Submit To The Warrior

To her right, the fire crackled. Acting upon instinct, Morag clutched the letter in her hand and tensed her arm. From the corner of her eye, she caught Navarro’s signal and, before she managed to toss the parchment into the flames, another knight moved to stand between her and the fireplace.

‘It will be easier for you if you don’t fight me,’ Navarro warned her. ‘I want your lands, and this time I won’t be denied.’

‘This time?’ she echoed. ‘Have there been others who managed to escape?’

The silence lasted so long she thought he wouldn’t reply, but finally he gave a brief nod, his expression grim.

‘The Countess of Glenstrachan was promised to me, but she married another while I was on my way to claim her.’ He reached out and curled his hand over her elbow. ‘With you, I’ll not take such chances. You’ll stay by my side until we are wed, and your chaplain will remain under guard.’

He raised his arm. Upon his gesture, two knights lined up behind Brother Thomas, who knelt in prayer at the center of the room, his solemn voice mingling with the moans of the injured.

As Navarro’s steely fingers captured her, an odd sense of disappointment niggled inside Morag, dulling her bitter defeat. Why would it matter to her that Navarro had planned to marry someone else, and had won her as a consolation prize? The Countess of Glenstrachan was rumored to be a beauty, with long golden hair, and eyes the color of a summer sky. Suddenly, it appeared to Morag that her own short auburn locks and hazel eyes were woefully lacking in charm.

Despite her reluctance to marry, it hurt her pride to know that the knight only wanted her because of the lands she could provide him.

She followed meekly as Navarro ushered her across the room and propped her into a chair at the end of the long table. Then he sat down beside her, called over the scribe and dictated a letter to inform the king about Stenholm’s death. Morag flinched at the words that confirmed her betrothal. And yet, even as she gritted her teeth to hold back a pointless cry of refusal, curiosity swirled inside her, mixing with her fear. She had heard enough gossip to know that some women enjoyed what took place in the bedchamber.

Each time Navarro glanced in her direction, a knot of apprehension tightened inside her. Once before, she’d been taken in by masculine beauty and a charming smile. All her girlhood dreams had been shattered. She didn’t want to be drawn to this man, didn’t want to hope it would be different this time, didn’t want to feel the forgotten yearnings.

She closed her eyes and suppressed the tears of helpless defeat.

Her freedom from the control of a husband had lasted less than a day.

Chapter Two

Stefan Navarro settled at the long table in the great hall and tried to hide his impatience. After changing into a pair of woolen hose and a doublet in thick black velvet, he had toured the vast room, offering a few words of encouragement to each of his wounded knights. The steward had provided him with an account of the income and assets of the Stenholm estates. He had inspected the castle keep, including the chapel and the bedchambers on the two floors above.

All the while, upon his command, Lady Morag had followed him, as silent as a shadow, and as disturbing as a thorn lodged beneath a suit of armor.

Why hadn’t the king told him? Stefan had expected a matron with jowly cheeks and a sagging middle. Instead, he found an ethereal beauty, not much more than twenty. Lady Morag possessed a willowy grace that made his loins heavy and added to the restlessness he always felt in the aftermath of a battle, but beneath his desire stirred an unfamiliar need for acceptance that unsettled him even more.

‘How long must I wait?’ he asked. ‘When will the chaplain be done burying the dead?’

‘The ground is frozen. It will take time to dig graves for two dozen men,’ Lady Morag replied.

He shot a glance at her. The look of relief on her face told him she hoped the task would take until spring.

‘We’ll be wed by nightfall, whether the bodies are in the ground or not,’ he declared, frustrated by his baffling wish for her to be eager to become his wife.

Why shouldn’t she loathe and fear him? He’d killed her husband. And yet, from the moment he saw her walking across the great hall, he’d yearned to touch her. The urge had been so strong that he had barely dared to look at her, until he knew that he could control his impulse to pull her into his arms.

‘You have no children?’ he asked.

‘No. I’m thought to be barren.’ Her chin inched up in defiance.

‘It’s a mistake to think the prospect will keep me from taking you in marriage.’

‘I can’t give you an heir.’

‘I’ll worry about that after I’ve spent a year trying.’

The color drained from Lady Morag’s face. Stefan had expected her to blush with embarrassment at the reference to the marriage bed. Instead, she appeared to tremble with fear. He cursed his reputation for cruelty. He had never resented the macabre tales of murder and torture that circulated about him the length and breadth of the country. They gave him an edge in battle. Now, he wished his prowess in killing wasn’t such a legend.

‘I understand it is customary for a bride to be entitled to a boon on her wedding day,’ Lady Morag said. Her voice faltered, and Stefan knew she had forced herself to speak.

He leaned forward. ‘Aye. What is it you wish?’

‘The boy, William...’

‘What about the lad?’

‘He was sent to Stenholm when he was ten, to be trained as a knight.’

‘And how old is he now?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Almost old enough to join the men.’ Stefan cast his eye toward the benches where his knights rested, but couldn’t locate the boy. Rolf and Bruce, the most handsome of his knights, had a gaggle of girls flitting about them. He lifted his brows in amusement and received a pair of satisfied grins in return. ‘The lad must be outside, helping with the burials,’ he said, returning his attention to Lady Morag.

‘He isn’t ready to join the men.’

The vehemence in her voice made him frown. ‘What is it you wish from me?’

‘William is fearful.’ Her hands kneaded together on the scuffed tabletop. ‘He suffered cruelty when he was young, and the terror has never left him. I wish for you to take him in. Train him to be your squire, protect him from harm.’

Stefan narrowed his eyes at the unwelcome emotion that churned inside him. Jealousy. Never once in his life had he suffered the agony of longing for attention from a woman who showed no interest in him.

‘What is the boy to you?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Is he your husband’s bastard?’

‘No!’ The word exploded from her lips. Stefan studied her, puzzled. Her amber eyes burned bright, and a few freckles stood out against the pale skin. The thin line of her mouth spoke of determination. She seemed shaken, but not mournful. Afraid of him, but not too afraid to make demands to protect her servants.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of the boy, if it pleases you.’

She gave him a long look, then lowered her gaze. ‘It pleases me a great deal,’ she murmured, her words barely audible.

Stefan leaned back, satisfied. She was pleased with him. It was a start.

* * *

Morag knelt beside Stefan Navarro in the chapel and tried to understand the storm of emotions that raged inside her. The fear she had felt for Angus Stenholm had been like a cold layer of ice around her heart. The King’s Arrow stirred a different kind of anxiety within her, a sense of upheaval that trapped her like a tangle of bristly briar.

His presence made her short of breath and sent ripples of heat racing along her skin. Each time he looked at her with those dark sooty eyes, alarm jolted down her spine. She stole another furtive glance at the man who knelt by her side, and in some secret corner of her mind, a flicker of pride mixed with the resentment of being forced into marriage.

Tall and broad shouldered, her betrothed made a magnificent sight. Even though he possessed no title, Navarro dressed in the costly fabrics reserved for noblemen. The slashes in the black velvet doublet allowed the white linen shirt beneath to spill through, and the ruffles at the neck emphasized his bronzed skin. He wore simple black hose and didn’t seem to feel the need for the extravagantly padded codpieces that were the current fashion.

At the altar, Brother Thomas cleared his throat, pulling Morag’s attention back to the ceremony. Behind her, knights lined in orderly rows, their feet shuffling on the stone floor, and, farther back, castle servants huddled in worried groups, barely daring to whisper.

In a lilting voice, Brother Thomas began the wedding speech. As Morag said her wows, the walls of the chapel around her shimmered like an uneasy dream. She heard Navarro speak the words that made her his property, and the floor beneath her swayed, the finality of her fate so daunting that she lost her sense of equilibrium.