An Oath Broken (3 page)

After donning a thick leather glove, Sarra reached into a leather pouch, withdrew a strip of meat, and held it out.

For a moment he eyed the offering, then snatched it from her hand.

“You were always finicky,” she chided gently as he swallowed it whole. Her heart gave a hard tug. How could she leave Rancourt Castle? This was her home. In the aftermath of tragedy, she’d carved out a life on her own.

Now, with the arrival of the writ, the stability of her entire life was in jeopardy. What would she do if her guardian insisted on the union? Her independence would be lost. Even if she held her ground, she would end up in a nunnery.

Either way, how could she win?

Sir Galahad angled his head and stared at her expectantly, his black eyes alert.

A tear slid down her cheek as she recalled the day she and her father had found the raptor’s mother sprawled on the forest floor, mortally wounded. Due to the time of year, her father was concerned that the falcon had a nest nearby. He’d explained that with the raptor’s mother dead, and without their aid, any chicks within her nest would die.

After hours of searching, they had found the young raptor hidden inside its home of branches and mud. Once hooded, they’d carried him home. To her delight, her father had gifted her with the young bird and as Sir Galahad grew, her father had taught her how to handle him.

“Hek, hek,” Sir Galahad squawked.

Sarra wiped the tears from her eyes. “I shall miss you as well.” She gently stroked his blue-gray wings, closed her eyes, and let the warmth of her past fill her.

Happiness, pure and innocent, tumbled through her heart. The countless tales her father had told of King Arthur, Camelot, his devout knights, and their adventures rolled through her mind.

Though Sir Gawain and Sir Lancelot were among those knights most trusted by King Arthur, ’twas Sir Galahad, son of Sir Lancelot, who had earned Sarra’s favor. That Sir Lancelot’s son had chosen to hide his identity and had earned his knighthood on his own merit moved her. The trueness of the stalwart knight’s heart had won her respect.

Pride filled her as she gazed upon the peregrine falcon that possessed the same fierce loyalty. ’Twas appropriate that his namesake should be drawn from an Arthurian legend. For men such as Sir Galahad existed only in tales.

A light knock sounded at the door.

Sarra swiped away her tears. “Enter.”

The door opened with a muffled scrape.

And Sarra came face to face with the last man she wished to see.

Sunlight outlined Sir Knight’s mail-clad form, and left his face masked in shadows.

A long moment passed.

“My lady, are you ready to leave?” His soft, rich burr wrapped around her like warm velvet. He stepped closer. “Are you ill?”

The tenderness of his voice threw her off guard. A sliver of her defenses cracked and tempted her to accept the compassion he seemed to offer, compassion that at this moment, she needed desperately.

She searched his face, the worries she harbored spilling out. “How can I go? Amice, my seamstress, is due with her first babe within a fortnight. I need to speak with the tenants to ensure their larders are full. Then, there is the upcoming planting season to discuss with the steward. Though I have tried to ensure that all is taken care of, what if due to circumstance I never return? What will happen then? I cannot . . .” Overwhelmed, she shook her head.

“My lady,” he said with calm understanding. “’Tis hard to leave those we love when naught but uncertainty awaits us.”

His sage words hinted that he, too, had weathered such turmoil. But then, why wouldn’t he? As a knight, he had tasted battle, faced death many times. She hesitated. What was she thinking to confide in this Scot, a man whose presence was bought with a few pieces of gold?

Sir Galahad squawked and fluttered his wings as he shuffled over his bow perch.

Sarra turned to the peregrine falcon and murmured soothing words as she stroked her hand across his wings. The raptor calmed, and she glanced toward the intruder who’d for a moment made her want to give him her trust.

“ ’Twould be best to leave posthaste, my lady. The skies are growing dark, and another storm may be upon us before night.”

“I need but a moment more.”

“To ensure your safety, we canna delay further.”

She wanted to argue, but realized logic, not her emotions, must guide her. “Then, we shall leave.”

With a nod, Sir Knight stepped back and opened the door. “My lady.”

She turned to the falcon one last time. “Take care, Sir Galahad. I will miss you.” Without meeting his gaze, she swept past the Scot. Let them be on their way. The sooner she was free of his presence the better.

W
ind, bitter and sharp, ripped at Giric’s body. He leaned lower on his steed’s neck as his mount forged another drift. Swirls of snow darted through folds of his cloak and jabbed at his flesh.

He glanced toward Lady Sarra who rode several paces away. Through the gnarl of white he barely made out her form.

Another burst of icy wind pummeled him as he guided his mount around a large boulder. He looked up. Naught but endless white filled his vision. They would have to find shelter.

“My lady?” Storm-fed winds whipped away his words. “Lady Sarra!”

Her cloaked form remained stiff in the saddle and she didna reply.

Tugging on the reins, he guided his horse toward his wayward charge. From the start, she’d made this trip a test of his endurance. Why had he thought she might do something sensible and answer him now?

Giric tugged on her cape, which was dusted with a thick layer of snow.

She turned the slightest degree, her face shielded from his gaze by her hood.

“We need to make camp,” he yelled.

Trees rattled overhead.

Her horse veered as it neared an aged oak, its barren limbs like bony fingers arching toward the sky, and she rode farther away.

A whirl of snow shot down his neck. He clasped the hood tighter and glared at her through the curtain of white. Blast if she didna have the sense of a pignut!

He scanned his men and Lady Sarra’s maid following in their wake. Then, he scoured the landscape camouflaged in numerous shades of white, barely able to discern the familiar landmarks.

The snow had continued throughout the day. Within the last hour, the flurries had grown into big, fat, blinding flakes. From the darkening clouds, it looked as if the storm would continue throughout the night.

They needed to find shelter. Now.

He nudged his steed and caught up with Lady Sarra. Giric touched her shoulder, then pointed ahead where rocks jutted out in a misshapen gray jumble. “Ride there.”

Her horse trudged through the growing drifts. In a jerky, almost drunken motion, she turned. Wind whipped away the hood of her cloak.

Crystals of ice clung to her hair and her brows. Frigid tendrils slapped against her face, but she stared at him, her eyes wide and confused. She made no move to protect herself.

“We need to make camp!” he ordered, praying for a reaction, even anger.

Her eyes remained empty.

Blast it. She hadna answered before because she was freezing and her mind hadna registered his shout. Giric snatched her reins, then lifted her from her mount and set her before him.

She didna resist.

He hadna expected her to.

Guilt swept him as he drew her within the warmth of his cape and pressed her snug against his chest.

Her frigid body remained still, nae even a shiver.

He’d vowed to ensure her safety. Though he’d inquired about her condition several times during the beginning of their journey, her continual cool replies had deterred him from approaching her after midday. The senseless chit. Instead of alerting him that she was freezing, she’d remained silent.

He drew her tighter, prayed his warmth would begin to thaw the coldness numbing her slender frame.

“Colyne!” Giric yelled.

Cantering over, his friend shielded his face against another blast of the churning flakes. His brow arched as he spotted Lady Sarra bundled within Giric’s cape.

“The lass is half-froze.” Giric pointed to the outcrop of rocks he’d noticed before and prayed his memory served him well. An error at this point could mean Lady Sarra’s death, and if she died, he could never forgive himself. “There should be a cave up ahead. Pass word back to the men that we are headed there.”

Colyne nodded and rode back to inform the small party.

Her body remained still as Giric urged his steed through the thigh-deep drifts. “’Twill be all right, lass.” And prayed he spoke the truth.

With care, he guided his mount up the steep, icy slope. Wind lashed in violent eddies off the ledges, and a fine dusting of snow sifted around them as Giric halted his horse beneath a shelter of jagged rocks. Thankfully, the mouth of the cave opened before them.

The stumble of hooves upon rock and snow announced his men’s arrival.

Giric noted the woman half-bent over her mount. “Colyne, bring Lady Sarra’s maid inside and tend to her. No doubt she is freezing as well.” After commands to his men to secure the horses, bring in the gear, and to build a fire, holding Sarra steady in the saddle, Giric dismounted.

Her head tilted back, but instead of the wariness in her eyes that normally greeted him, he stared into a lifeless void.

“You have the sense of an addled gull,” he growled, but his censure spilled out in a worry-roughened whisper. He lifted her down.

A muffled whimper fell from her lips as she tumbled into his arms.

His throat tightened, and he drew her against his chest. “There you go, lass.” Leaning against the wind, he slogged through the ice-peaked drifts toward the entry.

Inside, the rush of wind muted to a deep, ominous groan. Bursts of snow churned at his feet, and he halted. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he carried her toward an inner alcove devoid of drafts, but a space close enough to the outer cavern so that once a fire was started, and with her frozen garb removed, it should keep her warm.

Another soft moan fell from her lips.

He glanced down at her murky outline. “You are going to be fine, lass.”

Fate seemed to mock him, for only the faintest of breaths fell from her lips. And like a fallen fairy, her face usually so alive and alluring lay chalky white.

Neyll, a knight with whom he’d trained arms as a child, moved ahead of him and stepped into the small inlet. He spread out a thick woolen blanket and an extra cloak.

“My thanks,” Giric said.

“I will help the other men.” Sir Neyll departed.

On edge, Giric gently laid her on the makeshift bedding. Colyne moved past with her maid in his arms.

Giric gave him a nod. “My thanks.” He knelt beside Sarra while another of his men assembled sticks nearby to start a fire.

Moments later, the rich tang of smoke filtered through the cavern, and golden flames illuminated the cave.

Thankful, Giric withdrew his gloves, then removed her woolen gown along with the layers of linen underdress beneath.

Throughout the painstaking process, she never moved.

And his worry grew. Once he’d stripped her down to her chemise, he pulled the wool blanket around her.

She remained still.

He glanced toward the fire. The meager flames would take too long to heat the cave and warm her. That left only one choice.

Body heat—his.

He stared at the pale pixie that frustrated him to the point of insanity. He cursed himself. She shouldna have been allowed to deteriorate to this state in the first place. Because of him, she could die.

Bedamned if she would!

In quick, rough jerks, he shed his clothes.

Naked except for his tunic and braies, Giric slid beneath the covers and drew her body against his. Nae even a shiver rewarded his touch. Blast it, her skin was like ice. She needed his total body heat.

On a groan, Giric pressed his forehead to hers, the dire situation doing little to douse his body’s awareness of her. Leather packs slapped the earth of the cave as his men, carrying in their supplies, filtered to Giric, but he focused on Sarra.

“Lass, I am going to have to remove your chemise.” Nae to mention his tunic and braies as well.

Her shallow breaths fell between them.

Giric glanced down and groaned. Her taut nipples pressed against the thin cotton as if beckoning his touch. He gritted his teeth and within seconds she lay naked in his arms, her chest pressed against his, her legs wrapped protectively by his own. He covered them both with an extra blanket.

Heat.

It seemed to surround them, engulf him like the flames of the fire arching toward the cavern roof. Her scent mingled with his, intimate, alluring, and seductive. He tried nae to think. But how in the blasted Hades could any man do that with a naked woman in his arms?

Especially her?

Sarra’s eyes, which had remained glazed and unseeing, began to drift shut.

Nae!
“Come on, lass.” He ran his hands over her back, up her arms and over her shoulders, then began again. “Where is that fighter who flayed my hide on the turret steps?”

Her eyes fluttered open, then lazily drooped closed.

He shook her. “Stay awake!”

Sir Neyll entered the alcove and held out a cup of steaming broth.

“She is nae alert enough to drink yet,” Giric said.

With a nod the Scot returned to the fire.

The next few hours passed in a haze. Giric coaxed, cajoled, and threatened Sarra into remaining awake. Then she shivered, just the tiniest motion, but to him ’twas as if the heavens had poured down their blessings.

On a moan, her lids lifted. Confusion darkened her eyes as she stared at him, but the faintest recognition sparked within.

His throat tightened with emotion as he continued to slide his hands over her skin, feeling the next shudder. Then, her body began to shiver in delightful, uncontrollable bursts.

On an exhale, Giric buried his face against her neck, tasting the warmth of her life. As she roused, with the swells of her breasts pressed against his chest and her slender body encased protectively by his, need slammed through him.
Bedamned!

“Wa—Want to sleep.” Another tremor ran through her, and she leaned closer, frowning when her face pressed against the hard warmth of his skin. Then, her eyelids began to sag.

“Lass,” Giric urged, trying to ignore the tempting vision of her curled against him.

A frown creased her brow, and she shook her head.

“Sarra.”

She closed her eyes. “So . . . tired,” she whispered, her words thick.

“You need to stay awake, Sarra.” He threaded his fingers through her golden hair, then down her back in a gentle caress.

She released a gentle breath, and a faint smile touched her face. She snuggled closer.

His body hardened. Giric studied the jagged rocks overhead, counted the indents in each, focused on anything but what this woman made him feel. “Nay, lass, you canna go back to sleep.”

With a grimace, she pushed her hand feebly against his chest. Sarra’s fingers curled within the thick mat of black hair, stilled. Her eyes flew open. The grogginess of hours cleared into stunned realization.

On a gasp, she tried to break free.

He held her still.

“I am naked!”

As if he needed a blasted reminder.

Sarra tried to push away, but after a moment, her struggles ceased and the expression on her face shifted from anger to an emotion he nae wanted to see.

Desire.

As quick, he saw the confusion. God help him. An innocent, she didna recognize her own yearnings. But blast it, he did. And a virgin was a far cry from the type of woman who normally graced his bed. Neither was it his intent to change that situation now. The last thing he needed was for her to want him. One of them going blasted insane was quite enough.

“ ’Tis good to see you awake and full of cheer,” he growled.

Her eyes widened. “You are naked as well!”

“I am.”

Her gaze shifted to where the men sat by the fire, then to him. “Where are we? What did we—”

The futility of this entire situation eroded the last of his practical calm. “We have done naught but seek shelter,” he explained, his soft burr rich with irritation, but he let it fuel him refusing to dwell on the intimacy of this situation. “You almost froze to death.”

She swallowed hard, then closed her eyes.

Saint’s breath, what was wrong now? “Lady Sarra?”

“Please . . . do not.” On a shuddered sigh she glanced toward where her hand was curled on his chest, her body cupped snugly against his and his leg slung over the top of her thigh. She unfurled her trembling hand and laid it against her side. “My thanks, Sir Knight, but now that I am awake, yo—you cannot stay. ’Tis highly improper.”

“Highly improper?” He stared at her in disbelief. “My impropriety kept you from blasted freezing to death.”

Another shiver wracked her body. “I am doing this badly.”

Giric arched a brow. “Doing what badly?” He could only imagine her explanation.

She sighed and her eyes grew soft. “Thanking you for saving my life.”

He swallowed hard, needing her coldness, nae an apology that would weaken his defenses. “My lady, you have done most things badly since we have met, but I will overlook this as well.” Heat filled her cheeks at his rude retort, but ’twas better if she loathed him. Her disdain he could accept.

Sir Neyll walked over and halted, two steaming cups in his hands.

Giric silently thanked his friend for the interruption. The whole situation between him and Sarra was plummeting onto dangerous ground.

“I heard voices,” Sir Neyll explained, “and thought Lady Sarra might be ready for some hot broth now.”

Wide eyed, Sarra gasped and drew the blanket up to her chin to cover herself.

“Aye,” Giric replied as he tried to ignore her maidenly reaction. The warmth of the savory broth filled the air as he sat up and accepted the steaming cups. He set his own mug on a stone ledge. “My thanks.”

With a nod, his friend left.

Giric glanced toward where Colyne tended to Sarra’s maid. “How does the lass fare?”

“A bit cold,” Colyne replied, “but with a night’s rest she will be fine.”

“My thanks.” Giric looked at Sarra.

Shivering, she glanced toward Colyne. Concern darkened her eyes as she turned back to Giric. “How is Alicia?”