alone, if I did.”

  Terric suspected that was the case, but he still needed answers. Catching Rory’s eye, he explained, “He was at the bridge. With Ulster.”

  The others did not react quite as calmly as Terric had. Rory drew his sword, and he wasn’t alone—Lance appeared ready to cut the man’s throat.

  “You’d best explain,” Terric said in a slow, spiritless tone. If the man valued his life, he would do so. And quickly.

  “I am but a minor baron. My land borders Lord Ulster’s. I was imprisoned by the king at the time of your order’s meeting for refusing to pay this latest wave of taxes.”

  “And you found yourself fighting alongside him despite it?” Lance asked.

  Berkshire was about the age his father would have been had he lived. His eyes were thoughtful, and they never left Terric’s.

  “When I learned he was bringing men to Dromsley, I knew it was my opportunity to fight back.”

  Terric thought of the moment just after Ulster’s men first spotted the smoke. When Berkshire had leaned down to speak with the other lord.

  “You told him to set me free.”

  Berkshire’s lips flattened. “Convinced him it would be cowardly to do otherwise. I assured him we were not afraid of one man.”

  “Why did you refuse to pay the king’s taxes?” Rory obviously did not trust the newcomer, and Terric didn’t blame him. The situation was unusual, to say the least.

  The baron didn’t flinch at Rory’s harsh tone, another mark in his favor. “My only son was killed in Bouvines,” he said, his eyes filling with grief and anger as he spoke of his son.

  The chamber went silent. Only the sound of crackling wood could be heard, the mood shifting immediately from suspicion to acceptance. The Battle of Bouvines had been the turning point for the order. The crushing French victory in a battle none but John had wanted had been the catalyst for their rebellion.

  “Did Ulster not suspect? Surely he knew of your loss and the imprisonment. Why would any man stand with his king, rather than against him, after that?”

  Lord Berkshire raised his chin. “That I agreed to fight against you, and the others, was the only reason the king set me free.”

  That managed to surprise everyone present. “So it is true,” Gilbert said. “King John commands these forces against us while he delays meeting with us.”

  “A meeting he does not intend to hold,” Lance said angrily.

  “Aye,” Berkshire confirmed. “He could be sending men from the west and south as well. His reticence to share details with his barons makes me believe he attempts to do both—prepare for war and give the appearance of cooperation.”

  Terric had suspected as much. “Whatever happens at Dromsley . . . whether ’tis a decisive victory or a defeat, he will claim ’tis a local dispute. Insist he planned on meeting with the rebels all along.”

  “Aye,” Berkshire said again. “You are correct.” He smiled for the first time. “I’d not expected that delay. The bridge. Nor had Ulster. My men pulled away from Ulster in the night just two days ago. He will likely be here on the morrow.”

  Terric and Lance exchanged a glance.

  “My men are ready to fight with you,” Berkshire said. “Give me your orders.”

  Terric said nothing.

  After some time, his brother finally prodded him.

  “Terric? We must wake the others. What are your orders?”

  Now that he had come to the moment of truth, he felt almost . . . unsure, something unusual for him. They had a better chance of winning the battle now more than ever, but was that the right move?

  Or should they declare a siege, giving John exactly what he hoped for? Was his need for vengeance against King Henry, and now his son, swaying him toward the wrong decision?

  “I need a moment to think.”

  “The men are ready,” he heard Gilbert say as all four men filed out of the solar chamber. “For battle or for a siege. We are ready. You only need say the word.”

  A good man, that.

  Then they were all gone, and silence fell. Terric was left alone with a decision that might very well break them.

  He dropped his hands in his head.

  Chapter 31

  When the door creaked open, Terric expected his brother or Lance. Instead, Cait stood in the doorway, looking as she often did, somehow both vulnerable and fiercely determined.

  “No wine here,”
he said, rising to pour her a mug of ale. “Apologies.”

  Cait took the mug from him. “Hosting guests has never been your strength.”

  Terric resumed his seat in front of the hearth. “I am as much a guest as you. This is your home too.”

  “I’d not have guessed as much from your reception.”

  Terric knew better than to answer. He had been a tad short with her, but he hated that she was here, in danger. He hated that Roysa and Idalia were in danger too. But thinking of them would not help him make a decision. One that was needed. Now.

  “We can discuss that another time, perhaps.”

  Cait lifted her mug and then drank. “Perhaps,” she repeated.

  “You spoke with Rory.”

  By now, he assumed, the news had gotten around. Battle. Siege. Whichever he chose, none would get any sleep this night.

  “Aye.”

  Cait never did anything without cause. If she’d come here, especially given the circumstances, she had something to say.

  “Go on, lass.”

  But his sister said nothing. Instead, she sat opposite him, scrutinizing him in her usual manner. Cait’s silent perusal was infamous among them—it had even made their father nervous. But they all knew there was little choice but to bear it.

  As stubborn as all of the Kennaughs, she would speak when ready, and not a moment before.

  He braced for it even while considering his next course of action.

  “Your advisors push for a siege,” she commented at last.

  “Some do, aye.”

  “Yet you prepare for battle.”

  “I do.”

  “Is that not risky?”

  Over the past weeks, he’d explained his strategy many times to many people, but he would happily do so again if Cait were interested to hear it. She typically did not care for talk of strategy or war.

  “Mayhap. Though I suspect it would be more dangerous for us to allow John to claim any sort of victory at this important juncture.”

  “How would a siege be a victory for the king?”

  He took a large swig of ale and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “While we sit here, doing nothing, he will point to the north as evidence of his power. Of how he has crippled two of the order’s members and one of the most heavily fortified holdings in the north. Dromsley will be used as evidence of his continued strength. We cannot lose support now that our demands have been made.”

  Cait mimicked his posture. Never mind that she wore a gown.

  Mother would likely faint if she could see Cait at this moment. Nay, she’d likely already fainted upon learning his sister had effectively snuck out of the castle to join Rory.

  “Or Dromsley Castle holds out, as we know it will, while the others continue fighting the rebellion’s cause. The king claims this small victory but loses the greater battle, as nothing much matters other than his agreement to meet and sign that document you all prepared.”

  “So some believe.”

  It was unlike Cait to disagree with him for the sake of it. She’d always been more apt to do so with Rory. For that reason, Terric listened. “Go on.”

  “You are simply too stubborn to realize, in this instance, you are wrong. Although I suspect part of you does know—’tis why you sit in here, hesitating to give the order.”

  Cait never raised her voice, but it had the might of an army of thousands—something that imbued her every word with deeper meaning. It had always been that way.

  “Your refusal to allow John this temporary victory jeopardizes your men.”

  “Cait,” he warned.

  “As well as Roysa.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, and closed it again. One did not win an argument with Cait. The only way to emerge victorious with her was to stop engaging.

  “She loves you.”

  The only problem with that particular solution . . .

  “Continue to push her away, and you very well may prove successful.”

  Was that Cait would never relent.

  “You’ve no obligation to me,” she said so softly Terric almost missed it. “Nor mother.”

  “Cait,” he warned again, “I’ve serious matters to consider.”

  “Aye, you do. And this is one of them.”

  Cait stood, placing her now-empty mug onto the table more gingerly than her mood would reflect.

  “The king’s father took our home once. And his man tried to take my innocence.”

  Pain at the back of his throat prevented him from answering. It was as if his tongue had suddenly swelled at her words.

  “And because of it, you’ve become this.” She waved her hand at him. “The strongest, most honorable man I know. A chief. An earl. A good son. And a brother that I’ve missed dearly these past months.”

  She walked toward him, extending her hand.

  “But it is enough. You are enough.”

  He stood and took it. Tears welled in his eyes like unwanted guests he could only get rid of after entertaining them for longer than he wished. She wrapped her arms around his waist, but still he stood rigid—until he heard the sound of her crying.

  Terric had not even cried when they’d buried his father, a man he’d loved above all others. But he did now.

  “I couldn’t protect you,” he whispered.

  “You were a boy. And you did protect me, Terric. It does not matter that you were not alone.”

  He hardly heard her words. Terric could remember the way the man, the soldier, had knocked him down with one push. His shoulder had been bruised and sore for days.

  He’d been useless, worse than useless. But Conrad and the others had saved her.

  “You owe me nothing more than what you’ve already done, brother. Can you hear me?”

  I hear you.

  She pulled away, wiping her face with both hands and sniffling.

  “Why are you here, Cait? In England.” He didn’t ask it because he was angry anymore, or because he was worried for her safety, although he was. He asked because maybe now that she’d stripped him bare, his secretive sister would do the same.

  “I will tell you, someday. As you said, you’ve grave matters to consider. But please think on what I’ve said.”

  The pleading in her eyes reached that dark, hidden part of his soul that he’d always refused to acknowledge. One which assured him that he was never enough—that he’d failed her and can never make up for it.

  He could do that much for his sister. He could question himself—he could admit that he might be wrong.

  “I will do so. Now”—he stood back—“tell the others I will be down to the hall soon. Either way, an announcement must be made.”

  “The hall was already filling when I left it.”

  “Good.”

  Cait’s smile reminded him of their mother more and more.

  She left without another word, and Terric refilled his mug and sat in the chair she’d just vacated. The advice she’d just given him swirled around in his head, along with that of his advisors. Terric was not too stubborn to acknowledge that his marshal, his captain, and the others who advised him had more experience than he did. Their input was useful. But every time he thought of John celebrating the decapitation of his northern rebellion, if only temporarily, rage boiled from his gut upward until it threatened to strangle him.

  In the end, there was only one decision he could make.

  Chapter 32

  “’Tis odd to be in the hall and not at a meal,” Idalia said to Roysa. They sat side by side in the hall, along with Lance and Rory. They were not at the dais but beside it. The dais itself had been cleared of all furnishings and awaited, as did the rest of them, for Terric to appear.

  “There’s Cait,” her sister said.

  Winding her way through the waiting crowd of men, English and Scottish, Cait finally sidled up to them. Other than a brief glance, she said nothing.

  Roysa suspected she’d been to see Terric.

  Terric
, who’d kissed Roysa. Who’d rejected her. Who was alone in his solar, making a decision that would affect every single person in the hall. What a heavy responsibility he faced.

  “Are you scared?” Idalia whispered.

  She should be. But she trusted him to do what was right. “Nay. Are you?”

  Idalia nodded.

  Lance must have heard her because Roysa saw him grab her hand. She couldn’t hear what he said to her, but Roysa was thankful he was there to comfort her.

  “My father has gone to battle many times,” she said to Cait, who’d approached their table. “Every time, he returned. I have to believe they’ll prevail.”

  “There will not be a battle.”

  Roysa startled.

  “Dromsley Castle will declare a siege.”

  “They will?” The news surprised her. “But I thought Terric was opposed to a siege?”

  Cait glanced at the others and then tugged on her sleeve. Roysa understood what that meant—she knew something but was not yet ready to share it with everyone—and so she followed her away from the table.

  “To my brother, a siege is a victory for the king.”

  “Of sorts.”

  “Aye,” Cait agreed. “To Terric, there can be nothing worse.”

  “Than to be bested by a king he hates.”

  “Aye.” Cait looked toward the hall’s entrance. “He’s waited a lifetime to get revenge.”

  Roysa looked into Cait’s honey-brown eyes. “He has good reason to want it.”

  Cait did not disagree. “But some things are more important than revenge.”

  “You’re not worried the order’s supporters will defect if there’s a siege?”

  “Lance does not believe they will. But I don’t speak of the rebellion.”

  Roysa blinked as her friend’s meaning dawned on her. Cait was a smart woman who knew her brother well. She had been right to believe he still lived. But in this, she was wrong. Terric did not believe he could have both his rebellion, his revenge, and Roysa—and so he’d walked away from her. Terric cared for her. Desired her.

  It had not been enough. Although he’d claimed he still wanted to court her, slowly, she knew what that meant. If he wished to wait for peace, she’d become an old woman waiting. He’d kissed her, aye, and what a kiss it had been . . . but she suspected that kiss had changed nothing.