An Oath Broken (24 page)

 

T
he rumbles of hooves filled the air as the contingent of knights closed.

Lady Marie Alesia Serouge ran faster. Dropping to her knees, she shoved aside the tangle of brush and started to scramble beneath. Stilled.

Fragments of moonlight exposed the outline of a large, muscular male form.

The man turned. His face, savaged by shadows, focused on her. Even in the feeble light, his gaze burned into hers with ferocious intent.

Twigs caught in her hair as she jerked back. Her breaths coming fast, she dared a glance toward the advancing riders before facing the lone warrior. She couldn’t leave the cover of the brambles, nor could she place herself in new danger.

The thrum of hoofbeats grew.

With a prayer and careful to keep her distance, she pushed her way beneath the brush.

The knights thundered past, their mounts’ hooves casting dust, leaves, and sticks in their wake.

Through the branches, the stranger’s gaze upon her never wavered.

Heart slamming against her chest, she edged back.

Leaves rattled. The stranger lunged toward her. With a groan, he crumbled to the ground.

Marie hesitated.

Another soft moan echoed into the night.

He was hurt! On edge she scanned the darkened woods where the riders had disappeared over the horizon. Mayhap she’d erred and the knights were hunting for this man? However much she wanted to believe that, she couldn’t take the risk. Furious King Philip’s bastard daughter had escaped from his imprisonment, naught would deter the English Duke of Renard in his quest to recapture her.

The injured man shifted to his back with a groan.

She should flee. Escape while she could.

Marie released a deep sigh. As if she could walk away from the wounded man without a care? The scent of earth melded with that of leaves and the warmth of the summer night as she edged closer. A hand’s breadth away she halted.

An arrow extended from his left shoulder!

By his shallow breathing, he still lived, but the shaft must come out.

Go,
her conscience urged. Even if afforded the luxury of time, this man was a stranger, nor did she know what had led him to this desperate end.

But what if he was innocent of a crime?

On a steadying breath, she pressed her fingers against the well-corded muscles of his neck. His strong pulse beat against her skin like a warm promise.

A warm promise? With a shake of her head, Marie withdrew her hand and dismissed the shimmer of heat to her overanxious state.

A wolf howled in the distance, another replied nearby.

In the silken moonlight, she touched the dagger secured within the folds of her dress, and then scoured her surroundings. A wolf could detect the scent of blood from a great distance. If attacked, the wounded man would stand no chance of survival. Unable to discern any immediate danger, she refocused on the stranger. Her whole life had been devoted to helping those in need. How could she leave him here to die? She couldn’t. Nor would she linger. Once she’d determined his recovery was certain, she’d depart.

Satisfied with the compromise, Marie scanned the grass and tree shrouded landscape for a place where they both could hide. A dense blackness lay through the tangle of limbs ahead.

Twigs snapped as she crawled behind the warrior. Careful to keep his left shoulder immobile, she slid her hands beneath his shoulders.

He groaned.

“I must move you,
monsieur,
” she whispered. Sweat beaded her brow and every muscle rebelled as she dragged him through the brush. He was a goliath of a man, even taller and more muscular than she’d first believed.

After several brief stops to rest between tugs, she at last reached the entrance of the cave. Muscles aching, she collapsed against the rocky ledge and glanced skyward. The moon had set and the first rays of sunlight streamed across the heavens in a prism of blues and purples. Marie frowned. Moving him had taken longer than she’d expected.

Ignoring her body’s protests, she dragged him inside, then rolled him onto his uninjured side. Opening her water pouch, she pressed it against his lips. “Drink.”

With a soft groan, his mouth worked as he swallowed, then he shoved the water away.

Rubbing the fatigue from her eyes, Marie secured her pouch and set it aside. ’Twould hold him for now. “Rest. I will return shortly.”

A quick sweep of their path with a pine bough erased any sign of their presence. Satisfied, she picked several herbs that she would need to treat the man’s wounds, and then gathered pieces of ash, wood that would burn without a trail of smoke.

Sunlight trickled through the forest by the time Marie coaxed the first embers within the pile of dried moss and twigs into a flame. After feeding several larger branches into the fire, she turned.

Her breath caught.

Until this moment, the darkness of the night had shrouded the warrior. Illuminated by daylight, long, whisky-colored hair rested upon broad shoulders honed by muscle. Hard, unforgiving planes sculpted his face. Stubble darkened his square jaw.

He presented a formidable warrior for any kingdom. Irritated by her assessment, she frowned. Until she reached her father and informed him of the Duke of Renard’s treachery, she could trust no one.

Marie knelt beside the stranger and clasped the arrow firmly in both hands.

His mouth tightened as he glared at her through half-raised lids. His gaze, even sheltered beneath dark lashes, burrowed deep into her conscious with a potent reminder of her foolishness. Nonetheless, the arrow must come out to allow him any chance at survival on his own. With a jerk, she snapped the shaft as close to the skin as possible.

He gasped, then slumped back.

Thankful when he remained unconscious, she divested him of his mail, gambeson, and undershirt, careful to avoid brushing the embedded arrow.

At the sight of his naked chest, she paused. Whorls of dark hair swirled around aged scars, unknown stories chiseled across a battlefield of sinewy muscle. As a healer, she’d aided many a man injured in combat, but this war-ravaged fighter exuded a dangerous edge. She eased further back. Only a fool would allow herself to offer this dangerous man trust.

Trust.

Her heart tightened as she recalled the price of allowing herself to trust any man.

A mistake she’d never make again.

Marie shoved her painful memories away. She must focus on the formidable task ahead, not wallow in the past.

After removing the arrow from his shoulder, she cauterized the torn flesh. Once she’d applied yarrow and toadflax over the wound, she secured the poultice with strips she’d torn from her undergown and prayed he wouldn’t grow feverish.

With her body screaming its weariness, Marie lay back and closed her eyes. A warm haze fogged her mind. Images of her escape from Renard’s guards, of the terror guiding her every step as she’d fled flickered through her mind. Exhausted, she shoved the images aside and fell into sleep’s welcome embrace.

C
olyne MacKerran, the Earl of Strathcliff, shifted to his left side. Pain tore through his shoulder. On a curse he rolled onto his back, and his body nudged against a soft, pliable form.

Groggy, he opened his eyes and sat up. Sunlight sifted into a cave he had nay memory of entering. Ashes of a recently used fire smoldered a short distance away. And at his side slept an incredibly beautiful woman.

A woman he’d never seen in his life.

Hair the color of warmed honey tumbled in a silken mass around her. And her full mouth was curved into a smile as her lithe body pressed against his. Christ’s blood! He would have remembered bedding such an enchantress.

More importantly, who was she and how had either of them ended up here?

He shoved back the pain in his shoulder as he searched his blurred thoughts to remember. Like a merciless assault, images knifed through his mind. An oath sworn to Douglas, as his friend lay dying, that he’d deliver the writ to King Philip. Being pursued by the Duke of Renard’s men. An arrow shot into his shoulder and his narrow escape.

Then blackness.

The writ! Like a madman Colyne grabbed his undershirt, skimmed his fingers over the bulge of the concealed document. Careful nae to make a sound, he withdrew the leather binding and removed the rolled parchment.

The blood-red royal seal remained intact.

Grief burned his throat at thoughts of Douglas. He hadna even had time to bury his friend.
Bedamned, his life wouldna be given in vain.
The writ to King Philip of France would be delivered!

The woman at his side released a long sigh.

He shot her a hard look. Had she seen the writ? If so, she’d left it untouched. Where had the lass come from?

Her simple garb attested to her life as a beggar. Or, mayhap a servant. From her healthy glow, he’d choose the latter. Had she stumbled across him while out gathering herbs for her lord and had saved his life? If so, he would thank her. But, before he allowed her to leave, he would discover if she had seen the royal document.

After concealing the writ, Colyne nudged the woman.

Her nose twitched in a delicate flare, then she shifted and continued her slumber.

“Lass,” he whispered, nae wanting to frighten her.

“
Qu’est-ce que tu fais?
” she murmured.

Stunned, he stared in disbelief. What was a French woman doing in the dense forests of the Highlands? Disquiet edged through him. The French king’s bastard daughter had been abducted by the English and hidden in the Highlands. This was the very reason he carried the writ to King Philip, to explain the Scots were nae behind this treachery.

Could this be Lady Marie Serouge?

Again, he assessed the dozing lass in mundane garb. He scoffed. Aye, as if the English duke would allow his captive to be roaming the hills without an escort dressed in little better than rags?

A wash of dizziness swept him, and Colyne struggled to clear his mind. Wherever Renard had King Philip’s bastard daughter hidden, she was well guarded.

The woman’s brow wrinkled in a delicate arch as she lifted her lids. Eyes the color of moss bewitched him as their gazes met.

“Lass,” he said, irritated by his awareness. He sought naught but answers. Her eyes cleared. Surprise, then fear, widened them.

The woman started to scramble back, but Colyne caught her wrist. “I am nae going to harm you.”

“Release me,” she gasped, her words thick with a French accent.

“You have tended me?”

Shrewd eyes studied him as if deliberating the wisdom of a reply.

Fine then. “First, promise to nae run.” His body trembled from his meager exertion. With legs as long as a king’s prized filly, if she fled, Colyne doubted he’d be able to pursue her, much less remain conscious. Before he passed out, he needed to discover if she posed any kind of threat to his mission.

She angled her jaw. “I could have left you alone and injured.”

Which spoke well for her character. Or indicated her presence here was planned. “But you did nae.”

“
Non.”
Her gaze flicked to his fingers curled around her wrist. “Now release me.”

“I will have your word that you will nae flee.”

After a long moment, she nodded. “You have my word.”

Colyne let her go. “Why did you stay and care for me?”

“You were hurt.”

The sincerity of her words surprised him. “Most would have left a wounded man to die. Especially a stranger.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I explained my reason.”

A reason that invited more questions. The cave blurred around him, and he braced his hand against the dirt.

“You need to rest,
monsieur
. If you move about, you will reopen your wound. Please.” She laid her hand upon his arm. “The arrow went deep. Your shoulder will take time to heal.”

He stiffened. Time he didna have.

An angry mark across her cheek caught his attention. Colyne skimmed his finger atop the darkening skin, curious as she jerked back. “You have a bruise.”

Her lashes lowered to shield her eyes, but not before he saw the fear. “ ’Tis naught.”

“You have been hit,” he stated, furious any would dare touch this gentle woman who would offer aid to a stranger?

“I fell.”

Fell his bloody arse. By her evasiveness, neither would she reveal more. He studied her a long moment, and his gut assured him that something was amiss. Long ago he’d learned to heed his instinct.

The woman started to rise.

He caught her arm. “What is your name?”

“You will release me!”

At the dictatorial slap of her words, he obeyed and she stood. What the devil? She’d spoken to him as if a woman used to giving orders, and having them followed without hesitation.

Was she in league with Roucliff? Colyne’s suspicion grew tenfold. Had she turned against her king and joined England’s fight to claim Scotland as their own? If so, why hadna she broken the writ’s seal, read the contents, then carried it to the English duke while Colyne lay unconscious?

He shoved to his feet and loomed closer, dwarfing her in his shadow. “Who are you?” At her hesitation he scowled. “You will answer me!”

 

“I-I am a missionary,” Marie blurted out.
Mon Dieu
. Though the warrior watching her was confused, from the intelligence in his eyes, he wasn’t a fool. But a servant of God was the first logical explanation that had come to mind.

“A missionary?” the warrior repeated, his brogue rich with doubt.

“
Oui.
”
Please believe me!

“A French missionary in the Highlands?” He shot a skeptical glance toward the exit, then back to her. “Alone?”

She fought for calm. What more could she say to convince him? Though he looked like a god, with his eyes the deepest blue of the ocean and the sides of his cheeks hinting of dimples, the warrior’s sharp gaze assured her that he was not a man to trifle with.

“I am waiting,” he stated, his tone dry.

“It is difficult for me.” An understatement.

His expression darkened. “I am nae going anywhere.”

Neither, it appeared, was she. At least not until he’d received an explanation that left him satisfied. Once she’d appeased him, she would allow him another day to recover. Then, that night while he slept, she’d slip away. Though with the men scouring the area to find her, travel would be difficult.

Through lowered lashes, she regarded the fierce warrior, a man with the power to intimidate and the strength to back his claims. His finely crafted mail that she’d set against the rocky wall of the cave bespoke wealth. Surely he carried the funds necessary to arrange for her passage to France.

Marie hesitated.

Was this man too dangerous to risk not only her life with, but the safety of Scotland as well? Perhaps ’twould be better if she traveled alone.

But as a Scot, he would know the terrain, and if necessary, places to hide. In addition, his presence would add another layer of safety. The knights searching for her sought a woman alone.

Unsure to what extent she could trust him, she decided it prudent to withhold the fact of her royal tie. Though a Scot, he could be an enemy of her country.

“While returning from Beauly Priory, our party was attacked, and our people were slaughtered.” Marie closed her eyes, her pain real in that, if she failed to reach her father and tell him the truth of who’d abducted her, many Scots would indeed die.

Silence.

Marie lifted her lashes and found his gaze skeptical, though not totally dismissive. “During the attack, I escaped,” she continued. “I was terrified.”

He nodded. “Aye, you would be.”

“I-I went back to . . .”

At her shudder, he lifted her chin, his eyes dark with regret. “Oh God, lass. ’Tis nae the likes of what a woman should witness.”

Caught off guard by his solace, for a moment she leaned closer. What was she doing, they were strangers? Shaken to offer trust when he’d earn none, she stumbled back. “I am sorry,” she said, fiercely regretting her lie. She despised untruths, but life had shown her the length people would go to, lying, cheating and murdering to achieve their goals.

“Do nae be.”

The sincere concern on his face made her want to admit the truth, but she remained silent. She knew nothing about this Scot, except his actions deemed him a man of compassion. Did his conduct extend to honor as well? “I must return home and inform my father of this tragedy.” Her quiet words echoed between them, and his gaze softened.

“I understand.”

Hope ignited. “Then you will help me?”

The warmth in his expression faded to caution. “Help you?”

“
Oui.
As you are aware, travel for a woman alone is dangerous.” She spoke faster as refusal crept into his eyes. “I would only need for you to escort me to the closest port. From there I—”

Coldness chilled his gaze. “Nay.”

She touched his arm. “But you must.”

Dry amusement quirked on his lips. “I must?” Deep blue eyes studied her with unapologetic interest. “Lass, you have a penchant of ordering people about.”

“I do not . . .” She withdrew her hand. Heat swept her cheeks. He was right. The woman he believed her to be would focus on serving those in need. She glanced toward the opening of the cave. Roucliff ’s men along with miles of wilderness stood between her and a port city. “The last few days have been terrifying.”

The truth. Her abduction, imprisonment, and learning of the English duke’s plot to use her as a pawn in hopes her father would sever support to Scotland, had torn her life apart.

“I am distraught and am being impossibly rude.” She paused. “Forgive me.”

Mirth flickered through the tiredness in his eyes. “That is the second time you have apologized to me, and with nay reason. I am the one who is sorry that you have been subjected to such carnage.”

“I . . . Thank you.” Moved by his genuine concern, he fell silent. As much as she didn’t wish to involve him, fate offered no other choice. Somehow she must convince him to escort her to the coast.

His brows furrowed in pain, the handsome man started to turn.

She bristled, caught his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“As much as I wish to rest, I canna.” Honed muscles rippled as he leaned over to pick up his undershirt.

Embarrassed to find herself staring, she turned away, but not before he caught her perusal. By the grace of Mary! “You need to rest.” She tugged his gambeson from his hand and returned it atop his mail. “You are pushing yourself too quickly.”

Mischief warmed his gaze as if amused by her show of will. “I always take care with what I do, regardless the task.”

Heat stroked her body at his claim. Of that she had no doubt. “I am going to pick some herbs that will help relieve your pain.” She walked toward the entrance of the cave.

“I have yet to thank you for caring for me.”

The softness in his voice had her halting at the timeworn entry. She didn’t turn, though he was a stranger, something about him invited friendship, akin to trust. Neither of which she was in a position to give. “You are welcome.”

“You have nae told me your name.”

Her entire body tensed. Her name? Drawn by a force she couldn’t name, she turned and faced him.

A mistake.