Читать книгу The Christmas Knight - Michele Sinclair - Страница 8

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1154

THE CORONATION OF KING HENRY II

Though crowned in October after King Stephen’s death, Henry II wasn’t coronated the king of England until December 19, 1154, in the Westminster Abbey. Appearing at his coronation dressed in a doublet and short Angevin cloak earned him his immortal nickname “Curtmantle.” Eleven years his senior, his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, was absent from the event due to being heavily pregnant with their second son, Henry III, causing her own coronation to be postponed for four years, taking place in December 1158 at Worcester Cathedral. Marrying Eleanor, a power and influential figure, made Henry the largest landowner in France, including King Louis VII, his longtime rival and Eleanor’s first husband.

Bronwyn reached back to close the small cottage door behind her and sighed regretfully as the warm sun beat down on her face. She had put on her heaviest bliaut and now was uncomfortably hot with only herself to blame. Minimizing castle staff had meant she and her sisters had to share an already overworked chambermaid. So to help, they all agreed to assume additional responsibilities, including taking their clothes to the laundress and bringing them back, something about which Bronwyn had been frightfully negligent. Today she was paying the price.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if the warm wind that blew through the wooded hills was what a December breeze should be, chilly or even cool. Never had a fall lasted so long or a winter arrived so late. If the weather continued its rebellious mood, the bonfires during this year’s Twelfthtide would have to be drearily small, maybe even nonexistent; otherwise everyone attending the festivities would be roasted alive.

Bronwyn picked up her pace and joined her two younger sisters just in time for another squabble to begin.

“If your sheer presence has such miraculous healing abilities, Lily, then you should have stayed. For until Tomas is well, his daughters won’t be coming back to Hunswick and I am telling you right now, that abusing poor Charity and having her continue with your chores needs to stop.” Edythe paused and waited for affirmation, but Bronwyn remained mum. She had stopped playing the role of peacemaker long ago, for it never worked.

Realizing that her older sister was not going to lend any support, Edythe proceeded with her censure. “Besides, everyone knows that Tomas will continue to feel poorly until just after Father Morrell finishes his lengthy Christmas sermon. Very soon afterward there will be a miracle recovery in full—whether you’re there or not.”

Lily’s gray eyes flashed. “No wonder Father Morrell doesn’t visit more often. Why should he with you around to lecture everyone? And you need not be so smug, Edythe. No one fails to come to Hunswick for Twelfthtide, even if they are ill. You’re just jealous I was able to cheer Tomas’s spirits when you could not.” Lily jutted out her chin in a challenging way, knowing Edythe would rise to the bait.

“I’m glad you cheered someone then because your mournful moods of late have been near intolerable,” Edythe replied as she sauntered haughtily past her sister.

Lily ran to catch up, her dark hair bouncing behind her. “That’s unfair, Edythe!” she cried, not denying the truth of the barb. “Father would have taken me to London. And you know it. My one chance to see a king be crowned,” she moaned, “and I’m here. Can you imagine the celebration that followed? It is probably happening right now. The dresses, the food, and the men! Eligible, wealthy lords, and barons and knights everywhere!”

“Good Lord, you love to be dramatic,” Edythe snorted, her bright blue eyes sparkling with condescension. “And you are incredibly naïve if you think Father would have allowed you to go to Westminster. You would have made a nuisance out of yourself with all your flirtations and silly little giggles. It’s repulsive how you act around every two-legged mammal with a beard.”

“But it works,” Lily returned with a large smile she knew would aggravate her sister. “You should try it, Edythe. God gave you everything needed to capture a man’s eye, but then you open your mouth and drive anyone interested in you my way. If you could just learn to keep quiet.”

“Amazing, Lily, for that’s my advice to you. And as far as driving men away, first there would have to be someone to repel. Not one man of marrying age or eligibility has visited since Father left, and secondly, if a man can be so easily intimidated, I wouldn’t want him for a dinner companion, let alone a husband.”

Lily rolled her eyes, their light shadowy color made only more piercing by her fair skin and dark hair. “You don’t intimidate, Edythe. You insult.”

“And you, Lily, think anything that isn’t dripping with flattery and praise is an insult. Father, Bronwyn, and I have protected you far too long from the realities of the world and soon you will have to pay the price.”

Lily blinked her eyes in an effort to look bored. “There you go again. When have you ever protected me from anything?”

Edythe yawned and Bronwyn almost joined her. The argument had evolved into a standard battle between the two strong-willed personalities. The conversation would progress as they all did, with either Bronwyn intervening or them sniping at each other for hours until one accidentally pricked more than just pride.

Edythe opened her mouth and Bronwyn shot her a “you know better than to pull me into one of your petty squabbles” glance. Edythe closed her lips and shrugged, finally deciding that she had had enough of arguing with her little sister.

Bronwyn fought back a sigh of relief and lifted her dark gold hair off her neck to allow the slight breeze coming off the hills to cool her skin. She had washed her hair earlier that morning, and when they had left to make their visits, her semidamp locks had kept her cool and comfortable. Now she longed for a knitted snood to hold the unruly wavy mass up and off her back.

“Why do we fight so much these days, Bronwyn?” Lily asked.

Because you both are scared, Bronwyn thought. “You and Edythe see and live life in different ways. You perceive things as they could be and Edythe as they are. I, on the other hand,” she sighed, “seem to want to hold on to the past and keep things as they once were.”

Bronwyn knew her voice had grown melancholy at the end. If she continued walking with them, they would grow suspicious of her quiet behavior and pummel her with questions until they discovered what was troubling her. “There’s my favorite tree, and with Father gone and all the preparations for Twelfthtide, I have abandoned it for too long. Please tell Constance I will be back before dinner so she won’t worry.”

Edythe paused to stare at the huge, leafless alder. Its dense branches stretched outward in all directions in a tangled mass. Her face took on a brief look of bewilderment. “I think I’m the only one in this family who isn’t prone to fanciful indulgences,” she murmured and then waved good-bye as she headed back to Hunswick.

Lily leaned forward and gave Bronwyn a quick peck on the cheek. “Enjoy your walk. Edythe and I will see that nothing is amiss until your return.” And before Bronwyn could reply, Lily spun around and dashed out of site, as if she were still a child on an exciting mission.

Bronwyn leaned back against the callused bark and looked east, toward Torrens, the hill she had named as a child after one of her father’s dogs. When she had needed a companion the most, Torrens had been there. For every tear, every painful step, frightening moment, or period of loneliness, that shaggy gray wolfhound had been at her side.

Sitting on top of the hill was her childhood home, Syndlear. Constructed early during the Saxon rule, the large tower keep had been the area’s focal point for years. Situated high on the crest of Torrens, it possessed a great vantage of the valley and the hills beyond, giving the owner forewarning of oncoming enemies. It looked to be much closer than it was, but a skilled rider who knew the terrain could travel from the valley below to the elevated keep in a half day.

To her right, was Bassellmere, one of the most exquisite lakes in Cumbria. The mountains surrounding it reached into the sky and both were reflected off its deep, dark rippling waters. With woodlands blanketing the surrounding foothills, Bronwyn could not imagine a place that could touch Bassellmere’s beauty. Ahead was Hunswick Castle, one of the first to be transformed from wood to stone in northern England. Its odd shape and incomplete curtain walls and towers kept it from being of any note or true protection, but Bronwyn didn’t care. To her, Hunswick was home.

Unfortunately, it belonged to someone else.

Bronwyn took a deep breath and exhaled as the sad feeling that had been creeping upon her took hold. The sweet smell of witch hazel was in the air. The odor-filled flower had been her mother’s favorite. Memories of her loss suddenly flooded Bronwyn and she began to hum the verse her mother had sung by her bedside hour after hour, day after day as they lay together, clinging for life. The simple haunting melody had helped her endure life’s most painful events and Bronwyn knew deep down that soon she and her sisters would be mourning the loss of their father.

He should have been back by now. His last communication had been weeks ago with the joyful news he was returning. But he never arrived and Bronwyn knew deep down that something had happened.

Her sisters refused to acknowledge what was in their hearts, but Bronwyn had learned the hard way to face life with no pretenses. If their father had been injured, a message would have been delivered by now. Only bad news took so long to arrive.

“Still trying to sing that haunting little tune, angel?”

Bronwyn froze. The voice was deep and smooth and dripping with male charm. The last time she had heard it, it had belonged to a child turning into a man. The pitch had been slightly higher and with unexpected and humiliating croaks that caused him to grow angry and lash out at those around. Her heart started beating faster at the unwanted memory. Why now? Why had Luc Craven decided to break his banishment now?

“I told you last time we saw each other to never call me ‘angel’ again.” Because of him, she hated the endearment—even from her own family.

Luc faked a bristle and stepped into her view. “I thought you might have changed your mind. I am not the boy you once knew.”

He was right. Last time she had seen Luc Craven, he had been a skinny weak boy with bright white hair, a sharp pointed nose, and overly long limbs. Someone with whom she had been carefree. They had played together almost daily when they were children. He had always been possessive and willful, trying to dictate everything they did or said. Most of the time she had gone along with his wishes, but oftentimes she had done the opposite just for fun. Then one day the fun had abruptly ended and he had been forced to leave and never come back.

Recent rumors that had crossed the short distance between their households had not done Luc justice. She had heard him called handsome, and Bronwyn could not deny that he was indeed very good-looking. Shoulder-length golden hair, sky blue eyes framed in dark lashes, and a granite jaw that matched the rest of his hard, muscular body were indeed attributes most women would consider appealing. But those women were not from Cumbria…and they did not know Luc. For those who were familiar with him didn’t see a handsome man, but a cruel one, without compassion or remorse. And looking into the bright crystal blue eyes staring at her, Bronwyn knew Luc Craven had not changed even a little bit in the past ten years.

“I have not changed my mind, Luc. About the nickname or about you.”

Instantly, Luc’s face hardened and Bronwyn felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. He took a step closer, and outstretched one arm against the tree as he bent over her. “I am a baron now, angel. A man to be respected and obeyed.”

His mouth came toward her and Bronwyn turned her head away so his lips grazed only her cheek. “It has been a long time since we last spoke,” she hissed, “but do not think that I have changed so greatly. I took no orders from you then, and I will not now. Especially not here. We are on Anscombe land and you have no power here.”

The scowl on Luc’s face transformed into a broad, genuine smile. “Maybe not now, but soon, angel. Soon.”

“Not soon, Luc. Never. My father found the new lord of Bassellmere and Hunswick. He is coming.”

“Maybe he is, but not your father.”

Bronwyn’s deep misty blue eyes searched Luc’s face and saw only cruel sincerity staring back at her. “No,” she whispered.

With his free hand, Luc grabbed a lock of her light brown hair and caressed it with his fingers. “Yes, angel. And that makes you mine.”

Bronwyn’s eyes flashed and she pushed as hard as she could against his chest in an effort to get him to move back. But it was like beating solid, immovable rock. “But King Stephen. My father. Lord Anscombe…”

“All dead.”

“But the king promised…”

“That was ten years ago, angel. A long time to be harboring such ill feelings. After my father died this summer, I journeyed to see King Stephen. He was most willing to forgive the innocent transgressions of a young boy in love.”

Bronwyn felt all the rage, all the betrayal, from those years ago surge in her veins. “You didn’t intend love. You intended rape.”

Unexpected, Luc threw back his head and laughed. Bronwyn tried to duck under his arm, but he caught her elbow just in time and squeezed. “King Stephen didn’t remember it that way and thought it a wise idea to mend the feud between our families. I was given leave to choose any of Sir Laon le Breton’s unwed daughters after the New Year, and I want you.”

“You can’t have me,” Bronwyn snarled. “My father…”

“Ah, yes. His absence was the reason I have not announced my claim sooner, but now that he is dead, I see no reason to delay any longer. You are mine, Lady Bronwyn. You always have been and always will be. I’m done waiting. As your husband, I can make your life enjoyable or a living hell.”

He let go and Bronwyn reached into the slit of her bliaut and felt the cool metal against her fingertips. She gripped the hilt and hissed, “I will never marry you and you cannot make me.”

“But I can and I will have you willingly or else I will take one of your sisters.”

Cold fear swept through her as she realized what Luc meant and how far he would go. “You don’t want me, you want Syndlear.”

Luc cackled and the sick sound echoed all around them. “Angel, you still don’t understand. I want both and much, much more.”

Bronwyn felt his cool, long fingers close around the back of her head, bringing her mouth to his. She twisted with all her might and again sought the dagger nestled in her bliaut. Pulling it free, she was just about to press the tip into his skin when a deadly arrow appeared from nowhere and lodged itself into the bark of the alder right between her and Luc’s heads.

Startled, Luc pushed Bronwyn away and ducked for cover. Determining it was a single stray, he straightened to his full height and grabbed the errant weapon, wrenching it free from the tree’s grasp. He tossed it at Bronwyn and said, “Be sure to tell the new lord that his poachers better stay clear of Torrens and Syndlear.”

Luc sauntered to his horse, grabbed his reins, and mounted. He edged the animal next to her side, but Bronwyn refused to step back. He would not make her cringe in fear. “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, angel, you never were as weak as everyone thought you to be. Until Epiphany, my lady. At the end of Twelfthtide, we shall wed and you will finally realize that I am the only man for you.”

Bronwyn stared unswervingly at Luc as he disappeared into a thicket of evergreens. She was still clutching the small heavy spear in one hand and her dagger in the other, both weapons of death. Her unusual proficiency in the latter was little known beyond her father and the late Lord Anscombe. Both men had thought that wise, believing the fewer who knew of Luc’s attempted assault, the better.

They had done everything they could to keep him away, even seeking the king’s interference. And King Stephen, being easily manipulated with his attention on preserving his throne from an ever-warring aunt and cousin, had ordered Luc to be banished from Cumbria. Luc’s father had been furious, but had obeyed for he knew Laon had powerful allies. But that had not been enough to pacify her father. So Bronwyn had been taught the art of killing, and learned to wield and throw a blade with extreme accuracy. But she had never used it against the living, and as she discovered today, having the ability to kill someone and doing so were two vastly different things. There had to be another way to avoid a lifetime of hell.

Giving herself a little shake, Bronwyn looked down at her hand and realized it was not a wayward hunter’s arrow she was holding, but a bolt. The short, heavy weapon had come from a powerful steel crossbow used by only highly skilled arbalesters.

Bronwyn looked up and studied the direction from which the arrow had come. The distance across the clearing would have challenged her best archers, making Bronwyn suspect its owner had not missed, but had hit his intended target. Whoever had shot the arrow was good. Very good. The dense collection of bushes she had been studying suddenly moved. Bronwyn rushed to investigate, but it was too late. She pushed back the prickly branches and evergreen leaves just in time to see someone disappearing on a massive black horse heading away from Hunswick and Syndlear. He was riding fast and with a large metal crossbow thumping on his mount’s hind end.

Whoever he was, he did not come from anywhere near Bassellmere or Hunswick. Another day, another time, she might have stayed long enough to find out just who had saved her.

Ranulf gripped Pertinax’s reins and let the horse do most of the work. The combat advantages of single-eye vision were limited to one—archery. The loss of his left eye made targeting an object easier. He didn’t have to worry about ignoring the secondary image one sees when aiming. On the other hand, the disadvantages of missing an eye were numerous and the ability to ride at a gallop across unknown, mountainous terrain was one of them. On any other horse, he would have been significantly more cautious. As it was, Ranulf aimed Pertinax back to camp, urged the pace into a gallop, and then began to berate himself for being every kind of fool.

That morning he had left his men under the leadership of his best friend to ride ahead and explore the lands that were to become his new home. And to think.

His original plan of persuading King Henry II to dismiss Laon’s dying request had failed miserably. The king had not only refused to dismiss the idea of marriage, but he had eagerly endorsed it. And to ensure that Lady Lillabet was made aware of her father’s wishes and the king’s support, Henry had dispatched two riders to ride ahead and deliver the news, forcing Ranulf to immediately begin his own journey north to not just a new home and unsolicited responsibilities, but an unwanted bride-to-be. For days now, he had been clinging to one hope—Laon’s youngest daughter would simply refuse to marry him.

He had not realized just how close he was to his new home until he had ridden by an abandoned stone keep earlier that morning. Isolated on top of a bluff, the tower and the surrounding wooden buildings had looked structurally sound, needing only a thorough cleaning and restocking of supplies. At the time, Ranulf had not suspected the tower to be Syndlear, home of Sir Laon, and pressed forward. But an hour later, the castle it guarded came into view. It was nestled against a lake at the mountain’s valley and Ranulf knew he had reached his destination.

As Laon had described, the castle’s unique layout was unmistakable once seen. Unlike Syndlear, which was a small, but orderly estate, Hunswick Castle was haphazardly sprawled along the shoreline. The mountainous terrain dictated some of the unusual design, which at a distance resembled a leather water bag being squeezed in the middle.

Along one side the lake buffered a multitude of buildings, including one that appeared large enough to be a Great Hall. Along the other side of the odd-shaped castle was an average-size gatehouse separating two towers. The one located closest to the Hall was of significant size and the other, situated on the other side of the bailey, was round but otherwise unremarkable. What was noteworthy was the stone curtain wall that connected the three structures ended there and did not encompass the whole of the castle. A feeble wooden frame continued behind the stable and other buildings where the wall stopped, and no protection at all was provided along the lakeside. The castle was totally dependent upon being forewarned.

Ranulf had ridden down to the lake to let Pertinax drink and rest and had just been about to mount and return to camp when he had overheard low moans on the other side of the thicket. Rising, he grabbed his crossbow and pushed the spiny branches aside ready to shoot if it was an animal on the attack. But he found instead a tall woman…who appeared to be singing.

Her husky voice had not been meant for caroling, and while it was by no means good, there was a haunting quality to it that kept Ranulf where he was. Neither drawing him in closer, or letting him leave. He wasn’t near enough to make out the words, but he could see her clearly.

Far from a traditional beauty, she was tall for a woman, with untamed brownish-blond hair falling far past her shoulders down to the middle of her back. The simple dark blue bliaut with its gentle scoop neckline gave the barest hint of the cleavage it hid but did nothing to disguise the willowy figure it covered. A single gold amulet rested in the graceful hollow of her throat.

A light breeze came across the clearing and caught her curls. She looked up so that her face could take full advantage of the refreshing treat and she paused. Her large dark eyes were looking directly at him, as if she had sensed his presence. Pale, her delicate oval face possessed high cheekbones, apricot-colored skin, and a generous mouth that neither smiled nor frowned. She looked like a misbegotten angel, the kind he tended to dream up naked whenever his physical need for companionship surfaced. To him, she embodied natural beauty, the kind few women—even beautiful ones—possessed and therefore made her all the more alluring.

Then she shifted her jaw.

The movement was slight, and from across the clearing, he had almost missed it. The simple twitch was not extraordinary except that it was identical to the one Sir Laon le Breton performed whenever he had been mentally chewing on something. Ranulf wasn’t staring at a village maiden; she was Laon’s eldest daughter, Bronwyn.

Ranulf grimaced and raked his hand across his head, recalling Laon’s description of his firstborn. The man had been blind. Yes, she was tall and her hair might be of a similar color, but resembled him? Laon had intimated his eldest daughter was plain, if not homely, saying outright that no man would ever desire her for a wife.

Ranulf glanced back across the clearing. She was singing again, her raspy voice still not on key, but haunting all the same. It had been three years since he had been with a woman and she was creating the most lustful thoughts his mind had conjured in all that time. Tonight was going to be uncomfortable, for Laon’s daughter was stirring within him the need that had been building every day of those years.

He needed to leave quickly before she saw him, before she looked upon the disfigured face of Deadeye de Gunnar.

But again he was stopped. This time by a man. Large, with a rugged face and thick, long blond hair styled in the way of many English nobles, he resembled what every lady of the court coveted. And the nearness of his body to Lady Bronwyn’s made it clear the two were very well acquainted, proving once again all beautiful things were tainted.

A cold frisson rippled on the surface of Ranulf’s skin and he turned around to get his horse and ride away. He had just hooked the crossbow to his saddle when a sharp, unpleasant cackle pierced his ears. Grimacing, Ranulf returned to the hedge and glanced once more at the couple on the other side. This time he could see Bronwyn’s face. While he could not make out what they were saying, her expression and posture had been that of an angry, cornered cat, knowing she was comparatively weak, but fighting back anyway. The exchange was not welcomed but loathed.

Ranulf took a deep breath and debated his options, but when he saw the man roughly snatch her back into control after she tried unsuccessfully to get away, Ranulf’s decision was made. Immediately, he returned for his bow and was prepping the bolt when he saw the man lunge for her mouth. She responded with violent twists in an effort to become free. Ranulf ignored his emotional response and aimed. The arrow flew, narrowly missing the man’s scalp, but he had felt it. The imposing figure immediately let go and cowered for several seconds, waiting for more arrows to follow. Ranulf prepped another, this time with flesh as his target, but eased his grip a second later when he saw the man move to leave.

Ranulf should have escaped as well, but he had remained motionless, stilled by Bronwyn’s reaction, which was not as he had expected. Tears had not fallen nor had she collapsed in fright. Instead, anger had consumed her stance and her jaw began to twitch back and forth. She was planning revenge and Ranulf longed to know just what she had in mind.

He had been so consumed with interest he hadn’t realized her gaze had left the thicket from where the man had disappeared and was now on Ranulf’s arrow. She gently touched the heavy tip and then looked up as if she knew he was still there. Then, gathering her skirts, she started to march toward where he stood. If he hadn’t moved when he did, his first encounter with Laon’s eldest daughter would have happened much, much sooner than he had planned.

The next time he saw Lady Bronwyn, he intended to be prepared…and under full control.

At the knock on the door, Bronwyn sucked in her breath and steadied herself before exhaling. She had known this moment was coming since her return and had delayed it for as long as possible. Coming in late and missing dinner begged for questions, but sequestering herself had only ensured a sisterly inquisition. One to which she still didn’t know the answers.

How does one reveal a father’s death, a baron’s threats, and a new lord’s arrival? All of these Bronwyn had been mulling and considering since her encounter with Luc Craven, but no matter how she looked at the situation, there could be only one response.

Bronwyn slid the drawbar up and opened the door. Lily suppressed a sniffle and darted inside. Edythe, with arms crossed, slowly sauntered in after her. Both had been crying. Hard. Somehow they had found out what had happened. Had Luc rode to Hunswick after they had parted? Had someone seen their encounter and raced back with the news?

Edythe moved toward the middle of the three chairs that formed an arch in front of the hearth. Though each of them had been given their own rooms above the Great Hall by the previous Lord Anscombe, they all gravitated toward Bronwyn’s before bed each night or when something happened. The rooms had once been the bedchambers and day rooms of the late Lord Anscombe, but he had declared them too loud and had moved into the Tower Keep as soon as it had been completed. After that the rooms had become Bronwyn’s and her sisters’ whenever they visited. And when Lord Anscombe became sick, those visits changed into stays, each becoming longer than the last. Now, after living at Hunswick every day for a year, the castle felt more like home to Bronwyn than Syndlear. Maybe it always had.

Edythe waited until Bronwyn took her traditional seat before speaking. “Father is dead,” she stated without preamble.

Lily curled up into a ball on the chair and started to sob. Bronwyn sat immobile. “How…how do you know?”

Edythe’s sapphire eyes darted to Bronwyn’s, her forehead puckering. “What do you mean…how? The king’s messenger told us.”

Bronwyn leaned forward in her seat. “What messenger?”

Lily sniffled and looked at Bronwyn, puzzled. “The one from the king about Father.”

“You know?” Bronwyn choked, her mind buzzing with confusion. A messenger, Edythe had said. That was how Luc had found out about her father. The herald must have traveled across Luc’s lands and had either intentionally or unintentionally disclosed the information.

Lily nodded and then buried her head back into her skirt, her bawling renewed. Bronwyn slid off her chair and went to embrace her younger sister. “It will be fine. I promise. I will make it better. You will see,” she cooed, but Lily would have none of it.

“How?” Lily demanded, brushing Bronwyn’s hands away. “Just how are you going to fix this? And you, Edythe, are you happy now? You thought I too unaware of life’s cruelty. Well, my being forced to marry will certainly end that!”

Lily’s short tirade startled Bronwyn. Much had obviously happened this afternoon to her sisters as well as her and none of it good. Before they all emotionally collapsed with grief, they had best start communicating—not shouting.

“Lily, sit up in your chair, and for the next half hour, neither you nor Edythe is to bicker with the other.” Both sisters blinked and then complied. It was rare that Bronwyn used an authoritative tone with them, but they knew better than to argue, regardless of the circumstances.

Bronwyn paced for a second in front of the fire and then stopped. “All of us are upset, but until we understand just what problems we are facing and what we are going to do, we need to remain calm, and if possible, refrain from hysterics.” She waited until Lily nodded before continuing. “Now, I need to know exactly what happened this afternoon before I returned.”

“But you know!” Lily exclaimed.

“I know about Father’s death,” Bronwyn crisply countered, wishing Lily had some ability to control her emotions. But it was like asking the rain to fall everywhere but a single spot. Futile. “I am unaware of your being forced into marriage.”

Lily opened her mouth and then raised her hand to bite her knuckle. Edythe, seeing her sister’s distress, explained, “The messenger came and told us that Father had died in an accident while at sea. But his dying wish was that Lily would marry the next Lord Anscombe. The king agreed and sent him north and he is due to arrive tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Bronwyn whispered.

“Yes! Tomorrow!” Lily wailed. “The messenger called him Deadeye! He is due to arrive tomorrow and by night’s end I will be his wife. Bronwyn, I can’t! They say he looks like the walking dead, never sleeps, and cannot die.”

Bronwyn held up her hand. “Just what nonsense are you spewing?”

Edythe blinked. “Didn’t you speak to the herald?”

Bronwyn shook her head. “I never saw him. I learned about Father from Baron Craven.”

“Baron Craven?” Edythe repeated, puzzled. “I thought he died several months ago.”

“He did. I was referring to his son, Luc.”

Edythe rose to her feet and shook her head. “But he’s not allowed…he’s…he’s forbidden to come on this side of Torrens. Father said we were protected…” Her voice died as she realized the full implications of her father’s death.

“With Father gone, Luc is determined to marry one of us and take over Syndlear. I am the one he wants, most likely to have his revenge for what I did.”

Now Edythe was outraged. “But you can’t! Not to him!”

Lily shook her head, confused. “I didn’t even know Baron Craven had a son. How is that?”

Bronwyn bit her bottom lip, wishing she never had to reveal the past. “When I was thirteen, Luc attacked me and would have been successful in…hurting me if Father had not arrived in time. Luc was banished from Cumbria, but it seems he was pardoned by King Stephen before his death and was given the king’s blessing that one of us would become his wife in the New Year if Father didn’t object. And with Father gone, Baron Craven plans to marry me and gain control of Syndlear, thereby crippling the defense of Hunswick and the authority of the new Lord Anscombe.”

“The New Year!” Edythe exclaimed. “But that’s less than a fortnight away.”

“I have until Epiphany to prepare.”

Edythe stared her sister in the eye. “You cannot marry him. He was a vicious boy and such a person does not change with time.”

“He is still cruel,” Bronwyn murmured, her thoughts flashing back to that afternoon, “and you are correct. I won’t marry him. And neither will you marry the new lord, Lily. While I don’t agree with your fantastical reasons to be reluctant to such a match, I think it abhorrent to force a woman into matrimony. If Father really did desire this, he was only trying to protect us. I intend to do the same, but with far less permanent entanglements.”

“We will do anything,” Edythe encouraged.

“Including leaving for Scotland?”

Both sisters jumped to their feet and the barrage of questions began. “In winter?”

“But where? When?”

“How will we know where to go?”

“Who will take us?”

Bronwyn waved for them to sit down again and calm themselves. “We will depart on Christmas Day.”

“But Twelfthtide!” both Edythe and Lily cried out simultaneously. “We would miss all the festivities! What about Saint Stephen’s Day and—”

“We need to leave as soon as possible and Christmas is the first time when people’s attentions will be elsewhere for a long enough period for us to leave without being noticed. And once out of the Hills, those who we encounter will assume we are traveling toward festivities. Rivalries will be placed on temporary truce making travel safer.”

“It cannot be another time? Later? Perhaps after Childermas?”

Bronwyn shook her head. “The risk is too great. By the time Luc discovers our disappearance, we should be in Scotland and on our way to Perth, where our cousins live. Then in the spring we will go north into the Highlands to see for ourselves just where our mother grew up.”

“But what about the new lord? He and I are supposed to marry tomorrow!”

“I doubt that. But if that is true, then you will stall him, Lily,” Bronwyn answered quietly. “You are good at dealing with men. Tell him you need more time to be accustomed to the idea. If Father encouraged the union, he cannot be a pitiless man. I have no doubt that he would respect your wishes for at least a few days and that is all we need.”

Edythe bit her bottom lip. “I assume Jeb and Aimon will be our guides.”

Bronwyn nodded. She had always loved the now old Highlanders who had served as bodyguards to her and her sisters when they were children. Jeb had lost his wife to illness years ago and old faithful Aimon had never married, considering the three of them his surrogate family. “I haven’t asked yet, but they would not refuse. To deliver us safely into Scotland if need be was Grandmother’s sole purpose in sending them to live with us.”

Lily plopped back down in her chair and twiddled her fingers. “I wonder what kind of men we might encounter in Scotland. Perhaps the reason we have not found our anyone in England is because they have been waiting for us up north.”

Bronwyn gave in to the compulsion to roll her eyes. Leave it to Lily to twist a situation into something positive—and related to love. “You will find admirers wherever you go. And you, too, Edythe, will be adored by many,” Bronwyn added with confidence as she rose and went to the door, indicating that tonight’s chat was over.

Edythe shook her head. “Lily desires not a man, but an impossibility. A person just cannot be responsible and spontaneous at the same time.”

“Well, you drive all your men away with your seriousness,” Lily countered, looking to Bronwyn for support as she strolled up to the door.

Sighing, Bronwyn leaned against the jamb and picked up a lock of Lily’s dark hair. “You, Lily, need to find a way to mature without losing your optimism, and Edythe, you set a standard so high and can be so critical of those who do not meet it.”

Edythe opened her mouth and then closed it as she joined Lily at the door. “And what about you?” she demanded. “And don’t say you are alone because you lack beauty, for you could be quite pretty if you tried wearing something other than dreary colors and keeping your hair in a net all the time.”

“Unfair, because you know that I could do as you ask, change my clothes and hair, but it wouldn’t matter. The kind of man I want doesn’t want me,” Bronwyn uttered matter-of-factly, making shooing motions to get them to leave.

Edythe and Lily finally capitulated and she was alone again. She loved her sisters. They were incredibly different. When Lily laughed, Edythe was serious, carefree versus introspective. They were alike in only one respect: They were both undeniably beautiful. And for Bronwyn, their beauty was both a blessing and a curse. Any man who had ever shown remotely any interest in her always ended up gravitating toward one of her youngest sisters. Through them she had been able to see men for who they really were. They had saved her from making many a mistake in her younger days when she still believed someone was coming…someone who would love her and only her.

Someone who would be her hero.

Someone like the ghost who had come to her rescue that very afternoon.