Читать книгу The Christmas Knight - Michele Sinclair - Страница 9

MONDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1154

TWELFTHTIDE

Also known as Christmastide or the Twelve Days of Christmas, Twelfthtide is the twelve-day period celebrated by Christians beginning the day after Christmas, December 26, to the Feast of Epiphany on January 6. Because days and nights were counted separately, the night celebrations began on Christmas Night and lasted until January 5 when they culminated on Twelfth Night. Most scholars agree the festive season dates back before the Early Middle Ages, but it is commonly accepted that by the fifth century, the celebration of Christmas had spread throughout the whole of the East and the West. During the season, many major holy days are celebrated and though the order and inclusion of festivals has changed over the years, the overall meaning of the season has not.

Bronwyn scooped up her hairbrush, comb, and the two knitted snoods lying on the chest and placed them with her other items on the bed. There lay everything she possessed and even that was too much to pack and bring on such short notice.

Being forced out of her home perhaps should have been expected, but Bronwyn had not been prepared to be summarily shoved out the door within hours of the new lord’s arrival. And not even by the lord himself! He had compelled poor Constance to make his cowardly demands and explain that their presence—hers and her sisters’—was highly unwelcome and akin to trespassing. Bronwyn suspected that Constance, their childhood nursemaid, who was also a noted village gossip, relayed the message to vacate a bit more dramatically than the new lord intended, but it didn’t matter. Lord Anscombe had arrived and with a temper.

The door cracked open and Bronwyn spied Constance’s short frame and frizzy gray hair pop in the opening. “Are my sisters packing?” Bronwyn asked as she began folding the clothes on the bed.

“Aye, they are. I’m telling you, milady, that man will not be borne by many of us. Ordering you out of your own home—”

“It’s not my home, Constance. It never was.”

“But you have the people’s allegiance, and if he thinks he will gain our support by treating the three of you thus…well, I’m glad to be leaving.”

Bronwyn paused and looked at the plump older woman whom she had known as a child and through her worst days. “You need to stay, Constance, and so do the others. My sisters and I do not need much and it would be a shame for anyone to miss celebrating Twelfthtide. The new lord and his men will need support, and you are beholden to him. Not me.”

Constance scoffed. “The man brought no more than two dozen men with him and not a farmer, a woman, or a child. All hardened soldiers like himself. Nothing that would help replenish what they take and eat.”

“Then,” Bronwyn began with a mischievous smile, “I think a strict adherence to Advent should be followed. Father Morrell will be quite pleased when he arrives to deliver his Christmas sermon.”

“But we never fasted bef—” Constance stopped in midsentence. Her jaw dropped for a moment before it closed into a devious smile that matched Bronwyn’s. “Aye, milady. His lordship will soon realize he should have kept you running the place. Henson is too old to be a steward and doesn’t know half of what goes on around here.”

“That is because we have been protecting him, just as the new lord should.” Bronwyn finished folding her last gown and looked up. “In fact, Constance, I intend to tell him myself. Please relay to Lord Anscombe that I and my sisters will leave without incident, but we wish to be introduced first—that to dismiss a vassal in such a way is beyond rude and would not make for good relations.”

Constance turned, grimaced, and with a sound akin to a growl, said, “I’ll do it, but I doubt he’ll see you. He’s a scarred one. And not just on the outside.”

The door closed and almost immediately it opened again. Bronwyn didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Angry fast-paced chatter proved her sisters had either finished their packing or were refusing to continue. “Are you done? I want to leave within the hour.”

Edythe nodded. Lily sulked. “It’s not fair we can only bring two satchels. I cannot decide on what to take and what to leave. It is easy enough for the both of you, you each prefer to limit your wardrobes, but I love my gowns. How am I ever to choose?”

“You would have had to do so in a few days anyway when we left for Scotland,” Edythe clucked.

Not wanting to hear another argument, Bronwyn gave Edythe a look and said, “Don’t worry, Lily. I’ll have Constance pack the rest of your gowns and send them to Syndlear in the next day or two. Just make sure you have the most important item.”

Lily nodded heartily. “Mother’s tapestry was packed first, and that is why I have so little room,” she said, her scorn directed at Edythe before she moved to one of the two large windows on the far wall of the bedchamber. “Is that him?” Lily asked, her voice full of captivated interest.

“Who?” Edythe questioned, grabbing Bronwyn’s hand as she moved to the window to see what caught Lily’s rapt attention.

Below were several new men, all soldiers, but two of them stood out. Both held themselves differently as if born for leadership. One was tall and muscular, with shoulder-length reddish-brown hair. He was talking and suddenly laughed, revealing deep dimples that changed his moderately good-looking face into one that was undeniably attractive.

“Oh, he is nothing like I thought he would be,” Lily hummed, clearly fascinated. “He looks so strong and capable and friendly.”

Bronwyn agreed, but her description of the overly large figure would not have ended there. He had a pleasant face, but there was much more to the man. A hardness that held absolutely no flexibility. The tall soldier was not to be trifled with.

His companion, on the other hand, was harder to discern. He was shorter, though only marginally so, and his broad back was much harder and more powerfully built. He sat with an eerie stillness to him, as if every movement, even a small one, was controlled and had a purpose. Bronwyn shivered and was about to resume her packing when he turned slightly so that she could make out part of his profile. It conveyed strength—brute strength—for there was no softness in his mouth or facial expression. His dark hair was thin and cut very short, which helped to disguise how it had started balding in the middle. Then she saw the Phrygian cap with its pointed tip clutched in his grasp. Just the idea of him wearing such an absurd item removed the tension that had been building studying him and she almost laughed aloud.

“Men shouldn’t be so pretty,” Edythe commented, staring at the taller, more handsome of the two. “They are either dull witted or possess an air of arrogance that is even more tiresome. And he…I don’t know. He smiles too easily and not with his eyes.”

“Oh, you’re wrong,” Lily sighed in disagreement. “Maybe I was mistaken about not getting married. I would be able to protect you from Luc and—”

Bronwyn cut her off. “The new lord could not extend such protection to all of us. And do not be swayed by a pretty face.”

“Hmm,” Lily sighed absentmindedly and gave Edythe a light elbow to the side. “Well, you have to admit he is intriguing.”

Edythe kept silent. She was intrigued, but not for the same reasons as her sister. The man was indeed handsome, but Edythe recognized something else. His mouth. He smiled without smiling. An aura of latent power surrounded him, and just as if to prove her point, one of the stable boys swaggered up to him and made a remark. What was said was unknown, but it caused the tall soldier to whip out his sword faster than Edythe had ever seen anyone move and slice it through the air, stopping just in time before he took Ansel’s head off.

Everything in the courtyard stopped, and the stable boy, visibly shaken, immediately started talking quickly, his face one of contrition. Eventually, the sword was put away and both men disappeared toward the stables. Until then, everyone had been holding their breath.

“What are we going to do?” Lily wailed as she threw herself into her hearth chair. “We cannot leave Hunswick to him! He’s a monster! He nearly chopped off Ansel’s head.”

“I doubt that very much,” Bronwyn argued. “Ansel can be very contrary and is known for being combative. He probably said something that more than deserved such a reaction. I don’t think you will have to worry about the new lord ruining Hunswick.”

“Well, then you can be me and stall for time, for I want nothing to do with him or his violence.”

“I?” Bronwyn asked, confused. “You want me to pretend to be you? It would never work.”

Bronwyn knew she was far from plain, but compared to her sisters, she was also far from beautiful. Edythe’s vibrant red coloring and her petite stature drew men to her side…that is, until they discovered her sarcastic, cutting wit, which often focused on making them feel like idiots. But even Edythe found it hard to compete with her raven-haired younger sister, whose glittering pale gray eyes all men gravitated toward.

Bronwyn was about to point out the impossibility of the farce when Edythe plopped down into one of the chairs and said, “Actually, Lily’s idea is not a bad one. The new lord doesn’t know what she looks like and you are much more likely to stay calm if his temper rises once more.”

Latching on to the notion, Lily nodded her head enthusiastically. “That’s right! Edythe is right! Oh, please, Bronwyn, be me. It would only be for this morning until we leave for Syndlear and then in a few days we will be gone. Who could it hurt?”

Bronwyn licked her lips, searching for a reason to say no. Lying—even pretending—was not something Bronwyn had ever done well and did not relish the idea. “But if his lordship saw you, he would immediately know he had been deceived.”

“Then we will all wear wimples,” Edythe countered.

Bronwyn issued her a “you’re not helping” look, to which Edythe just shrugged. But her sister was right. Wearing the highly uncomfortable white headdress, which went around the head and under the chin, left only the mouth, nose, and eyes visible. The contraption would considerably reduce anyone’s ability to distinguish one of them from another, especially at a distance.

Bronwyn glanced back down at the courtyard and watched Constance leave the stables, angrily shaking her head as she sauntered toward the kitchen. The woman was incredibly loyal to Bronwyn and her sisters, and if anyone slighted them, the old nursemaid felt personally insulted. The new lord had obviously denied the request of an audience and Constance was going to her place of solace. The kitchens. The best source for gossip and food, both she believed to be equal remedies for unhappiness.

Leaving her would be hard, but Constance would refuse to stay at Hunswick if she knew their plans, even though it would be at a great personal expense to her. Bronwyn had known for some time that her old nursemaid and one of the nearby widower farmers had grown quite close of late. During her marrying years, Constance had focused so much on Bronwyn and her mother and their recovery that she had ignored any male interest or her own desires for a family. Children may no longer be possible, but Bronwyn would not deny her friend a chance at love and happiness. No, Constance had to stay.

Bronwyn was about to turn away from the window when she spied the new lord and his companion casually stroll across the courtyard, this time facing her as they made their way to the gatehouse. She could now see both men clearly, though still at somewhat of a distance.

The overly tall one was speaking but it was the other man who had her full attention. There was something about him, how he walked, how he paused when looking around, every movement impossibly controlled, how he scrutinized those who darted by him, his air of command, of self-assurance that only came from experience and mutual respect. Lily was wrong. He was the man who had assumed possession of Hunswick.

Without a doubt, Bronwyn knew she was looking at Deadeye de Gunnar, the new Lord Anscombe of Bassellmere.

Bronwyn leaned against the window frame, silently studying him as he made his way to the gatehouse. But just before he entered, he stopped and looked at the Great Hall, directly to the upper bedchamber windows it housed. One eye was closed, but the other was open and had caught her gaze, refusing to let it go. Her heart stammered and yet she could not look away. His face was a cold mask, hiding every emotion, and yet she knew exactly what he was thinking. He wanted the three of them gone, but especially her.

Then, a second later, he was out of sight. Bronwyn blinked and tried to gather her thoughts. Her pulse was only just starting to slow from its instantaneous reaction to him. He both excited and repelled her.

Constance had been right. The new Lord Anscombe was scarred and not just on the outside. Something Bronwyn understood better than anyone and just how it could change a person. Deadeye de Gunnar was not cruel, just unforgiving. He was no ordinary man and around him she would have to be careful. It was a good thing she and her sisters were leaving and even better that he had denied her request for an audience.

“I think you are right, Edythe,” Bronwyn mused as she moved away from the window and started to rummage through her things lying on the bed. Pulling out a white muslin mortarboard with an attached long thin veil, she grimaced and continued, “We should all wear our wimples. It would be best if we left quickly, quietly, and unseen.”

“And if he calls for me?” Lily whispered beseechingly.

“Then I shall be you,” Bronwyn confirmed. “I think you are right. The new Lord Anscombe is not one to be handled with flirtatious remarks.”

The last comment was made more to herself, but Edythe was too quick to let it lie. “And how do you think the new master of Hunswick should be handled?”

“At a distance,” Bronwyn answered. And without any compassion, she added to herself. From experience, she knew that sympathy was the last thing a person like him would want.

“You’re a stubborn, damn fool, Ranulf,” Tyr Dequhar huffed as he retreated back to the stables, leaving his best friend to discuss escort arrangements with his soldiers at the gatehouse. It was obvious Ranulf was not going to change his mind about evicting the three women—including his bride-to-be—from their home and without so much as a hello.

Tyr had known Ranulf for almost five years and was one of the very few who knew him well, but Tyr would never say fully. He doubted Ranulf ever let anyone know him completely. Then again, Tyr felt the same about keeping his own privacy and had found that Ranulf was one of the minority who respected that. Still, it was hard to keep silent about Ranulf’s unexpected decision to order the three women away and right before the holiday season.

Ranulf’s decision had not been out of character, and yet Tyr had been surprised at the vehemence behind it. Ranulf had not even been willing to listen to alternative ideas or even hear the old woman complete her request for an audience. And when Tyr had made a veiled attempt to ask Ranulf about his reasons, his friend had been gruff, almost severe, stating that once Laon’s daughters saw him, they wouldn’t want to stay. He was doing them a favor.

Tyr had heard Ranulf’s justification, he just didn’t believe it. His longtime comrade was not insecure and Tyr could not recall a single instance of his friend being concerned if someone was uncomfortable around him. Not his soldiers, other commanders, ladies of the court—not even the queen.

When Tyr had first met Ranulf, he had believed the scarred commander’s detachment to be a front, that Ranulf was secretly bothered by people’s reactions to him, for no one could be that emotionally remote. But after watching Ranulf’s cold demeanor for years, Tyr had come to actually believe it. Ranulf didn’t care…and yet, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was compelled to protect these women, even if it was from himself. The man was acting like a fool, and if his friend was standing in front of him, Tyr would probably say so again.

Ranulf stood mute for several seconds after Tyr left. If the insult had come from anyone else, he would have struck him, but he and Tyr had fought and led large numbers of men in several victorious battles. They both had accumulated sizable fortunes. Ranulf had let his build unknowing what else to do with it, but Tyr’s wealth had mysteriously disappeared.

Most believed that he wasted it on women, clothes, and drink, but Ranulf was never one of them. Whatever his seemingly playful and flirtatious friend was doing with his money, it was not unconscious or without forethought. Tyr’s riches had gone somewhere, but Ranulf knew better than to ask where or why. Tyr very rarely revealed anything about himself, and what Ranulf had learned about his friend came from deduction.

Tyr was Scottish and Ranulf suspected a Highlander due to his fluent use of Gaelic. He was also educated, making him from either wealth or a prominent family—most likely both. And while he was not nearly as lecherous rumors made him to be, Tyr was quite comely and consequently, could—and did—enjoy the ladies. But not a one would ever land his friend in any type of commitment. Tyr Dequhar was the only man Ranulf knew who was even more against the idea of marriage than himself. And the reasons why were a mystery.

Secrets, however, did not bother Ranulf. Every man had them. If he didn’t, then he was either still a boy and had not lived long enough to accumulate them, or was a braggart who could not be trusted to keep them. And besides, Ranulf had several of his own. His most recent, he had almost unwittingly exposed.

He hadn’t meant to stare at Bronwyn. But her dark penetrating eyes prevented him from looking away. Even at a distance they seemed to be able to peer behind his mask and see inside his soul. She wanted answers, reasons, the truth. He had forced himself to break their connection, glad she couldn’t see the details of what he really looked like. And based upon his latest actions and methods of evicting her, his angel would probably only view him as the devil.

Today’s encounter solidified his resolve. Until he was in full control of himself and once again uncaring of how others saw or reacted to him, Ranulf had no intention of meeting Lady Bronwyn or her sisters. And if last night’s inability to sleep was an indicator, it might be a long while before that time came.

A short, burly man with curly red-brown hair and matching beard entered the darkened room in the gatehouse. “They’re ready to leave, my lord.”

Ranulf waved Magnus over to where he stood in the dimly lit gatehouse. “Tristan, Gowan, Ansel, and Drake are going with you. One of you is to return at least every two days until I say otherwise. For now, you are in charge of the women’s welfare and I will hold you responsible if anything happens to them.” Ranulf held out his arm and Magnus clutched it. “If all is ready, depart and ride swiftly. By sundown they should be back and safe where they belong.”

If Magnus was nervous with the responsibility, he did not show it. With a sharp nod, he turned and left to see that his lord’s orders were obeyed. Ranulf followed him but stopped just inside the doorframe to scan for Bronwyn. His line of sight, however, was hampered by carts laden with food and provisions and those who were returning to their responsibilities at Syndlear. The small exiting group had become quite large.

Tyr, who had remained out of sight since their last encounter, popped into view and sauntered over with a grin he knew would aggravate Ranulf. “You can thank me later.”

Ranulf gestured to the mass starting to make their way out of the castle gates. “You’re responsible for this?”

“It looks like more are leaving than there are. The women needed a few families to help them or did you think that they should also do without servants, ladies’ maids, or even a cook? I could just see Magnus tackling the job.”

Ranulf grimaced. He had forgotten that Syndlear had been abandoned. “Where are they?”

“The women? Your future bride? Gone. They were the first to leave. So, you can finally escape this gatehouse.”

Ranulf’s brows popped up in a high arch of denial. “Listen, friend,” Tyr continued, “I won’t pry into why you care about what these women think, but don’t ask me to pretend that that’s not the reason behind this nonsense.”

Ranulf eyed his friend for a few seconds and then decided against refuting what was the unfortunate truth. “And just what would you have me do? Force them to be in my presence day after day?”

Tyr did nothing to hide his exasperation. “Not all women are like those of court, Ranulf.”

“No, but I still have a responsibility to protect Laon’s daughters, even if it is from me. It is better they should leave and save them the trouble of pretending not to be offended. Meanwhile, do me a favor and go make sure that Drake knows to stay in the back and help with the slower in the group.”

“Where’re you going?”

Ranulf shrugged and headed toward the round tower. “You know so much. You figure it out.”

Ranulf arrived at the tower steps and was about to enter when the frizzy-haired old woman who had practically sneered at him when he had refused an audience stepped into his path. “You don’t want to be doing that, my lord.”

“I could say the same for you,” Ranulf warned.

Constance held his gaze for several seconds and then moved aside, but she didn’t do so quietly. “Men like you have too much pride and for that you’ll pay a price.” She pointed to the stairwell. “If you enter this tower, I promise that you will have wished you spent just a few minutes with my mistress to learn about this place.”

Her direct stare held no shock, pity, or revulsion at his missing eye. If anything, the woman was quite indignant at his behavior to her mistress and was openly letting him know so. Ranulf found himself surprised by her reaction and consequently, was more abrupt with his reply than he attended. “You’re one of their maids, are you not? Then why are you still here? Leave and tend to their needs. There is no one left who needs your advice or assistance.”

Constance refused to be intimidated. “Oh, you are very wrong, my lord. There is you. Then again, maybe you’re right about me leaving. I never did have the patience for fools.”

Less than a second later she was gone with the insult still hanging in the air. Ranulf considered chasing her down, but he suspected that just might be what she wanted. Besides, he wanted to watch the group—and Bronwyn—as they left. So he entered the structure and began to climb. The stone stairwell wound in a tight corkscrew up four floors to the roof. He didn’t know who lived in the tower as he had not seen anyone enter or leave the structure since his arrival. He had glimpsed a few large items at the bottom in the shadows, but they appeared untouched for some time.

Ranulf pushed open the latched ceiling door and climbed up onto the tower roof. Leaning against the battlements, he surveyed Hunswick.

Located in the woodsier portion of Cumbria, the castle and the lake behind it were surrounded by trees. This made local game plentiful, but farms more distant, enemies invisible, and a strong defense difficult. At least the key defense structures had been converted to stone. But the castle had been originally built around a village and therefore was not laid out for protection, but for improved living. The place had several niceties, such as a chapel, a dovecote, and several wooden lean-tos so that villagers could just come and live practically in the lap of their lord.

The people of Hunswick were far from numerous, unlike some large castles where one could hardly move around the yard without tripping over some child, person, or object. Here there was ample room in the spacious bailey, perfect for the upcoming Twelfthtide festivities.

Ranulf had never really participated in the merriment that made up the season, but he suspected that these women did and that their people looked forward to each day’s events. For a second, he felt a brief pang of guilt that he was making them move when it was obvious all the revelry would be at Hunswick. Then he remembered how people had reacted the handful of times he had participated in the holiday and his resolve once again grew firm.

They and I will be better off if they are in their own home and not mine, he promised himself.

Bronwyn pushed aside a low-lying branch as she moved through one of the thickets outside Hunswick. Giving her reins a light tug to the right, she nudged her horse out of the group’s way before pausing to yank off the uncomfortable headdress.

“Stopping?” Edythe asked, halting her own progress.

Bronwyn gave her head a shake. “Just for a minute or two. Never could stand these things,” she said, tossing her wimple into the satchel hanging off her horse’s right hindquarters. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up in a while. I want to make sure everyone is doing well.”

Edythe looked back at Hunswick and shrugged. She had always preferred Syndlear to Hunswick and was glad to be going back to her childhood home. She didn’t have the memories Bronwyn had of the place or Lily’s aspirations of going somewhere new and exciting. She gave Bronwyn a wave and squeezed her lower legs until the horse loped off out of sight.

Glad to be alone, Bronwyn reached up to massage her scalp and untangle the dark gold out-of-control waves as best she could with her fingers. The morning sun was almost overhead, proving only a half hour had passed since they had vacated Hunswick. Besides the one or two nearby villagers that had made clear their disapproval of the situation, no one had approached them or caught up to them, requesting their return. And judging by the stone-faced soldier who had paused on the other side of the clearing waiting for her to continue, no one was going to be coming.

She wasn’t surprised. Whatever his reasons, the man she suspected to be the new Lord Anscombe was not someone who appeared to be indecisive or who made a habit of changing his mind. Normally, she liked an unwavering firmness of character in a person, and found it to be an unfortunately rare quality in several leaders—the previous king for one. Today, however, the unyielding decision had cost her the one place she had ever felt safe and at peace.

Bronwyn gave herself a mental shake, reminding herself that the new lord had not taken anything from her that she was not just about to relinquish in a few days and in fact had done her a favor. She was about to urge her horse to rejoin the group when a loud yelp followed by several half curses broke the silence. A second later a bedraggled Constance came into view. Leaves were in her hair and her short legs were squeezing the horse she was riding so hard it forced her plump body forward on the saddle, making her off balance. To compensate for the unsteady feeling, the old nursemaid had a tight grip on the horse’s mane with one hand and, with the other, clutched the leather reins so firmly that the poor animal could hardly turn its head or make adjustments to avoid most of the thick foliage on the path.

“Damn man, forcing me to do this,” Constance hissed. “And you, too,” she aimed at the horse. “Remember that I found a way on top of you and I won’t be getting off until I’m ready.”

“Well, I hope that is soon,” Bronwyn chuckled, causing the old woman’s head to snap around with such force she almost fell off. “Whatever are you doing, Constance? I thought you would want to stay with that new farmer you’ve been so keen on.”

Once the horse had stopped, Constance released the mane clutched in her palm and smoothed back her own crazed strays, which were now glued to the sweat on her forehead. “Oh, he can live without me for a few days,” she replied, trying valiantly to sound calm and serene and not the harried picture she presented. “Wasn’t so sure if you could, though. No one knows you like I, so I came to see after you myself.”

Bronwyn cocked a single brow and crossed her arms, mocking her. “Really? On a horse?” she asked, knowing how much her nursemaid hated riding.

“Obviously on a horse. How else could I catch up to you? And don’t look at me that way, I can ride. I haven’t fallen off once.”

“That’s because you’re riding Merry and she is too tolerant and too old to buck you off despite your grip and your seat,” Bronwyn chided, ignoring the old woman’s confusion as she looked down at her saddle. “Constance, you hate riding so don’t ask me to believe you are here by choice. I know you. If you truly thought I needed help, you would have perched yourself on one of the carts before it left. So get down off that poor animal and tell me exactly what really prompted this supposedly selfless stunt.”

Constance grunted and slid off the gentle horse’s back. She moved several steps away, took a deep breath, and released it, visibly showing a decrease in tension. “I had about as much choice in leaving as you did. Someone must have told the new master what I was to you three, so after I warned him about the North Tower, he ordered me upon this beast and bade me to catch up to you. The man shouldn’t be called Deadeye but Dead Fool.”

Bronwyn saw from the corner of her eye that the soldier still quietly and patiently waiting to resume their journey had heard the insult and was visibly shocked. “Constance, maybe you shouldn’t speak that way at least until the new lord and his friends have come to know you and appreciate your sense of…humor.”

The old woman glanced at the soldier Bronwyn had indicated and let go a loud, impertinent snort. “Worried for me, are you? You should be worried for that arrogant goose,” Constance instructed as she waved her arm back at the castle. “I told him not to climb that deathtrap of a tower, but he ignored me and ordered me here. I saw him standing atop looking over the battlements just as I left the gatehouse, damn fool. Even called him that and it didn’t make a bit of difference.”

Instantly the world around Bronwyn stopped and she was back in time. Screams filled the air and the thick smoke made it impossible to see. She could taste the dust filling her lungs and she couldn’t breathe. The North Tower had killed five that day, including her mother. And it would happen again.

She had to go back.

“You,” Bronwyn shouted toward Drake, still in shock after hearing Constance’s blatant and irreverent references to Ranulf, “catch up to the others and tell them that I will be joining them later.” Her voice rang out, authoritative and in command, leaving no room for discussion or disagreement. She then swung her horse around and urged it into a gallop in the direction of Hunswick.

Drake had been unprepared for the sudden change in Bronwyn’s demeanor from one of a gentle noblewoman to someone obviously well versed and comfortable in exercising power.

Seeing the confounded look on the young soldier’s face, Constance offered some advice. “You can try and follow, but you’ll never catch her. And even if you did, you would then have to explain just why you thought her welfare more important than that of her sisters, which trust me, you don’t want to have to defend. So if I were you, I would do as instructed and see to the safety of the group. For one thing is for certain, that doesn’t include her ladyship anymore.” Then she marched over to her horse, made a quick silent prayer, and struggled back onto the mare’s back, cursing all the while.

When she saw the dark pacing figure on top of the North Tower, Bronwyn’s heart stopped. She had been right. Deadeye de Gunnar was not the tall soldier but the brawny one, and he was oblivious to the deathtrap upon which he stood. The North Tower had been the last structure built and solely by nonmasons. As a result, the fir chosen for the floor beams had been cut too early. By the time the stone walls were complete and the floors installed, no one had realized how decomposed the beams had become.

She gave the reins a sharp yank and her horse immediately came to a halt a few feet away from the tower’s plinth. She threw her head back and stared at the menacing man glaring at her from above.

She had hoped her mere arrival would cause him to come down and rant at her for returning, but the new lord instead stood immobile, holding her gaze either unknowing or unbelieving of the danger he was in. “Get down from that tower now,” Bronwyn commanded.

Any other time, any other place or situation, she would have been conciliatory in her request. But this was a demand, and after months of running Hunswick, she had become accustomed to being obeyed when she used a certain tone of voice.

For a second, Ranulf wondered if he was having a waking nightmare. His angel had returned without warning, riding up to just below where he stood, and stared at him, seeing every flaw, every scar, every hideous feature that caused women to shrink away. But not her. She just held his gaze, unflinching, and then ordered him off his own tower. The woman was impossible. And she needed to leave. “This is no longer your home, my lady.”

“You think that is why I came back? For Hunswick? I’m here to save your life.”

Her dark eyes were glittering with anger and her waist-length curly hair had so many corkscrew tendrils that it bordered on unruly. Her raised chin made clear that she would not shrink from a challenge and the rigidity of her back caused the scooped neck of her bliaut to emphasize the swell of her breasts. He had never seen anything lovelier.

Ranulf took a firm grip on his resolve. He had to stay calm and rational if he had a chance of convincing her that it was she who would be yielding and not he. He had more to lose. “I don’t care why you’ve returned. But you will be leaving, either on your own power or by one of my men’s.”

Bronwyn shuddered at the dangerous softness in his voice. His lordship actually meant to haul her physically off his property. Well, he needed to learn that he wasn’t the only one who could be stubborn. And no one could be as mulish as she, especially when she was in the right. “We can discuss your meaningless threats after you stop acting like a fool and get off that tower.”

Ranulf closed his eyes in acute frustration. Any temptation to do her bidding just vanished. His angel may be beautiful, but she was also a sprite…with claws. “I don’t think so,” he said with as much disinterest he could muster, hoping that it would aggravate her. Seeing her annoyed expression, he smiled. “It’s a fine place up here and the weather is quite comfortable. I might just stay here all night, and as lord of this castle, I guess I can…foolish or not.”

Ranulf resumed his pacing. He didn’t know why he was engaging in an argument with her. It was totally out of character. But what did she expect riding in, regal and self-confident, her dark gold hair flowing in the breeze, and then staring at him, undaunted, almost as if she didn’t see what couldn’t be missed.

With each step, small snapping sounds echoed in her ears. Bronwyn wanted to run up there and throttle him. Four stories above her, he wasn’t close, but neither was he far. She could make out every feature. Slicing across his brow and a fraction of his cheekbone, the deep scar—part burn, part laceration—was noticeable, but not horrific. His left eye was clearly gone, causing his mottled eyelid to remain closed. It would have looked like he was winking at her except for his other eye. Gold-tinged, encircled by black, it was cold. The man was unmistakably angry. But then, so was she. The new lord was acting like a stubborn ass.

“You narrow-minded man. These people need a leader, not someone full of misplaced pride who has yet to come to terms with the unfairness of life. Go back to Normandy and sulk some more, but get off that tower.” Bronwyn heard the sharp intake of breaths behind her, but refused to turn around or give up. She was creating a spectacle, and in any other circumstance, she would be mortified. But if it drove him down, it would be worth it.

Ranulf stopped in midstride and crossed his arms, accentuating his muscular build. No longer did he need to wonder if she could see him. She saw not only his injury, but much more. The pain it still caused him and suddenly he felt weak in her eyes. “You like to order men around, don’t you? Test their manhood? It didn’t work yesterday in the forest and it won’t today. I am not a man to be provoked, and my lady, you are trying my patience.”

The shock coursing through Bronwyn was evident. He was the one. Her rescuer, her hero, the one she had wished to meet, the one she had thought bold, daring, and courageous had not been one of his soldiers, but Deadeye de Gunnar himself. How many times did she need to learn this lesson? Chivalrous heroes did not exist. The world no longer made them. There were none to be found. The last two were her father and Lord Anscombe and they were both gone.

“You, my lord,” Bronwyn said through gritted teeth, “are far from the nobleman who previously ruled this castle and these lands. You are nothing but a mercenary with a title.”

Her lips were drawn tight and hot, furious tears burned her eyes. It suddenly occurred to Ranulf that his angel felt real fury and it unnerved him. Women did not attach strong emotions to him, and for a flitting moment, he longed for her to smile at him instead. He wondered what it would be like to have her feel, not anger, and certainly not compassion, but real desire for him. The idea was overwhelming…and maddening.

“I never claimed to be a nobleman!” Ranulf bellowed.

Bronwyn cringed. Until now, he had kept his voice menacing, but low and controlled. His outburst had been startling. “Don’t shout at me!” she instinctively hollered back.

“Why? You’ve been shouting at me!” he returned. Ranulf honestly didn’t know what was going on. He never yelled. Then again, no one confronted and countered him either.

Bronwyn opened and closed her mouth twice before she realized just what she was doing and how idiotic she must appear. Another loud crack rang out. The beam sustaining his weight would last not much longer. “What am I going to do?” she muttered to herself and was about to direct her horse to the gatehouse when a deep chuckle startled her.

“I can’t wait to find out.”

Bronwyn’s whipped her head around, spying the tall good-looking soldier she had seen earlier. With tousled, shoulder-length red-brown hair, he was much more handsome up close, especially as he was smiling and flashing his dimples. Another time, she might have admired them a little longer, but her mind was consumed with only one man—the most frustrating, stubborn one of her acquaintance.

She urged her horse toward the grinning giant and then pointed toward the tower. “You’re his friend, are you not? I saw you together earlier and you were anything but subservient. I assume you are not one of his soldiers, but someone he trusts. Someone he will listen to.”

Both of Tyr’s brows arched in surprise. He cast a glance toward Ranulf and almost started chuckling again. His always composed friend was staring at them and he was anything but unruffled. “I have never known Ranulf to heed anyone’s counsel but his own, but aye, I am his friend.”

“Then do something!” Bronwyn hissed.

Tyr’s hazel eyes suddenly grew wide with mocking interest. “Like what?”

“Like…what?” Bronwyn stammered, wondering if the man was stupid or just intentionally aggravating. “Unless you want to see your friend dead, convince him that he needs to get off that tower immediately.”

Tyr’s face broke into a huge grin. He couldn’t help it. The woman was outrageous. She was also the answer to every question that he had been having concerning his friend’s baffling behavior the past two days. This wild beauty had Ranulf in knots and it was no wonder. One didn’t encounter women with soft curvaceous bodies, flashing blue eyes, and wisps of sun-kissed hair very often in court or in the battlefield. Ranulf had obviously seen her yesterday and had not been prepared. That was why she and her sisters had been forced to leave so quickly. Ranulf didn’t want to see her. More to the point—he didn’t want her to see him.

“If you want him to get down, then leave.”

“I cannot leave, whoever you are, until I know that the new lord is safe and able to assume his role and lead these people.”

“My name is Tyr. Tyr Dequhar.”

Bronwyn narrowed her gaze just slightly. She could have sworn that he had been about to embellish his name significantly with a title, but had just stopped himself in time. As to why, she would have to discover another time. “Then, Tyr, would you help me?”

“He’s made it clear that as long as you are here, he’s not coming down. So why do you stay? I think my friend intrigues you far more than he ignites your ire.”

“And you find that amusing.”

Tyr nodded, his infectious grin growing only larger. “If you knew Ranulf better, you would know why.”

Bronwyn swallowed and her eyes grew misty. “I only know that the North Tower kills. It took my mother and it will take your friend.”

Ranulf stared at the couple below. He watched Tyr assess his angel and knew when his friend deemed someone attractive. Something was said and Ranulf watched as Tyr’s expression changed from one of amusement to rapt attention. Tyr reached out and took her hand in his, not out of desire, but genuine concern. Hot, bitter jealousy twisted inside Ranulf. Bronwyn had been entrusted to him, and him alone.

Ranulf pivoted and stomped toward the stairs. If she wanted him down, to see him face-to-face, Lady Bronwyn le Breton had just gotten her wish. But before he could take the first descending step, a sudden sharp explosive noise filled the air.

Bronwyn raced toward the gatehouse and into the courtyard. Once inside, she jumped off her horse and ran to the tower. It had happened again.

Her mother had been on the ground floor, helping to look for something buried in all the stored items, when the first floor had given way. She had died instantly, crushed from the debris. This time, the top two floors had collapsed. In horror she had watched Ranulf disappear as a thunderous sound of wood breaking and coming to a crashing halt echoed in the valley.

No one could have survived the fall.

Bronwyn approached the tower, coughing, waving her hands in a futile attempt to clear the air of dust. Like before, the massive stone walls remained erect, but inside the structure was chaos and devastation. Shouts were coming from everywhere as people started dashing inside to search for the new lord’s body. Bronwyn couldn’t move. She just stood transfixed in shocked horror.

A strong firm grip encircled her upper arm and pulled. “My lady. You need to leave. It’s not safe here.”

Bronwyn blinked. “It was my fault. I should have left. He didn’t come down because I had to stay. To see him. He saved me and I just wanted…” Tears formed and fell.

Then she saw him. Ranulf was lying near the top of the tower on the stairs that had been built into the stone structure. Bronwyn wrenched free of Tyr’s grasp and leapt up the stairs before he could stop her.

Ranulf felt cool fingertips stroking his cheek and decided he was dreaming. His angel had returned and was whispering softly into his ear and he longed to know what she was saying. As consciousness took hold, he realized they were words of fear and remorse and he knew then that it was not a dream, but a nightmare, and if he were to open his eyes, his angel would be there, looking at him…with pity.

Ranulf reached out with his working arm and snatched her wrist. “Don’t look at me,” he hissed. His confidence had already taken a hit when she dared to argue with him. No one did that. No one.

“Shh. Don’t try to move.”

Ranulf tried once again to push her away, but his arm wouldn’t cooperate. His shoulder hurt, but that pain was negligible compared to the one in his head. “Leave me,” he pleaded. Never had he begged before, but he could hear it in his voice, imploring her to go.

Soft lips caressed his right ear. “Please, my lord. Let me save you as you saved me.”

Ranulf opened his eyes and tried to lift his head. Intense pain shot through his temple and the world started spinning around him, making him very nauseous. He had already made a complete idiot of himself. She was tending to his shoulder as if he were an unskilled soldier with his first wound and unaccustomed to dealing with pain. He was not going to add vomiting to the day’s events.

Her fingers reached the edge of his tunic and were about to pull back the opening to further examine the wound when he reached up and stopped her. “Don’t. Get someone else. Anyone else.”

Bronwyn was about to argue when comprehension sank in. She should have realized that such a severe burn injury would not be localized to just his face. The man neither wanted nor would get sympathy from her because of his past wounds. Everyone had nightmares, and he obviously was stilling dealing with his.

“Why? I’m not afraid. Are you?”

Ranulf recognized a challenge when one was issued, but he could not recall the last time someone had made such a direct one. He held her gaze for a long moment. “Only of you, angel.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? You look like one.”

“Then the fall has made you delusional, and the sooner we get you off these stairs and remove the wood lodged in your shoulder, the better.”

Hearing that he was not on the ground and that they were about to move him, Ranulf was in the process of saying “no” when someone jerked up his shoulders and head, causing the world to grow dark.

Ranulf’s last thought was that Tyr and the old lady had been right. He really was a fool.

Ranulf awoke to the smell of flowers and the tantalizing scent of woman. Once again he had the unfamiliar sensation of being caressed. This time the feeling of fingers ran softly across his forehead and into his hair again and again, completely overwhelming his other senses, including the painful banging in his head that matched the beat of his pulse. He concentrated on the gentle ministrations and listened to the raspy tones of his angel issuing instructions. Her low, sultry voice did not carry the songbird qualities heard so often in court, but it was soft, clear, and possessed a dangerous quality that could awaken his once-dead heart.

Ranulf held his breath. The silky sounds had changed from sultry tones to playful ones…and they were chiding him.

“You’re smiling, my lord,” Bronwyn whispered into his ear so that no one else could hear. “Not the large type of grin your friend wears so easily, but enough for me to know that you are awake.”

Ranulf blinked his one working eye and saw the face of his angel peering down at him. Her hair had been haphazardly pulled back in a loose braid that at any minute threatened to fall apart. The angry midnight eyes he had witnessed from afar were not nearly as dark as he had originally believed. Lined with concern, they were a deep misty blue, the color of the sea after a storm. He could see no pity or fear in the overly large pools. Only one other pair of blue eyes had ever looked at him that way. Sir Laon le Breton’s, her father.

Ranulf discovered not long after his injury that only a certain type of woman would be attracted to his bed. Tyr and a few others had tried to convince him otherwise, and usually it was a mercenary heart he held in his arms, attempting to woo him for his money. But there were a few times, when the woman he held looked back at him with such cold detachment it made him feel only lonelier and less of a man. Three years ago after a highly unpleasant encounter, he decided to forgo female companionship altogether, and until today he had never been tempted to change his mind.

Ranulf could not remember ever wanting any woman more. But indifference from her would be a soul killer. He suspected that if he should try, she might indulge him in a kiss, but he didn’t want her pity or her compassion. He desired something else. Something so rare that he had not once encountered it in the last decade. He needed Bronwyn le Breton to see him as a man.

A knock on the door pulled Bronwyn away from his side. Perturbed by her sudden absence, Ranulf shifted slightly to see the old nursemaid followed by Tyr enter the room. Unable to stop himself in time, he groaned. Bronwyn immediately flew back to his side, but Ranulf could see his tall friend arch a brow inquisitively and flash him a knowing grin as he crossed his arms. Tyr had seen him injured—and more seriously—too many times to believe that pain was behind Ranulf’s grimace. His friend recognized Ranulf’s desire to be alone and apparently was enjoying himself too much to care.

Bronwyn licked her lips, drawing his attention back to her. “When the floor fell, part of one of the beams broke off and lodged itself in your shoulder. I managed to take it out and slow the bleeding, but I am going to have to sew the wound shut and treat it. I’m afraid it will be very painful.”

Ranulf watched as she bit her bottom lip, worried at the agony she was about to inflict on him. But all he could think about was how he wanted to pull her mouth down to his and discover just what heaven tasted like.

“Do you need me to get you something to bite down on?”

Behind her, Ranulf could see Tyr cover his mouth and fight to keep from laughing aloud. The damn man was enjoying this too much.

Bronwyn poked him. “Do you?”

Ranulf blinked and refocused on what she was asking. “Do I what?” he groused.

Bronwyn issued him a scathing look, but the nursemaid was not consoled. “Maybe he isn’t right in the head,” Constance muttered, standing over him. “Do you know your own name, my lord?”

Ranulf scowled at the interfering old woman and said, “Ranulf to my friends, Lord Anscombe to my people, and Deadeye to everyone else. You choose.”

The response from both women was immediate. The one from the nursemaid was as he intended. After shooting him a withering look, the wild, gray-haired woman spun around out of his sight. Bronwyn’s expression, once tender and concern-filled, had transformed into one of exasperation. “It’s not his head that you should be worried about, Constance. After years of dealing with my sisters, I thought you would recognize obstinacy at the expense of pride,” she purred lightheartedly, giving him a wink.

Ranulf almost choked as a result. Unprepared, he started coughing, and for the first time, the pain in his shoulder rivaled the one in his head. Her anger had been stimulating and her compassion disarming, but he wasn’t sure he could handle this playful side of her without completely embarrassing himself.

“Stop moving,” Bronwyn ordered, “else you’ll start bleeding all over again and this time it will be on your own bed. Constance, would you go to my room and bring the black bag and a needle? And Tyr,” she said, keeping her focus on Ranulf and his shoulder, “take yourself out of here. Your friend does not need your type of support right now. Come back when silent smirks and dampened laughter will be welcomed.”

Unrestrained laughter filled the room. “Damn, Ranulf, the women you meet and order away. Perhaps it is I who should have been enlisting you for female help all these years,” Tyr teased and then ducked out of the room before Ranulf could retaliate.

Constance followed, leaving Ranulf and Bronwyn alone. He suddenly felt uneasy. “Where am I?”

Bronwyn stood, walked over to a large chest, and pulled out several old, worn linen shirts that could only have belonged to his cousin, the late Lord Anscombe. She grabbed one sleeve and started ripping. “We are in the Tower Keep of Hunswick and this is the bedchamber of the previous Lord Anscombe. Now, it is yours.” She pointed to the double doors across from her and to his left. “There is your day room.”

Ranulf studied her as she ripped each garment into wide strips. “And you are the daughter of Sir Laon le Breton, my single vassal.”

“My father is dead. I would have thought you had heard.”

Her voice had trembled and Ranulf felt a wave of guilt overcome him. “I did and I’m sorry, angel.”

Bronwyn stopped abruptly and captured his gaze. “Don’t call me that.”

Ranulf mentally scolded himself. The epithet had just slipped out, but her reaction to it had been severe and it had not been due to his being too personal. “Then what should I call you?”

Bronwyn licked her lips and swallowed. Then after several seconds, she took a deep breath and said faintly, “Lillabet, my lord.”

Ranulf fought to keep his face immobile. He had not met Laon’s youngest daughter, but he knew one thing for certain. The woman in front of him was not his betrothed. Why would Bronwyn say she was?

She was clearly far from comfortable with the idea of lying, but yet she had still willingly entered its treacherous domain. Ranulf was tempted to expose her falsehood, but decided not to at the last moment. Bronwyn was shaking, just slightly, as if she was nervous. Practicing deceit was completely unnatural for her. She didn’t like it. Ranulf wondered why she felt the need to lie now, with him and about her identity. The surest way not to discover the truth was to confront her. Still, he couldn’t call her by a name that wasn’t her own. “You don’t look like a Lillabet.”

Bronwyn finished ripping the linen shirt and gathered all the torn pieces into a pile. “And just what do I look like?”

“I told you. An angel, and until you give me a good reason not to call you that, I believe I shall continue.”

Bronwyn clamped her jaw tight. In truth, she was relieved. She had no intentions of staying for any length of time, but being called Lillabet would be a constant reminder of just who he was…and for whom he was intended.

A single loud knock boomed, and without waiting for an invitation, Constance marched in and handed Bronwyn a bowl, a black bag, and a needle and thread. “He won’t like it.”

“Thank you, Constance,” Bronwyn said casually, taking the items. “You don’t have to stay. But could you ask someone to send up some yarrow tea?”

Constance gave a brief nod and headed for the door. Just as she was about to step through, she looked back and gave Ranulf a contemptuous look. “If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchens. And you,” Constance directed to Ranulf, “lord or not, you hit her and there’ll be hell to pay.”

Hearing the threat, Ranulf tried to sit up and was about to order Constance back in to explain herself when Bronwyn pushed his shoulder down to keep him prone. “Just what did she mean by that? Why would I hit you?”

“Are you hurt anywhere else that I don’t know about?”

“Answer my question!”

“If you can’t tell me, I can always check,” Bronwyn said with a teasing smile as she reached out to pull back his already ripped shirt and reveal some more of his chest.

Ranulf clutched her wrist. Falling hadn’t felt good, and he knew he was bruised. Just how bad he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want her to find out either. “I thought maidens were not supposed to see a man.”

Bronwyn’s smile deepened into laughter and she moved to mix some of the contents in the black bag with the water in the bowl. “And just how do you know me to be a maiden?”

Ranulf blatantly raked his gaze over her once and then returned to meet her eyes. “I would know.”

Bronwyn scraped the edge of the bowl. “Mmm. You ever been married?”

“No,” Ranulf muttered as he watched her spread the nasty olive green-and-brown paste on a strip of cloth.

“Someone claimed your heart?”

“No,” came his sharp reply. Suddenly, he realized why she was pretending to be Lillabet. She was doing it to protect her sister…from him. Bronwyn wasn’t different. She was like the rest, just a little better at hiding it. “I’ve been busy doing other things with my life and haven’t the time or inclination to spend energy wooing a silly female.”

Only the disappearance of her smile indicated that Bronwyn had heard him and the bitterness in his voice. Picking up the needle and the cloth, she came to sit down beside him. “First I am going to sew that wound up. It is going to hurt. Normally I would give you some ale, but it might not be wise with an impending fever.”

Her playful banter in both expression and tone had vanished. His harsh words were the cause and it bothered him. “I don’t have a fever,” he countered, reminding himself that she was duplicitous not only in nature but in identity.

“Not yet, maybe, but with this wound, you will have one.” Bronwyn reached out to pull back the opening to his shirt and hesitated when his hand covered hers. “Do you need some wood to bite down on?”

“Do you?” he demanded, knowing that a deep puncture wound could be unsightly, but nothing compared to the burned scarred flesh that surrounded it.

“No, my lord. I’m not afraid, and I promise, I have seen worse.”

The seriousness behind her words could not be faked and Ranulf released his grip, understanding at last just why this woman could be so unperturbed with his appearance. He had been drenched in the obvious since the moment Bronwyn had first looked at him with her steadfast gaze, seeing his mottled skin and missing eye. She had to have seen something—something far worse than his injuries—to be so unaffected. And if that was true, the sight had to have been grisly, far too grisly for a lady.

Freed, Bronwyn bent over him and started cutting away the material around his flesh. “Once I’m done here, I’ll apply that poultice, which I warn you, can be very painful, but it will help with the bleeding and accelerate healing. Unless the fever takes too strong of a hold, you will live.”

Ranulf shook his head. “I don’t get fevers.”

“We’ll see,” Bronwyn murmured as she dipped a clean cloth into some water and started to cleanse the wound. Then she picked up the needle and asked, “Are you ready?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, don’t worry about Constance if you do hit me. There’s a good chance you will and I won’t hold it against you. I’ll know it was just the pain.”

Ranulf’s mouth twisted with pride. “I’ve been injured before and I’ve managed not to hit anyone.”

“If you say so,” Bronwyn replied.

Ranulf felt the painful pierce of being stabbed and let go a grunt. Ashamed she should see him so weak, he closed his eyes and counted each sharp prick and pull. After twelve, she tied off the string and sliced the end off with a dagger.

Then, a minute later, white hot agony seared his skin and wound. Ranulf fought from crying out but his hand instinctively reached out for hers and squeezed. His grasp had to have hurt and yet she held on and he didn’t feel so alone. Her father had made him feel that same way. “I’m so sorry, angel. I tried everything to save him. I didn’t know…”

“Shhh, whatever happened, no one blames you.”

“Angel…”

Bronwyn felt him suddenly relax and knew he was unconscious once again.