An Oath Broken (7 page)

The blasted stubborn woman. She would die before admitting her condition was growing worse. As if he was nae as stubborn? “The sun will be setting soon. We must find shelter before then.”

Sarra lifted her eyes to his, and her cool gaze assured him that she had her doubts of finding anything warm, much less shelter this night.

“I know of a place.” The men trailing them knew it as well, but he hoped they wouldna believe he’d head toward the deserted, broken-down hut. Or, with the weather deteriorating, if their pursuers ever did travel there, that he and Sarra would be long gone.

Suspicion darkened her eyes.

With a mumbled oath, Giric kicked his mount forward, tempted to add that the hut was a meeting place for a den of thieves. He grimaced. The description came closer to the truth than he’d like to admit.

The scent of pine, snow, and cold filled Giric’s each breath as they crossed the next ridge. He pushed aside a thick fir bow, then guided his horse east. Through the snowstorm, the outline of a crofter’s hut came into view.

The thatched roof sank sadly inward and several gaping holes exposed pieces of the dimly lit interior. A pile of wood half-covered in snow lay scattered on the left, and the collapsed, charred foundation of another wattle-and-daub hovel stood to the right. His memories of the sturdy cottages gave way to dismal reality.

“Sir Knight.”

“Aye.”

“There is a—”

“I know what is up ahead.” As soon as he’d spat the words, he could have kicked himself. She didna deserve his poor temper. They would have to make do. “I didna mean to sound harsh. We are both tired.”

Silence.

Blast it! He halted his mount, dismounted, and then helped her into their broken-down-yet-temporary lodgings. “We should be safe here.” For a while. Léod and his men would come; the question was nae if, but when. Frustrated, he headed outside.

 

Sarra’s breath puffed out in a cloud of white as the door slammed shut. How long would Sir Knight remain outside? Chills running through her, she rubbed her hands over her arms. Within the meager light, she made a slow circle of what the Scot had deemed a safe retreat.

A fine sheen of snow sifted through the cracks in the timber posts and the missing thatch in several places in the roof, and doubts lingered about the safety of this hovel.

An old but usable hearth sat centered in the single room. Shards of pottery lay scattered around the earthen floor. A broken bench sat in a heap in the corner nearest to the door, and a battered cauldron was tipped on its side beside the fireplace. In the far corner stood a well-worn bed filled with brownish straw. All smeared with a fine dusting of snow.

Another gust of wind pummeled the aged hut and whistled through the holes.

She shivered.

The door scraped open.

Sir Knight stepped inside carrying a load of wood, then shoved the door closed. “Colder than a . . .” He stomped the snow from his boots, then dropped the wood onto the floor with an unnerving clatter. “The horse is secure. Now I will start a fire.”

A fire? Was he mad? They had just ridden for more than half a day over this godforsaken terrain and narrowly, only narrowly escaped the Scots who were determined to kill them.
Her,
she corrected. And now her glorious protector was going to build a fire? Why didn’t he go outside and shout their location?

At this moment, any doubts of Lord Bretane’s ability for rational thought were erased. Before her stood proof.

Her guardian had hired an idiot.

“The men will be able to see the smoke,” Sarra said, unable to keep the temper from her voice.

The Scot shrugged, knelt, and then began to stack the wood in the hearth. “They are a ways off.”

His unconcerned reply coated in a soft burr riled her further. When he pulled out his flint and used his dagger to scrape sparks into the small stack of dry timber, her control snapped.

Sarra stormed over and kicked the stack of tinder. Sticks clattered and shavings billowed up to glide back to the floor in a drunken heap.

Red slashing his cheeks, Sir Knight jumped to his feet. “Blast it, you have been naught but a pain in the arse from the start! Why had I deluded myself into thinking that at some moment during our journey that you would be of any help?”

Stunned by his ferocity, she started to take a step back, but indignation forced her to hold her ground. “The men will see the smoke.”

He took a predatory step toward her. “If you have nae noticed,” he drawled with uncensored sarcasm, “there is a blizzard raging outside. If the men are still attempting to find our tracks, I doubt if they can see a stone’s throw before them, much less a wisp of smoke. That is if I can even get this blasted fire started!”

“Oh.” She glanced through the holes to outside where the white haze of snow and wind obscured her vision, the same storm they’d traveled through for the past few hours. He was right, but couldn’t he see that she was scared out of her wits? It wasn’t as if being chased by a band of ruffians with intent to kill her was an everyday event.

His eyes narrowed. “Here I am carting around a high and mighty heiress. I should have expected that you would be dim-witted as a gnat in such dealings. A lad could have divined a fire was nae a threat!”

The apology brewing in her mind shattered. If he’d wanted to insult her, he’d hit her mark. She was many things, but dim-witted was far from one of them. “I was trying to be cautious.”

“Cautious, is it?”

Scared, all right, she was terrified they’d be caught. But to the devil with him knowing that! She jammed her hands on her hips. “One of us needs to be on guard.”

Sir Knight quirked his brow in a stormy tilt. “Is that so?”

Aware she’d stepped onto dangerous ground, she also realized that for whatever reasons, he insisted on pushing her to this point. A diversion he seemed to enjoy. By the rood, she was tired of his overbearing attitude. He wasn’t a member of the gentry who could command her actions, and she wasn’t a mindless maiden who would obey his every dictate or swoon at his feet.

“Aye,” she replied. “’Tis so.”

He stepped closer. “And when it comes to being prudent, you have been a saint, exercising good judgment at every turn, have you nae?”

She angled her chin. “I have.”

He gave a doubtful grunt. “You are nae worth the gold I am being paid. When you were freezing to death you did nae have the common sense to inform me.”

“I—”

“And you found it essential to travel with three extra horses just to carry your goods?”

“They were necessary. How else—”

“Necessary?” He gave a rough laugh. “Nay, lass. A horse is necessary. A dagger is necessary. But when you haul trunks of extravagant garments and foolish trinkets across the lowlands in the middle of the winter, which will inevitably slow travel and possibly endanger our party, you are asking for problems.”

Guilt surged through her. She hadn’t known that the extra clothes would be an issue, neither had he mentioned it. Until now. And she hadn’t packed frivolously. She’d only taken essential items. As if he would believe her? Sir Knight saw only what he wanted, and it wasn’t her.

The night at Rancourt Castle when he’d pinned her against the tower wall and almost kissed her flashed to mind, and the excitement of that moment whipped through her. Stunned at the vivid memory, shamed by the unwanted thought, she went on the offensive. “If you had informed me the extra horses were going to be a burden, I would have—”

“What? Left them behind?” He shot her a cynical look. “If you would have bestowed upon me but a moment of your precious time instead of making me wait for several days, we would nae be discussing this issue now. But you did nae. Rest assured, you made your position clear about nae making time to discuss your plans, much less anything else, with me.”

She’d been upset at her guardian’s writ to marry his son, forced to leave a home she’d struggled to maintain and the people she loved, unsure if she’d ever return. And she’d been stunned by her attraction toward him, though she would never admit that. “You overbearing clout. If you had but acted like a gentleman instead of a heathen whose eye is on the gold he’s to receive for this task, any issues would have long since been settled!”

Ice blue eyes plummeted to an inky black. The mood within the hovel shuddered with something dangerous. “And you would nae know a real man if he hauled you against him and kissed you senseless.”

Her body’s immediate reaction to that thought infuriated her further. “You would not!” she stated, cursing her temper at the same time. This wasn’t good, and one of them needed to stop and latch onto common sense, but it seemed that right now it wasn’t her.

Without warning he hauled her against him, their bodies snug, his face inches from hers. Sir Knight caught her chin in a soft but firm hold. His eyes sparked with dangerous delight. “Dare me now.”

W
ind howled and slammed against the hovel’s sturdy frame like the temper Giric fought to keep in check as he held Sarra’s chin and waited for her response. He called himself every kind of a fool. Enough lay between them without adding to this lunacy.

Now, with her gray eyes fixed on his and shimmering with innocent yearning, he wanted her more.

She pressed her hands against his chest. “You dare not kiss me.” Her reply fell out in a soft whisper, etched with need.

As much as he fought to deny it, he struggled to contain that same wanting—a desire that transcended common sense. And her soft plea, though she would never call it that, severed his good intent to walk away.

With a curse he lowered his mouth.

Sarra gasped as he brushed his lips over hers, and she stilled in his arms, but he worked her, drawing, teasing, luring her into the kiss.

A moment passed, then she relaxed against him and began kissing him back.

Lost to the intensity of her passion, he surrendered to her taste, to the heat of it. Wind whistled around them, the blizzard raged outside, but at this moment, with her body pressed tight, his thoughts were filled with her.

Her hands slid around his neck to pull him closer. Then her kiss changed, became demanding, almost frantic in its possession.

He’d had women before, was known for his ability to bring them pleasure as well. But naught in his life had prepared him for the desire knifing through him with a fine-edged precision.

Saint’s breath!

He pulled free, his breathing unsteady, and his body trembling with the urge to take her.

“Sir Knight?” Her question fell out in a slumbered daze, her eyes hazed from passion, and her lips swollen from his kisses that invited him back.

“Giric,” he rasped, already missing the warmth, the rightness of her mouth on his. “Call me by my given name.”

“Giric.” She worked his name over her lips, her sultry English accent making it sound as if a wish. And for a moment he’d become caught up in that dream. Saint’s breath, what was he doing? He released her and stepped back.

The passion in her expression dissolved into stunned disbelief. Eyes wide, she swiped her hand across her lips.

At her overt rejection, as if what they’d shared was something foul to be cast into a cesspit, his ire ignited. Tempted to kiss her until she admitted that she’d wanted him as much as he wanted her, he didn’t move. Even if she conceded, what would her confession serve? She would never accept him in her life.

As if that was even a choice? He’d been hired to deliver the lass to her betrothed, nae seduce her. What did it matter how she felt toward him? The kiss had been a mistake, an error he would nae allow again.

“I will make a fire,” Giric said, the edge to his voice betraying his outward calm. He strode to the scattered mound of wood and shavings near the hearth and knelt.

Soft steps came up behind him. “Sir Knight, I—”

“Giric,” he said without looking back. Though he may never have her, like it or nae, if she wanted to talk with him, she would use his name. At least he would have that.

She released a soft sigh. “Giric, let me help.”

His heart pounding, he took a deep breath, turned. At the turmoil on her face, he wanted to draw her into his arms. Instead, he shot her a foreboding expression that hopefully would keep her at a distance. At this moment, with her taste still fresh in his mind, he wasna taking any chances.

Sarra squared her shoulders. “I kicked the wood over.” Her cheeks pinkened with a light blush. “I acted foolishly.” She knelt by his side and began to pick up the scattered kindling.

Saint’s breath. The last thing he wanted was her understanding. Disturbed by her humbleness and unsure how to deal with this confusing woman, he remained silent and applied himself to his task.

Once they’d restacked the kindling, he scraped his knife against the flint to send a shower of sparks into the tinder. After several tries, a puff of smoke spurted up. He gently blew into the shavings until flames flickered to life, then he added larger pieces of wood, enough to last a few hours. He rocked back on his heels as the fire continued to build. Though meager, blessed warmth began to invade his body.

Her face illuminated within the cast of firelight, she glanced over. Though her expression remained cautious, from her silence, he sensed her need to explain.

Why do you nae just batter yourself with a mace, Terrick. ’Twould be a blasted quicker way to end your misery of wanting her.
He stood, needing to put distance between them. “I will be back.”

Eyes unsure, Sarra stood with awkward hesitancy. “Where are you going?”

“I need to check on my horse before we can settle in for the night.” He walked to the pack he’d carried into the hut. “There are oatcakes inside and a pouch of wine. I know you are hungry, eat.” He strode outside, thankful for the blast of cold air as he stepped into the fury of the storm.

 

Unsettled by her actions, Sarra stared at the door as it closed. She wrapped her arms around her waist, startled to find her cape hard with ice. By the rood. So caught up in their confrontation, she’d forgotten about the cold she’d battled over the past few hours.

She rubbed her hands before the flames, thankful for their warmth. What had she been thinking? Never had she permitted anyone to touch her in such a bold manner. Not that she’d granted him the right. The arrogant Scot. ’Twas a wonder her guardian had hired the man.

Her guardian. This entire mess was his fault. If not for his decree to travel to Scotland in the middle of winter to wed, she wouldn’t be stranded in this pathetic shack, in the middle of this godforsaken country, with a Scottish knight of questionable morals who’d likened her to a gnat.

A gnat!

Disgusted, Sarra tossed a twig into the fire. Greedy flames engulfed it then spurted out a belch of heat. She picked up another sturdy branch. The oaf. As if Sir Knight—Giric, she corrected—was her better. How dare he cast aspersions on her person?

Although she had provoked him.

And, he was right. Since they were attacked he’d acted honorably, risking his life for her many times over. And the truth be told, her earlier angry words were hurled not because she detested him, but because of her budding desire for this worthy knight.

Shaken, she dropped the branch and it landed on the floor with a soft scrape. A pounding began in her head, and she rubbed her temples. Somewhere in between her fatigue and disgruntled state, she grudgingly accepted that her attraction toward Giric had begun from the start. Perhaps ’twas why she’d avoided him, treated him in the unfair manner he’d claimed.

Giric. An unusual but strong name. Fitting for a Scottish warrior.

The old hurt, the pain of her parents’ murder, and the cause—reivers—ripped through her soul. By the rood, how could she, in any manner, be drawn to a Scot? At least he wasn’t a reiver. Then her mortification would have been complete.

A bang sounded on the side of the building.

She whirled.

Sticks and straw filled a hole that moments ago had allowed gusts of snow inside.

Guilt swept her at his unselfish actions. He’d left her inside to eat and rest, even after she’d treated him so poorly.

When had she grown so bitter? Is that what he saw when he looked at her, a cold, heartless woman?

The people of Rancourt Castle respected her. But she couldn’t profess the heartwarming connection with her people that she’d witnessed between Giric and Colyne and his men when they’d stayed within the cave.

What was it about him that commanded respect, drew her to him, or made her aware of her coldness like no one else ever had? Regardless, when he returned, she owed him an apology. She’d attacked him unfairly. The men who pursued them weren’t his fault. She paused. Exactly how did he know them? From the way he avoided her questions, he was hiding something, but what?

She frowned.

As Giric continued to plug the gaps within the hovel, Sarra looked around the shabby abode. She couldn’t just wait here, she would go insane. After digging a pathetic, half-broken stem of a broom from near the hearth, she set herself into action.

With each hour that passed her guilt increased. Though chilly, she had a fire to keep warm and the sturdy wall to protect her from the howling force outside, while Giric endured the storm’s brutality as he methodically filled every hole in the cabin wall and roof.

She fed more wood to the fire and dug out the oatcakes and wine he’d mentioned earlier, but she didn’t eat. Once he’d returned, they would share the food. And for a reason she would rather not ponder further, she needed to prove to him that she was more than the coldhearted woman he believed her to be.

 

The icy, snow-laden wind whipped Giric’s face as he shoved a gob of straw and wood into the last hole in the roof. “That ought to hold you, you meddling tumble of wood.” He climbed to the ground and surveyed his work, pleased considering the situation.

After checking several snares he’d set earlier, he checked on his mount before heading inside. His steed nickered when he entered the stall.

“Aye, ’tis a cold one, but I will be promising you oats when we return home.” Although the gold he’d bring wasna earned in a fashion he’d brag about, it would allow him to begin repairs on Wolfhaven Castle. Wheat and oats could be purchased to sow in their now-barren fields, swords and other weaponry for defense, and he could help those within his clan who scraped for each pence. Then he would have taken his first step in becoming a man whom he could respect.

His thick-coated bay nudged his shoulder.

“I will see you in the morning, lad.” He patted his withers. With a heavy sigh he started toward the hovel. Before he began to make plans for his future, he had to deal with the present.

Though subdued upon his departure, his absence had given Sarra ample time to convince herself of a myriad of despicable things about his character.

Prepared for the worst, he opened the door and hurried inside. As the door clicked shut, he stared in stunned disbelief. Flames roared in the hearth, and she’d cleaned the interior, or at least had straightened it a bit. Nae that much could be done with the decrepit state, but she’d tried.

Her eyes unsure, she glanced toward him from her seat near the hearth.

“You have done a fine job,” he said, nodding toward the chamber. The soft flush of pleasure at his praise lured him.

“There was so much time and . . .” She stood and cleared her throat. “About earlier. I was rude, and I am sorry.”

Of all of the things he’d expected, an apology was nae one of them. He eyed her, his defenses on alert. What did the lass expect from him now? And why did she have to keep looking at him that way, a cross between an innocent and a woman struggling to hold her own—a woman he could admire.

“’Tis forgotten,” he replied, his response rougher than he’d intended.

“I . . . Thank you.”

Giric shrugged. “I caught a rabbit.” He withdrew it from his cape and struggled to guide his mind to safer ground. But the golden flames of the fire outlined Sarra in her wool gown and made his blood heat. “It will make a nice stew and help the food in my pack last us longer. Here. I will ready the pot while you skin it.”

A blush slipped up her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze.

He set the hare on the wooden bench. “What is wrong now, lass?” Then it hit him. Given her station and the enormity of her wealth, he doubted she’d ever butchered meat for her table. “Never mind. You clean the kettle, fill it with snow, and then hang it over the fire to melt. I will skin the rabbit. After, you can use part of it to make a stew.”

She lifted her eyes to his, but didn’t move. Sarra watched him as if his opinion of her, this realization of her inadequacy, would matter to him. Saint’s breath. He’d been out in the cold too long if he believed that.

Seconds passed, but she remained silent.

“Lass, if you would be telling me what the problem is, I would know how to help you.”

The tender pinkish hue on her face darkened. “I do not know how to cook either.”

“Then I will be taking care of the task as well.”

She eyed him as if unsure of his offer.

He shrugged.

“’Tis nae a grand gesture.”

Sarra interlaced her hands. “But I wish to help. You have done so much while I have waited inside, warm.”

Warm he doubted, but aye, certainly more comfortable. As she watched him, realization dawned that her embarrassment truly came from her inability to assist in this simple task. Though raised with a golden spoon in her mouth, and the fact that she’d never learned the actual work involved behind the basic chores of cooking or most essential household tasks, her pride was wounded by her inability to help.

Sympathy for her filled him. Blast it! He didna want to begin to care for her. This softening could only lead to disaster. Had their kiss nae already proved that?

Their kiss. Saint’s breath. He didna need to think of that with night falling around them, a blizzard raging outside, and him confined inside this hovel with nowhere to escape. Definitely nae a sane avenue to consider when the next few hours, perhaps days, they would spend together—alone. So he wouldna. He’d keep himself too busy to notice.

Sarra stood and firelight illuminated her slender frame, drawing his attention to her trim body that he’d embraced hours before.

Sweat beaded his brow. He grabbed the rabbit and stepped out into the cold. Somehow he would have to make it through the night without letting his thoughts drift to her. He muttered a harsh curse. As if he had a blasted chance of doing that?