The Laird's Lady

From the stout defense of the walnut tree, he peered up to the northern watchtower, from whence the missile had come. He blinked to clear his vision, knowing his eyes must deceive him.

Yet there she was.

A woman.

Standing defiantly on the crenellated parapet, she did not even bother to duck behind the safety of the wall now that she had discharged her deadly shot. She lowered her crossbow, her gaze never leaving her intended victim.

Briefly, Malcolm wondered why none of his men were firing upon such an exposed target, but a quick look around the bailey showed him those few who spotted her now gawked in disbelief.

The fey creature was no kitchen maid. She reeked of nobility. Her green-yellow gown shimmered with the precise hue of newly unfurled spring leaves, and even from Malcolm’s considerable distance, he could see the voluminous folds and rich color conveyed wealth. A golden girdle sparkled around her hips in the sinking sunlight.

And her hair…

The woman’s hair outshone her adornments. It floated in a halo about her head and shoulders, rippling clear down to her waist. Loose flaxen strands caught by the breeze gave the impression of gentle disarray. She looked like a pagan sacrifice to the ancient gods of spring. Her appearance bespoke purity, yet her stance remained insolent and proud, her eyes trained on her quarry with the instincts of a natural predator.

His blood surged hotly through him—part lust and part fury—as he watched the noble beauty turn away and descend from her post. Who the hell was she to be up on the keep walls, practicing her archery skills on his head?

Cursed she-demon.

Distancing himself from the undeniable temptation the woman presented, he turned to his task of surveying Beaumont Keep. The mystery of the green-gowned siren would wait until later.

“Malcolm McNair, ’tis mighty slow ye’re moving.” A familiar voice hissed at him from the cover of a few bushes nearby.

“Ye canna tell me ye made it all the way around the keep, Jamie.” But there was his younger brother, hidden behind a tall hedge, now on the other side of Malcolm.

“Aye. And what has taken ye so long? Could it be ye were beset by a fairy from above, to be still standing there, gaping upward?”

Malcolm made a mental note that he owed his brother a pounding. “Nay, ye quarrelsome wretch, merely a crossbow-wielding strumpet who wished to incinerate me with a flaming arrow.” No matter that she’d tried to torch his arse, Malcolm had to admit he admired her skills with a bow. “What did ye find?”

Jamie leaned close, heavy eyebrows waggling with good tidings. “I found a southern tower half in ruins and plenty of options to gain entry. But we best wait until night falls to cover our activities.”

The news negated the pounding he owed Jamie. Malcolm grinned at his brother, reminded of his good fortune to be a McNair.

“Well done.” He gestured toward the setting sun, mere inches above the horizon. “We willna have long to tarry. Come explain to us all at once.”

Stealthily, they moved back to the front of the keep to rejoin Ian and make their plans for wresting Beaumont from its unfortunate lord. And although Malcolm knew his thoughts should be fixed on his impending victory, he couldn’t stop an unwelcome surge of lust over the prospect of meeting the she-devil up close.

Rosalind had kept her gaze trained out the narrow slit in her solar for the past two hours, to no avail. All she had to show for her effort was a headache grown steadily worse. The sky loomed black as pitch under the new moon, and she perceived no movement of any kind in the outer bailey.

“Perhaps they have camped outside our walls for the night,” John suggested. He perched beside her, as nervous and restless as his liege lady.

“Perhaps.” But don’t rely upon it. Something was definitely afoot. Rosalind could sense it in the deep chill that had taken hold of her bones. Where could the invaders have disappeared?

The inner keep of Beaumont was secure enough….

Or was it?

A thought hit her with all the force of a Scots battering ram as Rosalind realized what had been niggling at her all day. “John, did we post men around the south tower?”

Color drained from the steward’s face. “I never thought—”

Rosalind pushed past him and tore through the keep, the foursquare plan of the fortification mirroring the design of the outer walls on a smaller scale. She raced down the stairs from her living chambers, across the great hall and through the southern chapel to the crumbling staircase that led to her parents’ former rooms. At first she thought his footsteps followed behind her, echoing her own. But by the time she reached the abandoned old tower, she realized he must have been waylaid for she was well and truly alone. Unease tickled her spine.

The narrow southern tower, built of timber and rock, had been completely destroyed in the fire. The wood had burned out from underneath the stone, leaving the tower a crumbling heap of rubble. Under Gregory’s guidance, Rosalind’s tenants had helped her wall off the tower from the rest of the keep, and now no one ever cared to go there. The past was better left forgotten in that heap of stone.

Until today.

Why hadn’t she recalled the weaknesses of the southern end of the keep? It was the illness, she knew, that made her fuzzy-headed. She never would have overlooked such a thing if she had been well. The wall the serfs had built stood strong considering the unskilled workmanship that had fashioned it, but lacked the solidity of the rest of the structure. The makeshift barrier wasn’t as high as the watchtower bastions on the other three corners of the keep, nor was it as thick.

Fear twisted her gut as she finally beheld the wall with her own eyes. But there were no savage Scotsmen in the southern tower. No sledgehammers chipping away at the stones.

All was well.

Weak with relief, Rosalind turned on her heel to fetch sentries for the southern wing, but was yanked back by two strong arms.

A yelp of fear rose in her throat, squelched when a large palm covered her mouth. The arms around her were thick as tree trunks, crushing her against a heavily muscled chest.

Rosalind’s heart pounded until the beating deafened her.

“What a surprise.” Though her captor’s words were a hoarse whisper against her ear, Rosalind detected the lilt of Scotland in his speech.

Her blood chilled in her veins.

“The coldhearted siren is a living, breathing woman, after all. But I warn ye, dinna make a sound.” The huge palm edged away from her mouth.

She remained pressed to the hard wall of his chest, and although she could not see her enemy, his chin hovering over her head attested to his intimidating height. Some barbaric fur that he wore tickled her neck, the scorched scent of the cloak intensifying her fears. He wouldn’t be pleased with her just now, after their resistance.

Rosalind fought the terror that filled her by remembering the people of Beaumont who counted on her for protection. She must remain calm. Steady. Seeking her voice, she forced herself to edge words from her lips.

“Are you the only one who has made it inside?” Perhaps if she screamed, her people would arrive before the rest of the Scottish slime oozed through the cracks.

“Aye, but dinna doubt there will be others any moment.”

At her sharp intake of breath, his hand clamped tightly over her mouth once again. “I warned ye, lass, ’twill go the worse for ye if ye call out.”

True to his words, a soft thump sounded nearby in the darkened corridor. From the shadows, another Scots voice echoed over the stones.

“’Tis the lass from the watchtower,” a blue-painted beast of a man observed as he dropped softly to the floor beside them. “She’s no phantom, but a wee fair maid.”

“Aye, fair of face and a fair shot, too,” another Scots voice chimed as a third blue savage appeared, climbing down a rope she spied dangling along the wall. The third warrior was not quite so massive as the other two, but still a head taller than Rosalind. The newcomer wore a silver broach of a mythical griffin, the same device she had spotted on the warlord’s cloak earlier. “’Twas yer head she was aiming for, Malcolm. If ye were a damn sight slower she might have taken it.”

Malcolm.

She knew whose broad arms now held her fast—the dark-haired warrior who had drawn her eye earlier. The same Scots knight who had called up to her from the battlements.

Her whole body trembled with fear, with memories of the Scots’ wrath the last time they had visited her borderlands keep. The hulking giant stood to one side of her, the more refined knight to the other. As a cold sweat broke over her brow, still more of the blue-painted knights materialized, dropping down one by one from the rope slung over the southern edifice.

All Rosalind’s preparations for a siege were for naught because she had never given the crumbling tower a second thought. The people of Beaumont would suffer for her oversight.