The Scot Page 2

Idalia would roll her eyes if she ever said such a thing in her presence. Her sister had always been more practical—Roysa was known for being dramatic, or so their mother had always said. Tilly was the baby of the family, still at home with their parents.

  Oh, she needed her family. She needed Idalia. Besides which, the thought of continuing on to Stanton, her parents’ home, with her two unwilling guards was unconscionable. Although the men had not touched her—thank God for that—they hadn’t been pleasant companions. She didn’t wish to spend several more days and nights in their company.

  They approached the gatehouse just before dusk. Roysa hoped the earl, a Scotsman according to her sister, was not as intimidating as his fortress. Concentric and surrounded by a water-filled moat, its inner walls were higher than the outer ones they’d just passed. The four towers, two hugging the sides of the gatehouse and two more at its back corners, looked even taller than the ones at Stanton.

  Impressive.

  “Dismount and present,” one of the guards demanded from above in the tower. Her companions did as they’d been requested. She looked between the two, wondering why they did not take exception to the man’s tone.

  He’d sneered at them as if they were enemies and barked the orders more forcefully than her husband had ordered her to undress.

  “I am Lady Roysa, daughter of the third earl of Stanton.” She deliberately left any association with Walter out of her name.

  “Dismount,” the guard repeated.

  She heeded the order this time, feeling rather out of sorts, but as soon as her boots stepped onto the ground, she realized she was too close to the horse’s hindquarters. Either the animal sensed her disquiet or it was merely uncomfortable after the very long journey, for it kicked out, startling everyone present. Another of the castle guards rushed forward, drawing his sword.

  Whatever he had intended, all he accomplished was startling the already-skittish horse.

  Roysa hurried away from the horse, but the mare shied away from the guard, charging toward her. She dove out of the way, only to slip on the snow-covered ground, her heel catching an errant rock just before she felt her head hit, hard.

  Everything went black.

  Roysa opened her eyes, the cold creeping up her back.

  “Are you injured, my lady?”

  She attempted to focus. When she did, Roysa realized it was the surly guard from earlier who addressed her. He sounded almost . . . kind.

  “Aye,” she snapped, prompting all four men, the guards and her escorts, to look at her as if she were daft. Standing, waving off a hand of assistance, she wondered what prompted the change.

  “Her sister will not be pleased,” one of the guards said to the other.

  How long had she been on the ground? Roysa’s hand flew to her hair, and although it had become a tangled mass, it did not appear anything else was amiss. No lump. She looked at her hand. No blood.

  Still, she’d apparently been on the ground long enough for them to learn she was, indeed, Idalia’s sister.

  “She is still here?” Roysa managed. Approaching her now-calm horse, she ran her hand over her flank, attempting to soothe her frayed nerves.

  Her head ached. Despite the heavy mantle, every bit of her felt frozen. Numb. She just wanted to get inside the keep—so long as her sister was actually in there. The men were now speaking among themselves, steadfastly ignoring her.

  “Is Lady Idalia still here?” she repeated.

  The sound of horses approaching from beyond the gates caught her attention, and she realized the portcullis was open.

  Still, the men ignored her.

  She thought of her husband sitting at the head table, thankfully giving more attention to the serving maid than he did his new wife. His harsh commands. His casual cruelty. And then there was everything she’d suffered since learning of his death. She’d stood before his brother, his murderer, wondering if she might be murdered too. She’d renounced her marital rights. And then she’d spent the last several days in this awful cold.

  Something inside of her snapped.

  Roysa hardly ever yelled. But right now, she wanted . . . needed these men to hear her.

  “I am cold. And wet. My best gown is ruined”—which was, of course, beside the point, but even so . . . “And you refuse to answer a simple question,” she screamed, the sound foreign to her ears. “Where is my sister?”

  Her throat actually hurt by the time she was finished. But Roysa felt immeasurably better.

  And still, neither her escorts nor the guards answered. Their attention, it seemed, had been commanded by someone else. All four of them were staring at an absolutely massive man who’d just ridden through the gates.

  The man looked down at her from atop his equally huge horse. His frown was disapproving and judgmental.

  “She is inside, my lady.”

  Roysa disliked him immediately, despite his good looks.

  Her father had always said men were either as honorable or as vile as their lord. The guards’ boorishness made sense to her now, as this was most definitely the earl.

  “Very good,” she snapped, finished with rude men for the day.

  “Very good indeed,” he fairly growled, his voice low and firm. Aye, the earl. No man sat that confidently or spoke that assuredly without an equally lofty title. “Welcome to Dromsley Castle.”

  Chapter 4

  “A storm seems to be brewing,” Lance said. He looked toward the hall’s entrance, presumably for his wife.

  Who was currently upstairs with the woman who’d just stormed into his castle as if she owned it. He could hardly believe the two women were related. Although he and his brother were different enough—Terric, their sister said, was the more rigid of the two—they had as many similarities as they did differences. But he’d seen none of Idalia’s warmth and kindness in her imperious sister.

  Though she had all of her beauty, and more even. His immediate response, attraction, appealed even less than the woman herself.

  Of course, Lance wasn’t speaking about that kind of storm. He was speaking of a snowstorm. One that would again delay the arrival of his men from Scotland.

  “If John does attack come spring, we need those men,” Lance continued.

  It was a conversation they’d had many times over the winter.

  “Rory should have sent them months ago,” Terric said.

  Even so, Terric did not feel keen to discuss his brother. As chief, he could have ordered Rory to do his bidding. Instead, he’d asked for his brother’s counsel—and his brother had argued they’d do best to wait for some reaction from John. If he sent the men too soon, Rory had argued, they would be away too long from Bradon Moor. Except the weather refused to turn to spring, and now those men might arrive too late.

  In his heart, he knew his brother did not wish to put the men in danger for a war that was not his own. Neither did he, in truth, but nor could he risk losing his mother’s English holding, along with all the men and women who lived there. Nor could he risk the order’s mission.

  “You did the right thing.” Lance did not seem capable of looking away from the entrance. Nearly a hundred men sat below them, eating and drinking, the steady murmur of voices oddly comforting, but Lance did not seem to see anything but the stone archway opposite them. Ah, he would indeed miss the pair of them. “If Rory is to lead in your absence, he must be allowed to do so.”

  “Aye,” Terric agreed, “but not at the expense of holding Dromsley.”

  “’Tis done,” he said, lifting his mug and taking a long swig. “Now, we can only wait out the storm.”

  A flash of blue finally appeared in the archway, signaling that one storm, at least, was upon them.

  When his men had come for him earlier to apprise him of some trouble at the gate, the last thing he’d expected was the arrival of Idalia’s elder sister. And yet, the sight of her now surprised him even more than that initial shock.

  Certainly he’d noticed she was a beautiful woman
before, not surprising given her sister, but this woman was . . .

  Regal, that was the only word that fit. She looked like a lovely queen—beautiful and untouchable. Her hair was a shade darker than Idalia’s, brown like his own. Chin held high, she wore an unusual headpiece, a single jewel falling onto her forehead. Gold and green to match her belt. Her attire was so different from Idalia’s simple gown, though both were the same shade of blue.

  Even more beautiful than Isobel.

  “Terric.” Lance cleared his throat.

  He’d been staring.

  They stood as both women stepped onto the dais.

  The sister, a woman who cared for fine gowns. And titles, no doubt. But a damned beautiful one all the same.

  “Idalia. Lady Roysa,” he greeted them. Why the sister had come without her husband, let alone in the bitter cold of March, Terric neither knew nor cared. She was the sort of woman he despised. Haughty. Entitled. A woman to be endured.

  Thankfully, she sat on the other side of her sister, well away from him.

  “We apologize for our tardiness,” Idalia said, sitting.

  “Understandable given the circumstances,” Lance offered. Very well, he could act the gracious host this evening. Terric would just as soon turn his attention to the ale in front of him.

  “Lady Roysa—” Lance began, although the lady in question cut him off.

  “Roysa, if you will. We are brother and sister, after all.”

  Never had a voice so matched a person’s countenance before. Deep, strong. Throaty.

  “Roysa, then. But only if you will use my given name as well. Though I’m glad to meet you, the circumstances are . . .”

  He didn’t seem inclined to finish, so Terric did it for him. “Unfortunate.”

  Lance shot him a look of surprise, but it was Idalia who spoke. “Terric?”

  Her tone was so like his mother’s—the rebuke implicit—it nearly made him smile.

  But not quite.

  “For my lady,” he recovered. “To be forced to travel in such conditions.”

  The look Lady Roysa gave him was not one he’d ever seen from her sister. She leaned forward over the trencher that had been placed in front of her.

  “I am sorry for nearly being trampled at your main gate, my lord.”

  Her emphasis on that last word made him cringe. Aye, haughty indeed.

  “It did seem to be a spirited”—he paused apurpose—“animal.”

  When Lady Roysa gasped, Terric forced his expression to remain neutral.

  “Are you referring to me?” she asked.

  He could admire her forthrightness, if nothing else.

  Liar. There may be at least one, or two, other things to appreciate.

  “Lady Roysa, my apologies if I appeared to disparage you in any way.”

  He waited for her to offer him the use of her given name, as she had with Lance, but she merely lifted her chin higher, if such a thing were possible, and turned away.

  Lance was openly glaring at him now, but Terric would not back down. He did not care for the woman, and although he should temper his response for Idalia’s sake, he simply could not do it.

  Would not do it.

  This was no court where every glance or whisper was studied as closely as Aristotelian philosophy. Dromsley Castle had become a stronghold, one of the seats of the order’s incipient rebellion against the king. The castle’s fortifications would likely be tested for the first time since his mother’s grandfather had built this structure.

  It was his duty to protect the men and women of Dromsley, and all else who took shelter here. His duty to ensure both his mother and sister remained safe. Nothing else mattered. Certainly not her.

  He looked down at his men as he ate, trying not to listen to their new arrival conversing with Lance and Idalia. Her voice penetrated even from three seats away, however, despite the continual hum of voices and occasional shouts for more ale. Lance finally turned back to him. “You’re thinking of your sister,” he said softly.

  “I thought Guy was the one with premonitions?”

  His reply had clearly surprised the smith. Guy, another member of their order, rarely spoke of his premonitions—and the rest of them usually honored his forbearance. It struck him that Lance was, of course, no longer a smith. He was a knight, a lord in his own right, but to Terric, he’d always be the young smith he’d met at that tournament so many years ago.

  A brother in all the ways that mattered.

  “I know more than you think, my friend,” he said.

  Lance leaned toward him. “Though not, it seems, how to charm a woman.”

  Terric laughed.

  “Charm?” he whispered back. “I can assure you, I have no interest in charming that woman. A married woman,” he added, more than a bit confused by Lance’s comment.

  “You haven’t been listening, my friend. Roysa is a widow.”

  The tankard froze before it touched his lips. Immediately his body responded, forcing him to readjust in his seat. Recovering quickly, he took a long sip. Long enough to regain his composure.

  A widow.

  Lady Roysa had been married just the year before. Maybe not so much a surprise she’d made haste to her sister. Such a loss must have come as a surprise.

  It made her attitude more understandable. Slightly. But she was still a woman very much like Isobel.

  Terric leaned forward, prepared to offer his condolences, when the woman in question glared at him. The jewel on her forehead flashed nearly as brightly as her eyes as she stared at him directly, her gaze unwavering.

  “No, you may not use my given name,” she snapped.

  “I hadn’t planned to ask,” he offered back, realizing he’d had the right of it after all.

  Widow or no, Lady Roysa was not a woman he wished to charm. This night or any after it.

  In fact, just the opposite.

  Terric stood to leave.

  Chapter 5

  “How could you live here with him?”

  Earlier, after the initial disaster at the gate, Roysa had been escorted into the keep, thrilled she’d not missed her sister. But their reunion had been interrupted by well-meaning servants and a brief visit with Idalia’s husband. Now, finally, they were alone together, sitting side by side on the bed in the guest room Roysa had been shown to earlier.

  Legs crossed, Roysa pulled the coverlet over her ankles. The bedchamber was warm, courtesy of not one but two fires in each corner of the room. Even so, the chill that had taken hold of her since leaving Stokesay would not abate.

  Idalia pulled her robe more tightly around her waist.

  “I like him.”

  Of course she did. Idalia liked everyone.

  “I do not.”

  But she did. In the same way she had liked her husband. Both were very handsome men. The first time, she mistook desire for love. She’d not make the same mistake again.

  Idalia’s hands reached out, and Roysa instinctively took them.

  “Do you remember when we last sat this way?” she asked, her memory of it as clear as if it had happened just yesterday.

  “Aye. You were excited to begin a new life.” Idalia squeezed her hands. “Tell me what happened.”

  Part of her wanted to tell Idalia everything. Every sordid detail. But as always, she held something back. There was no point in making her younger sister worry now, when Walter was no longer alive to torment her. “It was as I wrote. All was”—she tried not to choke on the words—“well. But I do believe I mistook desire for love.”

  Idalia let go of her hands, shifting her weight on the bed.

  “All was . . . well?”

  She shrugged. “Well enough. Until Walter left to visit his brother. I could not understand why he would make the trip in such poor weather. But I didn’t question him.”

  “You didn’t . . .” Idalia cocked her head to the side. “Question him?”

  “Nay.”

  She could understand why her sister
seemed confused—the girl she’d been had not hesitated to question everyone and everything.

  Avoiding any deeper discussion of her marriage, she continued, “Langham arrived and told me his brother had died in a hunting accident. He did not offer any other explanation, although he did claim he would honor the terms of the marriage agreement.”

  “Holton Manor?”

  “Aye. And its rents. But . . .”

  She stopped. Although she hadn’t told Idalia anything beyond the essential details of Walter’s death, her sister had already guessed something was amiss. She could see it in her eyes. Perhaps from the tone of her letters. Or from the details she’d omitted this night.

  Roysa still wished to protect her sister from the worst of the story, but she had to tell her why she’d come to Dromsley unannounced.

  “But there were rumors.”

  “Of?”

  “That Walter had cuckolded his brother. And that his death was no hunting accident.”

  “’Tis a jest.”

  “Nay,” she said, watching her sister’s face.

  “He . . . murdered his brother?”

  Roysa bunched the coverlet around her feet to get them warm.

  “Perhaps.”

  Idalia shifted again, a nervous kind of movement that said she was thinking. From the way her eyes suddenly widened, Roysa knew what was coming next.

  “You were in danger?”

  The fear in Idalia’s voice was so apparent, she hastened to soothe it, stopping just short of lying. “Likely not. But I dared not take a chance. So . . .”

  “Dromsley is closer than Stanton.”

  “Aye.”

  “You fled in fear for your life?” Idalia raised her voice with each word.

  Attempting to comfort her—and end the discussion—she said, “Nay, of course not. I fled . . . to be safe. So, here I am. And so very tired.” She forced a yawn as she continued to rub her feet. The cold refused to leave her, it seemed.

  “Oh no, Roysa. Stop it. I am not a child. And you do not need to protect me any longer. In fact, when you learn why we are here . . .”

  This time it was her sister who hesitated.