An Oath Broken (13 page)

Esa gave him a warm smile. “Aye, that she does. And ’tis a better beginning than most marriages. Though your life together didna start as you both would wish, with persistence and understanding, you will find a bond to each other that will last a lifetime.”

However optimistic their advice, emptiness filled Giric’s heart. Too easily he could envision a life spent with Sarra.

His chest squeezed tight and dismissed his thoughts. He wouldna think about what she made him feel. ’Twould make walking away from her more difficult in the end. “Sarra and I will obtain an annulment,” he said with a forced calm.

Fergus arched a brow. “But you are taken with the lass as well. A blind man could see as much. Though you and Sarra were wed by Scottish custom, it willna be easy to acquire dissolution of the marriage.”

A fact he was all too aware of, but from the day he became Earl of Terrick and keeper of Wolfhaven Castle and its people, what he cared for long since mattered. He had responsibilities. “I have given my word to deliver her to her betrothed.”

Fergus scoffed. “’Tis foolish to give away what is rightfully yours.”

“I need the gold paid to me for my escorting her to rebuild my home,” Giric said, his throat tight. “Even if I hadna the responsibilities, I have given my word to Lord Bretane to deliver Lady Sarra to wed his son.”

“Blast it, lad. From the looks of her fancy garb, she has plenty of gold,” Fergus spat. “Regardless of your original intent, you are now her husband and entitled to her estate. You will nae be needing Lord Bretane’s gold nor anyone else’s.”

He remained silent. Never would he want Sarra for her money, but his friend would never understand.

“If you are through discussing my financial status,” Sarra said with cold disdain from behind them, “I would like to depart.”

With a muttered curse, Giric faced her. Of all of the times for her to walk inside. He opened his mouth to explain, then stopped. Why even try? She’d accused him of marriage to claim her inheritance and with her anger fresh, she wouldna believe any different. ’Twas best if they left.

Fergus took in Sarra, his gaze shrewd. “Terrick is a good man, respected by his peers, and a man of his word. A lass couldna do better.”

Sarra stiffened. “Thank you for the hospitality.”

Esa stepped forward. “Do nae judge him too harshly. All is nae what it seems.”

At Esa’s subtle reference to his title, Giric gestured to Sarra. “Let us go.” At this point, he doubted his being an earl would impress her, nor would he want it to. If she ever cared about him, he wanted her to respect the man, nae a title.

Once mounted, after a brief good-bye to his friends, Giric kicked his horse into a canter and headed east.

Throughout the day they rode in silence, stopping to water his mount and share a portion of the oatcakes Esa had given them along with a flask of wine. Hours later, with the sun edging toward the horizon, the weariness of their hard travel took its toll.

He scanned the knolls ahead, battered by clumps of brambles and edged with thick firs and pine layered within the snow, and searched for a place to make camp. With naught in sight, he guided his horse across the open field. When they reached the perimeter of the forest, almost halfway up the next steep incline, he pulled his mount to a halt.

Sarra shot him a cool glance.

Her mood hadna improved since they’d left, as if he expected otherwise? For the remainder of the journey she would tolerate him, little more. Giric dismounted. “We will camp here for the night.”

Mouth tight, she surveyed their winter-fed surroundings. “Outside?”

“Aye.” Let her be upset at their encampment. In her mind ’twas just another injustice added to an already overwhelming pile. “Put your hands on my shoulders.”

“Is there not anywhere else we could go? A hut? Something?”

At the hit of nerves in her voice, he softened a degree. This entire mess wasna her fault. “I will make a shelter for us, and then build a fire.”

With reserve, she placed her hands on his shoulders, and he lifted her down.

Once he’d decided the best place to build a windbreak, Giric laid the sack with the food stores along with the wine by her side. “Wait here while I begin a fire.” He started to walk away.

“Is there something I could do to help?”

Surprised by her offer, he turned. Though angry, and righteously so, she refused to be waited on. Her damnable pride. ’Twould be easier if they ignored each other, but it appeared he wouldna even be offered that respite. “If you can gather dry wood, I will start a fire.”

In silence she headed toward the trees.

Using a flint and his dagger, he had a small pile of tinder smoking posthaste. As he blew on the glowing embers within the shredded wood, Sarra returned with several finger-thick branches. Without comment, she departed, and moments later, she dragged out a small tree limb.

Pleased, he stood and gestured toward a fallen log he’d rolled over to use for a seat. “Break off the small branches and slowly feed them into the flames. When you have a solid bed of coals, add a few larger pieces. I will start on our shelter.”

As he worked, shadows grew and the sky darkened to a burnished hue. From the labor of cutting green boughs, he’d removed his cape and now worked in his shirt. Sweat streaked down his back as he wove the last pine bough into the makeshift structure, then gave the frame a hard shake.

The windbreak stood firm.

He wiped his brow as he stepped back to survey his work. Though crude, ’twould hold. Pleased, he turned to find Sarra watching him, the anxiety in her face easy to read, but the hint of desire catching him off guard.

As Giric held her gaze, however much Sarra wanted, she couldn’t turn away. While he’d constructed their temporary shelter, she’d busied herself, but could never quite rid her thoughts of the upcoming night. And watching him, his exposed skin sleek with sweat, his muscles outlined where his shirt clung to his honed frame, sent her imagination places she forbade it to go.

The reality of the situation doused her mind’s wanderings. How could she think of him in such an intimate manner? Though he’d said they would acquire an annulment, they were but words. With nightfall, would he change his mind and seek his marital rights? She clenched her hands at her sides, irritated that she was unsure if her nerves were due to anger or desire.

“You will be hungry,” Giric said, his voice shattering her thoughts. Warmth stroked her face as she absorbed every ripple of his muscles as he tugged on his cape. Embarrassed to find herself attracted to him after everything, she returned to the fire.

Seated on a stump before the flames, Sarra fought to ignore Giric as he sat on the opposite side of the blaze. She broke off a piece of the smoked venison, placed it into her mouth, and slowly chewed.

“It should be a good night to sleep,” he said.

Sarra stilled. What did he mean by that?

He gestured toward the sky. “’Tis clear and the wind has quit blowing.”

“’Twill be cold,” she said, but she didn’t miss the hint of stars beginning to shimmer in the darkening sky, or the calmness of the night. Layers of snow cloaked the branches of the pine. Elms, oaks, and silver birch arched toward the gloaming sky, and the fresh scent of the forest surrounded them. Any other time she would have appreciated the beauty of this eve, mayhap considered the setting romantic.

At this moment she wasn’t sure of anything, especially Giric’s intent.

As she slid her boot through the snow, a tumble of white spilled from its wake. Why wasn’t anything easy when it came to him? From their initial meeting he’d disrupted her life. Their journey had added to the convoluted mix. With their wedding, their already strained relationship had taken another plunge.

He reached into the pack and retrieved another slab of jerky. “If the weather holds, we should reach our next stop soon.”

In silence, she tore a small strip off her dried meat, but as she held it between her fingers, her appetite evaporated. With a sigh, Sarra set aside the food and stared at the fire.

Orange-blue flames sputtered and slowly consumed the dry wood. The flicker of ash burning hot swirled into the smoke, then blackened and became lost in the churn of gray.

Sadness stole over her. A loneliness she hadn’t felt since her parents’ death swept over her, but she understood the reason. ’Twas her wedding night. Over the years she’d harbored romantic notions of a man who loved her, cherished her with his every breath. Instead, she sat stranded in the wilderness with a Scot. A Scot she didn’t particularly like.

How could she like him? All he wanted was her inheritance. Or, would he indeed accept the measly offering that Lord Bretane would pay him upon her arrival? She squashed a wedge of snow under her boot.

“Lass, why do you nae tell me what is on your mind?”

With caution, Sarra looked up, surprised to find irritation in his gaze. In a perverse sort of manner she found comfort. At least it proved he was human.

And cared as well?

No, she was fooling herself if she allowed that thought to exist, remembering his all too eager vows of marriage. “I have naught to say to you.”

“Nay?” He arched a brow, the teasing in his eyes leaving her on edge. “That I seriously doubt.”

“Have you not done quite enough to ruin my life? Why can you not leave me alone? More preferable, why do you not leave?”

He frowned. “Regardless of my wishes, until we reach your guardian’s, we are bound together.”

“You have achieved everything you came for, so ’tis unnecessary to continue on with this ruse.”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “Are we back to that again?”

She stood, disgusted with this entire situation. Hating him. Wanting him. “As if you would forget?”

He stood, the slow, predatory motion igniting tingles over her skin. She cast a glance behind her. Snow, trees, and the ragged hills greeted her.

Alone.

The nerves that’d built through the day shattered. Panic overrode logic and her mind spun out of control. With his strength and expertise with his blade, if he wanted to kill her and claim her inheritance for his political cause, he could. She tensed, if necessary, ready to fight for her life.

W
ith a curse, Giric walked away from Sarra. From the fear in her gaze, he knew what she was thinking. He’d never taken a woman against her will, nor would he begin now. Nae that he didna want her, or recognize the desire in her eyes. A man could lose himself in a lass like her. And at this moment, he was tempted to take, to find the passion he knew simmered beneath her cold façade—a passion he’d tasted nights before.

He stalked through the woods illuminated beneath the full moon. Saint’s breath! Nay wonder she stared at him with panic, surely she all but read his lust-driven thoughts. ’Twould be the way with a maiden on her wedding night.

Blast it, why hadna he thought of that before? Regardless of his promise to bring her to her guardian’s untouched, Sarra was waiting to see if he would keep his word.

Caught in the pale swath of moonlight ahead, a large, dead limb angled to the forest floor. Giric trudged through the deep snow to the stocky base, grabbed it, and jerked.

Wood groaned from his effort, but the limb held fast.

“Come on.” He jerked harder and put his weight into it.

Wood snapped, but the limb gave only an inch. ’Twas a blasted conspiracy! The realization of what he was doing hit him. He released the branch and stared at it with disgust. Like his dealings with Sarra since they’d left Fergus’s home, he was trying to wield the bough to his will. And like the wood being forced to move in an unnatural position, she resisted.

With a deep breath, he studied the angle of the limb. If he pushed it back, he would work with the natural break at the base of the limb. Moments later, dragging the thick branch through the snow, he headed toward camp.

As he stepped from the shield of trees, the shimmer of stars and moonlight lent a magical setting over the blanket of snow. Each curve and dip lingered in the shadows like an intriguing mystery, embracing Sarra as she sat quietly by the fire.

At his approach, she looked over, and then drew her cape tighter.

At her protective gesture, he kept his approach casual and banked his desires, wanting to put her at ease. Near the fire, he broke off several smaller branches, knelt, and fed them into the flames. After, he angled the larger branch over the pile of dried limbs.

Flickers of orange and blue crept higher and slipped through the crevices of the wood.

Though she pretended to ignore his actions, he caught her watching him. Each time their eyes met, hers narrowed with challenge. And he hoped he could win back a token of her trust.

As the heat from the blaze grew, he sat on the log opposite Sarra. Giric took in how moonlight slipped through the trees and shimmered across the sturdy land. On many occasions, he’d camped beneath the stars on a night just like this. At times, he, along with his father and their men, had been on the run and hadna taken the time to appreciate the setting. Then, there were other nights when he could sit back and absorb the beauty.

“When I was a lad,” he started, and immersed himself in his memories, surprised to discover that he wanted to share a part of his past with Sarra, “my mother used to tell me stories of the wee folk. Whenever I camped beneath the stars, I would look for them.” He noted her prim posture. “I do nae suppose that you have ever spent the night outside?”

Suspicious eyes slid toward him. “No.”

That she’d answered made him smile. He exhaled as he studied the ebony backdrop that cradled the brilliant display of stars and the moon. “There is something magical about being out on a night like this.” He paused and let the aura surround him, the quiet, serene peace that he could almost touch. “If you listen, you can hear the fairies dancing through the trees.”

Sarra arched a skeptical brow. “I do not believe in fairies.”

And why would she? Raised by servants, her nights were spent alone. The weaving of tales or the small gestures of love he’d taken for granted as a lad would be void from her life.

He could picture her as a child, huddled in the master chamber at night, engulfed in finery. Though well-mannered and stoic during the day, at night the little girl returned, the one filled with fears who missed her parents, the one who cried herself to sleep.

And for her, his heart wept. He wished that he could heal her past, but with the discord between them, the chance was slim. But for this night he would give her the gift of magic. If she chose to believe, that would be her decision.

“On a fine night like this,” Giric began, “the sky awash with a million stars and the forest quiet, ’tis a favorite time for the fey to be about.”

“The fey?”

“The fairies.”

 

Sarra scanned the forest, cast in silky shadows, the layers of snow glittering with moonlight. Heat stroked her cheeks and she turned back to the fire. What was she doing looking for fairies? There was naught out there. But a part of her, the child who had wished desperately for even a bit of magic in the shadows of her life, had her again scouring the setting for the tiniest bit of proof.

“Most never see them, except for a shimmer of light made from the sprinkle of fairy dust,” Giric continued, his voice rich and smooth with the quality of an experienced bard, luring her to listen, enchanting her to believe. “But if you catch one, you will see their tiny wings. If they look up and by chance you see their face, they are beautiful, as if painted by an angel.”

She met his gaze, curious yet cautious. “And have you seen them?”

He shrugged, but beneath the moonlight, a wisp of humor danced in his eyes. “On occasion, though they tend to show themselves when mischief is about.” He stretched out his legs and settled into a more comfortable position. His breath misted before him, curling then evaporating into the chilled air.

“Mischief?” With a frown, she glanced toward the forest caught in a dance of moonlight and shadows.

“Aye, they are known for their cunning, though often they ply their magic for good causes as well.”

She scraped her teeth across her bottom lip, unsure what to make of these magical people he spoke of. “Where do these fairies live?” she asked, intrigued a rogue would believe in mythical creatures or any such lighthearted nonsense.

“Beneath the earth with heather above their homes,” he replied. “If you look close as you travel around Scotland, you can see the hillocks. The Otherworld, the fairies’ home, is ruled by their queen. A fair maiden she is. Many men have tried to catch her as she rides through the fog-enshrouded moors on her shimmering white steed, but she has blessed only a few with the golden apple.”

“The golden apple?”

“Aye, ’tis the only way to enter the Otherworld. And, the apple is also to eat.” He shot her a wink. “A man will be hungry on his journey.”

A smile tugged at her lips. Hungry indeed. ’Twas rubbish. But soothed by his voice, lured by the picture his words painted, and with his teasing she couldn’t help but find herself charmed. Though she doubted such creatures existed. They were naught more than stories to lull a child to bed.

But a fragment of her could envision the whisper-soft flutter of wings, red lips that would curve into an inviting smile, or the man smitten and giving chase to find the elusive beauty.

Sarra shoved aside the ludicrous thoughts. She was tired. ’Twas the only explanation of why she would try to imagine such foolishness. She lifted her gaze to find him watching her.

Laughter danced in Giric’s eyes, but beneath, sincere concern lingered as well.

Her pulse jumped and she looked away, not wanting him to care, or to try to soothe her when everything in her life was in chaos. Why was he telling her about these magical people or try to comfort her and ease her mind? They were married. He need not play games to seduce her. But through her fears, she had to admit that as he’d told her of the fey, she noted naught but concern in his eyes.

Mayhap he was telling the truth. Once they reached her guardian’s, they would send a request to the pope to petition for an annulment.

She struggled to understand Giric’s intent, and in the end she found her attempts as elusive a mystery as the fairies he spoke of.

“Sarra?”

“ ’Tis late.” She stood and turned toward their shelter, not wanting to face him now with a foolish part of her desiring a man who had proven by their marriage that he wasn’t a person she could trust.

The shuffle of clothes sounded, then snow crunched as Giric walked up behind her.

She held her breath as his warm breath caressed her cheek, yet he made no move to touch her, and she wasn’t sure if she should be happy or sad.

After a long moment he sighed. “Come.” He strode past her and headed toward the makeshift lean-to. At the entry he halted.

Their gazes clashed.

“Are you coming?” She hesitated.

“I will nae touch you if that is what worries you.”

Pooling her courage, she walked to the woven limbs, and then ducked inside. When he entered, her breath caught, but he merely leaned over and lifted a wool blanket.

He handed it to her. “Use this.”

She clutched the coarse cover, her relief tangible. He would leave her here alone?

Giric knelt and spread out another blanket in the sleeping area. “Lie here,” he said, and gestured to the left. He moved to the right and sat, his attention on removing his cloak.

Dread curled in the pit of her stomach. The shard of worry ignited into panic. She took a step back.

Giric looked up. Moonlight carved harsh angles against his face, leaving his expression ominous.

Gone was the man who had charmed her with stories of fairies, had lulled her with his rich burr. The fierce warrior before her was every bit her husband!

“Come here.”

Fighting for calm, she shook her head and stumbled back into the moonlight.

“Saint’s breath.”

He stood, and her heart jumped. He was going to take her now. “Do not touch me!”

Giric shot her a look of disguist. “I have given my pledge to bring you to your guardian innocent.”

“I . . .” Confused, embarrassed that after his earlier assurance she’d believed the worst, she reentered the shelter and sat on the pallet.

“Our travel on the morrow will be rough. Get some sleep.” He lay on his blanket. Though inches away, he kept his word and didn’t touch her. After a while his breathing slowed in the deep rhythm of sleep.

 

Two days later, Sarra scanned the hills that were growing steeper and more treacherous with each passing hour, trying not to think of Giric. Though she’d assured him that she hated him, what he made her feel was far from cold.

She stared into the wilderness, thankful they would sleep with a roof over their heads this night.

In the distance, a crofter’s hut, half-hidden in a shield of trees, came into view. Hope ignited. “There is a home.”

Giric nodded. “We will see several more before we reach Kirkshyre Castle.”

“Castle?” She glanced back unsettled by this news.

The mirth in his eyes made her heart jump. “Did I nae mention that we would be staying in a castle with my friends?”

“Friends?” she said with reluctance, and wondered what type of people she would meet.

“Aye,” he replied.

They passed several more crofters’ huts as they rode, the sturdy homes formidable against the blistering winter. And with each league, her nerves wrapped tighter.

A falcon’s cry echoed over the ridge. A smith’s hammer pounded in the distance. When they crested the hill, the land fell away to a rolling valley. On the opposite side, half-carved into the ledge of rock, a majestic castle arched toward the sky.

Giric drew his mount to a halt, smiled. “’Tis always a welcome site.”

The light breeze toyed with the hood of her cloak as she took in the formidable stronghold. Sleek curves of granite melded with hewn boulders to craft a castle as impressive as it was impenetrable. With the castle forged into the edge of a cliff, the noble within could focus his defenses on the entrance. He would need but a handful of archers for those brave or foolish enough to attempt to scale the cliff.

“ ’Tis beautiful,” she whispered.

“Aye, that it is,” Giric replied.

“I had not expected to find anything so grand in the wilderness.” ’Twas a far cry from their previous lodgings. ’Twould seem her escort was filled with surprises.

Giric guided them down the steep slope, then across the valley. The road to the castle wound up, another defense to slow an attacking force.

As they rounded the next bend, the entry to Kirkshyre Castle came into view. Guard towers positioned on either side of the gatehouse connected an expanse of quarried rock. She scanned the battlements, arrow slits, and crenellations which added another layer of defense. Whoever had designed this stronghold knew their craft.

A guard’s call echoed in the distance. Then the rattle and scrape of chains sounded as the drawbridge began to lower.

On a shaky breath, Sarra glanced at Giric.

“’Twill be fine, lass.”

Mayhap, but as she took in the murder holes above the gate where hot rocks, oil, or a slew of arrows could be released on an attacker, she had her doubts.

As they crossed the wooden drawbridge, the clatter of hooves shuddered through her frayed nerves. The shadows of the gatehouse enveloped them. Moments later, they rode into the sunlight illuminating the bailey.

The scents of simmering meat and the freshness of winter merged. A bearded man wielded his hammer to hot steel; the blacksmith she’d heard working as they’d crossed the valley. To her left the butcher was hanging a carcass of venison in front of his shop, while next door a cobbler stretched leather to dry. As did her own castle, this one thrived.

The clang of blades drew her attention. She glanced past the keep at another bailey, where pairs of men were engaged in practice.