The Laird's Lady

She had to find a way to warn them.

“I am going to remove my hand from yer mouth and ye will direct me to the hall, wench.” Her captor’s voice, low and threatening, turned Rosalind’s skin to gooseflesh.

Thinking she might be able to aid her captor to her own advantage, she nodded.

“Out this door.” A plan took shape in her mind, a desperate measure for a desperate time.

Replacing his hand on her trembling lips, the warrior headed the direction she pointed, while his men spread out behind him. Rosalind waited for her chance, leading the Scots closer to the main hall. There would be but one opportunity to scream. She must be heard.

Her captor opened the chapel door and peered inside. The scents of pinewood and sweet incense reached her nose, the fragrances she’d long associated with comfort giving her little succor now. His hand slid from her mouth again, as if he expected her to instruct him. Rosalind saw her chance.

Gripping the hilt of her father’s small dagger for whatever courage the weapon might lend, she let loose a scream to raise the rafters.

The Scotsman’s cold blade pressed to her neck halted her cries. Her hand flexed around her own weapon in turn.

“Demon wench, I warned—” The man’s words died in his throat as Rosalind’s jeweled dagger sank into his side.

Horrified by the sticky warmth that covered her hand, she fought the roll of her belly. Her cause might be noble, but she did not mean to actually kill a man.

A roar of fury erupted behind them, and Rosalind fled from the slackened grasp of the captor. She launched herself forward through the cover of darkness, leaving the stunned invaders in a turmoil of oaths and shouts behind her. Knees quaking, she shot through the door and into the hall, where her people scurried about in confused response to her shriek. A young maid dropped a heavy decanter on the stone floor, the clang of the silver urn echoing through the huge room as Rosalind struggled to speak.

“Scots…within the walls.” She gasped for breath, still recoiling from the memory of her act.

The people of Beaumont needed no further urging, for the pounding of the enemies’ footsteps in the corridor emphasized her words. A wave of shrieks greeted her ears, accompanying a mass exodus toward the far door.

“Halt!”

A deep voice boomed throughout the hall, amplified by the echoing stone walls.

Even in their terror, many of the fleeing English turned at the commanding voice. An eerie silence grew as the residents of Beaumont fixed their gazes behind Rosalind, where she knew the blue-painted Scots must be arriving.

“No one leaves this hall.”

Rosalind froze at the familiar sound of the speaker’s voice behind her. It couldn’t be. Turning, she looked over her shoulder. It was him. The man she had just plunged her dagger clear through. Rosalind glanced down at her hands, as if to assure herself his blood still stained them.

“Fear not, wench, yer blade dinna miss.” The warrior before her bled profusely down his side, staining the rushes red. Yet any pain from the wound remained absent from his livid visage.

Do not let him take out his wrath on my people.

Rosalind trembled as she faced him. He was enormous. She had known that before, when he’d held her from behind, yet in the darkness she had not fully realized his size. He was the most intimidating man she had ever seen, and right now his expression was nothing less than ferocious.

“Ian, take ten men about the keep and round up whoever is missing. I would have all of Beaumont before me.” The Scot’s gaze never left her as he barked orders. “Jamie, head outside and see if anyone escaped. Angus, ferret out my squire to tend this damn bleeding gut of mine.”

He stepped closer to Rosalind, and a collective gasp rose among the English as he glowered down at her, his expression hard and cruel. “Where is the young lordling, Will Beaumont, and who in Hades are ye?”

Rosalind felt the anger radiate from him in waves, but fought to face him boldly. She could not allow her people to see her falter. Not when they counted on her to be strong. “Lord William left the keep hours ago to fetch the king and bring us aid. I am his sister, Rosalind.”

“Yer lack-witted brother started a war with hostile invaders, then left his sister to fight his battle while he trots off to London to find yer hedonistic king?” One heavy black eyebrow lifted in disbelief.

She gulped for air, as if the brute who cornered her had somehow robbed her of that, too. Glaring back at the Scots heathen, she merely tilted her chin in defiance.

“Tell me, Lady Rosalind, does it not shame ye to have such a coward for a brother?” He glared down at her from his intimidating height. At such close range, Rosalind noticed patches of bronzed skin under his blue paint. Dark hair brushed his broad shoulders. Heavy black brows perched over angular features slashed in a fearsome scowl.

She bristled under his criticism, but knew her lies did indeed make the man sound like a coward. “He did what he felt necessary, knowing we were outnumbered by barbarians.”

“Ye call us barbarians, lass?” A sudden stillness came over the Scotsman. “We, who sought to shed no blood in the inevitable conquering of yer keep?”

“You have no right to Beaumont,” Rosalind retorted, her loathing of the invaders pouring fresh through her veins. “We have previously experienced the Scots’ brutal notion of war and will not be misled by your claims of no killing. We have lost too much at your people’s hands to blindly give over our home to bloodthirsty marauders.”

“I will address yer slander of my people at a later date. For now, I suggest ye keep yer venomous tongue in check lest ye find yerself cooling yer temper in the dungeon.”

A soft exclamation echoed among the English that their lady would be threatened so cruelly.

John Steward stepped forward. “We mean no offense, sir, but my lady has lost—”

“Yer lady? And who might ye be to speak for her?” The Scot moved toward John.

Rosalind stepped between the men, willing herself to remain calm. There was nothing she could do to change the past, but she could try to negotiate with the barbarian to guard against any more deaths.

“Please, I will speak for myself and endeavor to do so in a more subdued manner.” She nodded to John, silently assuring him she would be more reasonable. When she turned to the Scotsman, smug satisfaction marked his stark features.

But she could not afford to be proud at a time like this. Lives might depend on how humbly Rosalind could beg the warlord for mercy. “I would speak with you in private, sir.”

His laugh boomed, dark and echoing to the high ceiling. “And give ye an opportunity to thrust yer dagger more deeply into my gut? I think nae, but ’tis an amusing suggestion.”

“You have my word that I will do nothing of the sort.” Panic swirled through her. What if he killed them all in retribution for fighting? “I merely wish to discuss a peaceful shift of power from me to you.”

“Yer word means naught to me, as ye have attempted to kill me twice already today.” In spite of his words, he did not look the least bit frightened for himself. In fact, he grinned down at her now, as if her words were a great jest.

A Scots voice called out across the hall. “We found the stragglers, Malcolm.”

Both Rosalind and the wounded warrior turned to see the remaining Beaumont folk being ushered in, along with the Scotsmen who had gathered them together.

“Aye. And ye’ll have my thanks for it. Take some sort of count so we can keep track of them in the days ahead.” He turned back to Rosalind, good humor still playing about his lips despite the gaping hole in his side. “Ian, do ye see who has asked me for a private audience to discuss a peaceful shift of power?”

“Ye dinna say?” The man called Ian eyed Rosalind carefully, his gaze detached. “’Tis the lass with the crossbow…the same one who raised her dagger to ye.”

“Aye. Think ye I should grant her this boon?”

They attempted to shame her by discussing her as if she were not present. She itched to rail at them all, but to do so would be but a selfish indulgence of her temper. Instead, she settled for hoping the warlord would collapse from blood loss as quickly as possible.

“I think there are nae many men who would refuse such a fair maid a private audience.” Another man, younger and more mischievous looking than the others, spoke up.

Embarrassment spread like wildfire through Rosalind’s veins. Her virtue meant naught to such men. If anything, her maidenly status could be one more thing for brutes like these to plunder. What would Gregory think to find his bride defiled by savage Scots?

Surely her cheeks flamed with the heat of her discomfiture. Then again, her cheeks had been flaming all day with the bout of fever that had taken hold of her.

The Scots leader laughed again. “Jamie lad, that is why I will live a good many years beyond ye. ’Tis not wise to think with yer manhood.” The jesting ended when he turned back to Rosalind, his face devoid of expression.