Knight Triumphant Read online

  Using very efficiently.

  She thought about the plaque with his coat-of-arms that so disturbed her and in a frenzy, started looking about the room for a weapon—something she could use to hack the offensive plaque to pieces.

  There was nothing in the room that even remotely resembled a weapon. As well as being redecorated, the room had been thoroughly stripped of any item that might be dangerous.

  Sounds still came from the window. She wandered back to it, and realized that although she might destroy the coat-of-arms—which seemed to have a will of its own and the ability to return to her wall on its own after it had been removed—she could, indeed, dispose of it. All she had to do was throw it out the window.

  But not now.

  Not while the men worked in the courtyard.

  The training had apparently come to an end while she had been searching the room. As she looked out now, she saw that dusk was falling. There was a lone horseman there, riding hard against a straw dummy with a head that seemed to have been fashioned of cabbage. The horseman slashed with his sword—and brought the cabbage down.

  He trotted off, then turned, and came to look at the fruits of his labor. He looked up then, as if aware that he was being watched.

  It was Thayer. His face split into a broad smile, and he waved to her. He called out to someone near him, and a moment later two more riders joined him.

  Timothy and Brandon.

  The three of them waved.

  She waved back.

  Thayer watched her a moment longer, then leaned over and whispered something to Timothy, who in turn whispered to Brandon. The three rode off in different directions, then came at one another, charging. She gasped, fearful for their lives.

  Then she realized that it was a mock charge they had taken. When the three met, they halfway fell from their horses and pretended to rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall again, then reach their saddles to manage a sitting position, only to fall over the other way. She laughed out loud, clapping at their antics.

  Then, the three of them straightened on their horses, forming a line, serious and not moving. They lifted their hands in a salute and quickly rode away. She frowned, staring at the now empty courtyard, and felt a strange tingling of ice along her spine. She spun around. Eric, in his mail and tunic, his sword still buckled at his side, was so close behind her that it was amazing she hadn’t felt his touch.

  She clutched the linen sheet more tightly, her breath catching in her throat. But it seemed that he had little interest in her; he had merely been curious regarding her entertainment at the window, and seemed amused himself at the show the men had presented.

  But then his eyes touched hers. Blue and direct.

  “Where is it?” His tone was curt.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “The coat-of-arms.”

  “I have taken it down.”

  “And it will be put back up.”

  “And I will take it down again. It’s my prison. Where I have dutifully and obediently remained. I’ve given you no trouble, and therefore, you’ve no right to enter without warning, without knocking. I have kept my silence and my distance, and—”

  “And you are afraid of what the men will think, because I’m standing behind you at the window while you are all but naked?”

  “I am not all but naked.”

  “My lady, you are. And may I suggest strongly that you stay away from windows when you are so undressed?”

  “May I suggest you refrain from entering? Especially without knocking.”

  “Actually, I did knock. You were too involved with the show to hear.”

  “When no one responds to a knock at a door, it means you should go away.”

  “When you don’t respond, I have to enter, to be certain that you have not drowned.”

  “I assure you, I will not drown.”

  “There are those in the kitchen who are afraid that you bathe so often that you will remove your skin, and die. It surely can’t be healthful to sit so often in soap and water.”

  “Please assure them that I am well, will not drown, and do not believe that bathing causes any harm.”

  “I shall do so. Where’s the plaque?”

  “I don’t know. It’s simply disappeared. Perhaps you would be so kind as to do the same.”

  He turned, and for a moment she believed that he would really leave. He merely unbuckled his sword belt, cast it at the foot of her bed, and sat in the chair by her fire.

  She stared at him.

  “The plaque, Igrainia.”

  “The fire will eventually heat that mail, you know. And your flesh will heat and burn, no matter what you’re wearing beneath it.”

  “It will take some time for that to occur. Get the coat-of-arms, Igrainia. I’m in no mood to tear apart the room.”

  “I’m in no mood to have you in it.”

  “Produce the plaque, and I will leave.”

  “Don’t you have more pressing battles to fight?”

  “Not at this particular moment. By the way, you’re losing your towel, my lady.”

  She flushed, realizing that her hold was slipping.

  “Lord, let me help you. I don’t mean to be barbaric and uncouth and forget all my manners.”

  She was amazed to find him instantly before her, reaching for the towel in a pretense of help. His way of helping was to seize the linen sheet. He held it, near enough for her to grab; and stood, near enough to touch. She was alarmed by the trembling that began in her limbs, by the sense of fire that seemed to snake and tease along her spine. The urge to lash out was almost overwhelming, yet she was afraid, very afraid, not of what the violence of his reaction might be, but just that he would touch her in return. And so she stood, several seconds, so very aware of his face, of every line and angle, the breadth of cheekbone, set of jaw, width of fine, piercing eyes. She drew in a deep breath, and that simple act seemed to bring her ever closer to him, but if they touched . . .

  The fire in his eyes was deceptive. He was as cold as the steel links that covered his body beneath the tunic.

  “Let’s see,” he said slowly. His tone was deep and quiet, husky. “You’re the one who likes to barter, Igrainia. A towel—for a plaque.”

  Reason returned.

  She met his eyes, her own narrowed and sharp, and she held his gaze, remembering just how deeply he disdained her.

  “I will only remove it from the wall again.”

  “And I will put it back—again and again.”

  “Good, then you may find it.”

  She turned on her heel, and tried to walk with dignity to the tub. Once there, she made haste, however, slipping back into the water and sinking down until only her head and neck were visible over the rim.

  There was only one serious flaw to her determination—the water had grown quite cold. However, she had started her course. She didn’t intend to stray from it.

  He walked back to the chair by the fire and sat.

  She lowered her eyes, wondering why she was so continually determined to fight battles she couldn’t win.

  “I will remove it the second you leave!” she said a little desperately.

  “You will still give it to me.”

  “No.”

  He lifted his hand. “I shouldn’t leave too quickly anyway. . . it’s probably best for the men to believe that I am drowning my grief in the arms of the dead lord’s widow.”

  Her fingers gripped the edge of the tub. “With such a witch as I?”

  “You’re young, at the least.”

  She could hear her nails grating against the wood.

  “But English.”

  “Most men are not concerned with nationality, and many may even find a black-haired witch appealing.” He sighed with impatience. “After all, in the dark, what does it matter?” There was an emptiness in his tone, a stygian void. She lowered her head, shaking, miserable, very sorry for them both, and yet aware of the deep slashes of war that lay between them,
and he remained the triumphant enemy who had never faltered in his quest, no matter the circumstances.

  He rose suddenly as she sat in thought, and her head jerked up with alarm. He was at the side of the tub, heedless of the water when he reached in to pull her out. For a moment she was against his form, the water running from her body soaking his tunic, the mail beneath it pressing into her flesh. Her eyes met his with a true rush of alarm, and yet, no sound left her lips, she was so stunned by his action. But he did no more than set her firmly on the soft Persian rug before the fire, seize the towel from the floor, and wrap it around her. “So, you’re determined to freeze as well as scrub away your flesh,” he muttered. He was at her back, his hands upon her, as he wrapped the large linen bath sheet around her. Then she was standing alone, still silent and stunned.

  After a moment, she realized that he must have seen the plaque behind the trunk.

  She closed her eyes, listening as he set the plaque back upon the wall, using the butt of the knife he kept sheathed at his calf to force the nails back into the mortar that wedged between the stone in the walls.

  She was startled when she suddenly felt him behind her again, his fingers once again upon her shoulders.

  “In the end, I should warn you, I win all my battles.” He spoke very close to her. She felt the whisper of his breath against the dampness of her shoulders and neck.

  She kept her eyes closed, and struggled to reply with indifference rather than malice.

  “One day your head may still be axed from your body.”

  “Until that day, I will win all my battles, great or small. But cheer up. Tomorrow, I’m leaving. And when I return, it will be to arrange an escort south for you.”

  A moment later, she heard the door close.

  He was gone.

  And still, it seemed that something of his presence lingered in the room. Perhaps it was the touch of scent that remained, soap and leather, with a hint of steel. Or the memory of his fingers against the bare flesh of her shoulders.

  Perhaps it was only the plaque on the wall.

  Peter MacDonald was as dependable a man as Eric had ever known; however, Eric was still relieved in the morning to see the party of men riding to the castle. Unless Allan or one of the other men had ridden out with his letters and personally delivered them to their destinations and returned with a response, he could not be certain if his words were received. He had sent for his young cousin, but had not known if his letter had reached the foot of the highlands, just beyond Stirling.

  But as he stood on the parapets at dawn and watched the slope before the castle, he saw the riders, and saw his own family crest and colors, and then Allan MacLeod returning at the side of Jamie Graham.

  He called for the bridge to be lowered and rode with Patrick and Geoffrey out to meet the band of men as they neared the bridge.

  “What, ho, cousin!” Jamie cried out, grinning. “Now that—that is a castle!”

  “A fine pile of stone, aye,” Eric agreed.

  Patrick reached out to grasp Jamie’s hand. “And glad I am you’re here. ’Tis said you can hold a mound of dirt from an army with a handful of men. And I’d not like to be responsible for losing Eric’s castle in his absence.”

  “We’ll lose it, likely as not, in the end,” Eric said, eyeing the stone walls. “If Edward turns his full attention upon Langley, we’ll lose it. But that time hasn’t come. Dougal!” He called, greeting another clansman, and he loped his horse down the line, pleased to welcome the highlanders who had ridden south to bring a greater force to Langley.

  They returned in force to the courtyard where grooms rushed to take the horses and the men dismounted, surveying the courtyard and edifice with curiosity and admiration.

  “And you took this place?” Jamie said, shaking his head with amazement.

  “In truth? No. The plague took the place, and much more,” Eric said.

  Jamie set a hand on his arm and told him earnestly, “I’m sorry, Eric. Deeply sorry. Margot was loved deeply, and your babe, and all the others . . .”

  Eric nodded, looking at the walls. “Aye,” he murmured. “My thanks. All who were among us . . . for some, the entire family was lost. And for those who were here, the farmers, the bricklayers, smiths, maids, masons . . . everyone suffered terrible losses. But there was something so horrible that it created unity once it had passed. I’ve never slept without my back to a wall, but for the most part, these people don’t care about kings or queens or politics. They’ve seen death, and they are eager for life.”

  “I’ll keep a wary eye as well.”

  “Always.”

  “My God!” Jamie breathed suddenly, looking upward.

  He followed his cousin’s gaze.

  Igrainia was at the window again.

  “So . . . that is the earl’s daughter?”

  “Aye.”

  “No wonder Robert Bruce thinks he has a chance to exchange her for a queen.”

  Eric studied her. She was frowning slightly as she looked over the new arrivals. He could almost read her thoughts. More highlanders, clansmen, dirty fellows out of the hills, barbaric, uncivilized, and surely, uneducated.

  “The lady holds a rare beauty,” Jamie murmured.

  “Does she?” Eric murmured. At that moment, she looked down. Her eyes met his. He saw the color flood her cheeks, but she didn’t back from the window nor take her eyes away from his. Perhaps Jamie was right. Her features were delicate and fine, and her strange eyes, so deep a blue as to appear as violet as the summer hills, were large and framed by cleanly arched, fly-away brows. Her skin was the silky shade of a precious pearl, and though he personally disliked the thick black tresses that seemed to cascade far past her shoulders, he had to admit that in the sunlight they seemed to gleam with the shining beauty of a raven’s wing. She was excellently shaped, as he’d had good cause to notice, a tiny span of waist, full, beautiful breasts. Her flesh was like silk. He wondered, as Jamie spoke, if he had forced himself to seek fault with her. Because she did create a rage of tumult in him, stirring natural, physical reactions that he doused with a fierce and furious, steel-willed contempt against himself. Touching her, he had wanted to wind his fingers around her, and cast her away.

  Precisely because she did feel like silk. She was not a nameless, faceless form to seize for simple release. She was a prize of war, valued for her title.

  She was not Margot.

  His jaw tightened.

  Jamie looked at him sharply. “You’ve not noticed?” he said, then lowered his eyes, and added softly, Well, perhaps her appeal is something that you would not notice, not now, not with . . . everything that has occurred . . . not of late. And still . . . well, I had thought myself that Robert Bruce might be seeking too much to trade her for a member of his royal family, but then, it’s quite possible there are a number of noblemen eager to have her returned to England so that they might put forth their cases in a marriage bid. Her brother, I have heard, inherited his father’s title and the main property, but the lady herself has numerous holdings bequeathed from her mother’s family. Very rich lands, if my information is at all trustworthy. But . . . the way to the king is treacherous now. And my sources have told me that he must be very careful with his every movement.”

  “Indeed, he is careful,” Eric said. “But if he can’t reach the abbey himself, he will send word, and I’ll know what arrangements have been made.”

  Jamie nodded. “What of your prisoner? Is she not to leave the room?”

  “Cousin, she may appear as a flower, but I promise you, if so, she is a rose, with long and prickly thorns. We have walled the secret tunnel, and it will stay sealed, unless it is we who need it. There is no other way out, other than the drawbridge. You are welcome to entertain her to your heart’s content—if she can be lured down to spend time with the enemy.”

  Jamie shrugged. “Well, we’ll see then.” He said lightly. Then he sobered. “Eric, through accident and agony, you have accomplished an extraord
inary feat. We will hold what you have taken, at cost of our lives.”

  “The castle is nothing more than stone, Jamie.” He inclined his head toward the tower window. “If you must, abandon it. Just make sure that you bring our bargaining power with you.”

  “Ah, then, I will guard the lady with my life.”

  “That will be a great service to me, and to the king. Peter will show you around; he is the one with the true knowledge of the castle, and its people. Allan rides like the wind and knows the lay of this land in the pitch of night—he rides out and keeps his eyes and ears opened. Geoffrey, Angus, and Raymond are riding with me.”

  “Aye, then. Godspeed.”

  “We’ll return the moment we’re able. This is something I’m desirous to have settled—since I don’t believe they’ll sit quietly and let us hold this fortress where they’re in power for long. And, oh!” The deaf and mute lad, Gregory, was standing silently by, holding Loki’s reins. Eric placed a hand on his shoulders. “This is Gregory. Whatever may come, he is now one of ours. He doesn’t hear or speak, but he can read your lips, and can tell you things that you might never imagine. If he does come to talk to you, listen.”

  Jamie stared at him. “You said that he doesn’t talk?”

  “He has a friend we’ve brought back from a journey as well. Rowenna. She speaks for him. You’ll find her within the castle, if you need her.” He took Loki’s reins from Gregory, gave the boy a nod, and called out to Raymond, Angus, and Geoffrey.

  They rode out, and the gates were closed and the drawbridge raised in their wake.

  When she heard a tap at the door, Igrainia tensed, expecting the newcomer, but it was Father MacKinley who stood at the door.

  “Father, come in. I’m delighted to see you.”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “Igrainia,” he said softly, and kissed her forehead. “I have come to lure you from your solitude.”

  “What?”

  “You are not forced to stay within this room.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You are invited to come down and dine with Sir Jamie Graham, Peter MacDonald, and me.”