An Oath Broken (9 page)

Over the years her loathing toward the reivers had grown into a deep resentment. ’Twould seem that the Scottish knight, in his ability to move beyond his animosity toward the English, was a better person than she. He’d overcome his hate and had learned to forgive.

Humbled, she curled into a tight ball and tried to sleep, but the ache in her heart left her restless. She tried to find a more comfortable position, failed. Though somewhere in this storm-fed night she might fall sleep, she doubted she would ever find peace.

 

Sarra’s continued shifting about had Giric glancing toward the pallet. She’d rolled over and now faced the wall. With the edge of the woolen blanket hitched up, it left him with a clear view of her tempting backside.

He muffled a groan and turned toward the fire.
Do nae blasted go there, Terrick.

Hay rustled. Then her shivering melded with the chatter of her teeth. With a grimace, he glared around the room, sure he’d discover fairies, doubtless they tampered with his resolve to keep his distance from her.

A small whimper slid from her lips. Another helpless shiver rippled over her body.

On a muffled groan Giric scrubbed his hands against his face.
Ignore her.

In answer, hay shifted as she moved again.

Blast it! He rose, grudgingly walked toward her. ’Twas for her warmth’s sake, and wasna like he was going to lie next to her for his own good. The lass was cold. His body heat would warm her and provide them both with a much needed, good night’s sleep.

Like a man led to the gallows, he paused at the edge of the pallet and stared at Sarra, his reasoning of seconds before strafed with doubts. With a sigh of surrender, he lifted the woolen blanket and stretched out beside her. “Here now, lass,” he whispered, dismissing the intimacy of the thin linen chemise that did little to shield her body from his view. He drew her close.

A shiver rippled through her body, then another.

He rubbed his hand from her shoulder slowly down her back then up again. With each moment he soothed her, her trembling subsided. After a while, she lay peacefully within his arms.

Wind howled outside, and Giric smiled. Now that wasna as bad as he’d anticipated. All of his misgivings had been for naught. With the cozy haze of the night and the warmth of their bodies, his lids grew heavy.

On a sigh, Sarra turned and laid her head within the curve of his neck. On her next breath, she slid her fingers into the dark whorls of hair on his chest, her soft breaths caressing his skin.

The scent of woman and wool teased his senses and plunged straight to his groin. Bedamned! He tried to focus on the cold outside, the men who gave them chase, or how it would be sensible bedding down next to his horse. But her each soft breath eroded each and every attempt to put her from his mind.

Damnable seconds passed. Though he’d brought her warmth and allowed her to fall into a deep, resting sleep, that knowledge did naught for his disposition or his body’s hard-edged need.

Only after several excruciating hours had passed did the exhaustion of the day settle over him in a hazy cloud. Fire crackled somewhere in the distance, a lulling, familiar sound, and the numbing warmth of sleep began to invade his senses.

Without warning, Sarra’s scream ripped into the night.

A
t Sarra’s scream, Giric bolted upright and withdrew his dagger. Honed by his years of living as a reiver, his haze of sleep cleared to a sharp-edged awareness in a trice. His body vibrated with energy as he scoured the hovel for an intruder.

Gold and red flames flickered in the hearth and sent a shower of sparks to curl up within the twirl of smoke. Wind pounded against the side of the building. The faint aroma of cooked rabbit, hay, and of aged sod scented the air. After a thorough sweep of the dimly lit interior, he found naught amiss.

Another bloodcurdling scream echoed through the hut.

Giric glanced to his side.

Wrapped within the blanket, Sarra writhed on the bed, her face twisted in horror.

’Twas a nightmare, nae an attacker who threatened her life.

“No!” Her fingers clawed the air. An incoherent mumble grated through her teeth. Then she slumped against the bed.

Pulse racing, Giric sheathed his dagger and drew her against his chest. “’Tis fine, lass.”

With a cry, her expression contorted into shock. She shoved her hands against his chest. “Stay back!”

“There now. All is well.” He kept his tone soft, his words even, determined to offer her comfort.

She struck out and her nails dug into his chest. “You killed them!”

“Saint’s breath!” He caught her wrists to prevent her from doing further harm, with a sickening suspicion that she was reliving her parents’ death. He shook her gently. “Wake up, lass.”

“Get away!” Her low, guttural demand spilled out like a wounded animal.

Stunned by the vehemence in her words, Giric released her, and immediately realized his mistake.

She flew at him all nails and fury, her body now a dangerous weapon.

And he was her protector? Blast it! For his own defense, he flipped her body beneath his and pinned her against the bed. “Sarra!”

The glaze of fear in her eyes slowly cleared, then became wary. She struggled against him. “What do you think you are doing?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

Understanding dawned on her face, and the wildcat of moments before dissolved. But the fear lurking in her eyes lingered.

A woman alone, afraid to reach out. A woman who hid her fears behind a barrier of false bravado. He’d observed it last night to a degree, and now, with her mind raw from her horrific dream, and her defenses shattered by fear, he again witnessed her vulnerability.

His earlier physical desire for Sarra paled in comparison to another need so basic it made him tremble. The need to draw her into the very sanctity of his life.

Her eyes darkened with unspoken desire, luring him into the moment.

On a shaky breath, he skimmed his mouth over hers, and then settled against the soft fullness, tasting, savoring, and wanting her with every essence of his being.

On a soft moan she curled her hands into his hair and pulled him closer.

As their bodies entwined, he cupped the soft fullness of her breast, and she arched against him, her heated response a potent drug.

“Giric?”

Sarra’s velvet plea threatened to sever the last thread of his rational thought. He lifted his mouth from hers, his breathing ragged. What he’d almost done, taken from her, slapped him like ice. His entire body trembling, he rolled to his side and pulled Sarra against him.

“Gir—”

“In a moment,” he stated, needing time to subdue the rush of passion.

She looked away.

Did she regret what had happened? As if he needed a blasted answer? “What did you dream?” he asked, fighting to clear his mind and bring lucid thoughts to the fore.

She lifted her gaze to his. In the flickers of firelight, passion still simmered in her eyes, but now sadness as well. “My parents.” She started to draw away.

Calling himself every kind of fool for trying to deepen their connection, Giric caught her hand. “Please, tell me.”

She watched him with a wariness that made his heart ache, then nodded. “When I was eight,” she began, a waver in her voice, “my parents and I were returning to Rancourt Castle from an important meeting my father had attended in Scotland. ’Twas winter and snow had fallen most of the day.” Her eyes clouded with the memories, and her voice lowered to a rough whisper. “’Twas beautiful with the hills covered with snow. As if we were traveling in our own fairy tale.” She curled her hands into tight fists.

Giric pressed a soft kiss on her brow, feeling her pain as if his own.

“Then, bloodcurdling cries sounded, and from a nearby stand of trees, men attacked.” She shook her head, her eyes wide with horror. “The stench of death was everywhere. Tainted everything.” Her breathing quickened. Her entire body trembled.

“Shhh.”

Sarra blinked then met his gaze. “’Tis all right,” she replied, but from her stricken expression, he had his own doubts. “Our carriage tipped on its side into the river. Water, cold with ice, filled our carriage, while our attackers slew our guard.” She closed her eyes. “My father climbed out to defend us, but a blade ended his fight. Then they dragged my mother from the carriage and . . .” A tremor wracked her body, and she buried her face against his shoulder.

“God, lass.” Giric held her tight, and her pain shuddered through him. The bastards! How could she nae feel this disgust, a loathing for the men who had stolen her whole life.

“Once they brutalized my mother and left her to die, th—they dragged me from the carriage. After searching my clothes and the carriage for valuables, they rode off.” She looked at him, her expression that of a wounded doe. “I am unsure why they did not kill me, but I”—she swallowed hard—“I hated them for what they had done. For leaving me to freeze while I watched my mother die a painful and humiliating death. And for taking everyone I loved away.”

Aching at the travesty she’d witnessed, Giric held her while the tears she fought rolled down her face. After a while, her tormented sobs slowed to a fragile shudder, and she clung to him as if a lifeline in a storm. And within this fragile moment, a bond formed, linking them in the most basic of ways. He understood the pain of loss too well, the damage it could bring.

Sarra sat back, her eyes troubled. “Th—The men,” she breathed, and watched him nervously, “were Scots.”

He struggled for a reply, but what could he say? There were good and bad men in his country. He would nae forgive their murderous act nor offer excuses. They deserved none. “I am sorry.” Giric cupped her chin, but she pulled back.

“Reivers,” she whispered.

His entire world stilled. “Reivers?”

Sarra exhaled, her eyes never leaving his. “The men who attacked my family were reivers.”

An ache ripped through his heart, and the illusion of any tie existing between him and Sarra flickered out. He could imagine her revulsion if she discovered that he’d lived the sordid life of a reiver. His explanation that he’d been raised to the adverse trade and had followed his father’s footsteps excused naught. He’d grown up a thief, stealing food and when necessary to survive, had taken a life. Nae that he was proud of his actions.

Blast it! Hadna he taken this mission so that he could put his past behind him, and to rebuild his life? He’d vowed to change his lawless ways and become a man he could respect.

Having learned of her past, and with him being a Scot, that she’d accepted him as a person was more than he could ever have asked or expected.

But she could never forgive the reiver.

“It has been a long night and you are tired,” Giric said, doubting if there was anything more left to say. Either way in Sarra’s eyes he was damned. He would accept this moment of closeness, mayhap a few more in the days ahead before he delivered her to her guardian. Then, however difficult, he would walk away. “Go to sleep.”

She watched him a moment. With a nod, in the circle of his arms, she closed her eyes. After several moments her breathing slowed and she slept.

But sleep, like his peace of mind, would nae come.

The warmth sifting through Sarra lulled her to remain asleep. She nestled deeper against the heat, pleased at the reward of the firm, muscled body against her, and the possessive way a hand slowly curled around her breast.

She stilled.

Her heart jumped as she realized who she lay next to. On an unsteady breath, she opened her eyes and found herself staring at Giric’s dark, hair-covered chest. Heat slid up her cheeks as she looked at his hand half atop her breast, then to where his very male leg draped over her hips.

By the rood!

Memories of last night flooded her mind. Their kiss. Her nightmare. How she’d crumbled before him in a pathetic heap. Then, his tenderness and compassion when she revealed her parents’ tragic murder, a fact she’d told no one until now.

Until Giric.

A Scot.

Warnings flashed in her mind and urged her to pull away, but she found herself hesitating. With his unruly black locks, and his expression almost boyish in sleep, she found herself charmed. Somehow, incredibly, he’d touched a part of her that no one had ever reached before.

How could that be?

At what moment had he scaled her defenses and become important in her life? Stunned by the realization, she scanned the hard lines of his face, the contours of a seasoned warrior, a man who made decisions with a quick sureness. But she’d seen beyond his tough exterior. Beneath his fierce countenance lurked a man tender in his emotions and fierce in his love. Yes, this dauntless Scottish knight was a man she could admire and accept into her life.

The immensity of her acknowledgment, unthinkable until this moment, left her shaken. Her hand trembled as she stroked her fingers through his tumbled locks, felt the rough stubble that darkened his chin. By the rood, she wanted him.

As if bidden, his eyes opened, their blueness rich with the haze of sleep. Through heavy lids his gaze slid over her and darkened with passion.

Her desire ignited as if coals stoked by a smith. Before doubts could stop her, caught in the web of this dangerous attraction, she covered his mouth with her own, pleased when he crushed her against his chest. She lost herself in his kiss, in the way in which his mouth feasted on hers.

On a muttered curse, he pushed up on his arms.

She stared at him, her vision clouded, her lips swollen from their kisses.

He eased her away, scrubbed his hands over his face. “Nay, lass.”

The coldness of his voice left her feeling exposed. Hurt and ashamed, she drew the blanket around her and sat up. “I . . .” What? Wanted him? Had acted the wanton? Oh, God. “I am sorry.”

Like a cornered wolf, Giric stood and paced the room. He stopped near the hearth. A muscle worked in his jaw as he watched her, then he walked over and knelt before her, his nearness far from smothering her awareness.

“You are a fine lass,” he started, then released a harsh breath, his eyes fierce as the devil’s own, “but I canna be touching you, nor you me.” He stood. “I am hired to escort you to your betrothed. I will nae be taking what rightfully belongs to another.”

Heat raced up her face that he could talk of her innocence with such candor. As if she could forget her betrothed? But for a moment she had. What did that say about her, that she could block out responsibilities for a man she desired, something she’d never done in her life. Until now. Damn Giric for making her care!

“Get away from me.” The pain of rejection and her own shame raked through her voice.

He didn’t flinch or show any other outward emotion to her outburst, which cut her deeper.

“ ’Twould be for the best,” he said with unnerving calm.

Again, the cold, dangerous Scottish knight she’d first encountered at Rancourt Castle stood before her. And for that she despised him—for all of her shattered dreams, and for the moment of hope he’d bestowed upon her. And, he was right. Naught but his escort could ever be between them. Humiliated, furious that she’d allowed her emotions to guide her, she withdrew.

 

Giric gestured toward their clothes that’d hung near the hearth overnight. “Everything is dry. You would be wanting to get dressed. Once I have donned my garb, I will ensure that we are nae snowed in and can depart.”

He watched her expression of hurt spill into regret. How could he have been so blasted stupid? In her weakness, when nightmares had exhausted her strength to fight and left her helpless, he’d allowed himself to think that he could be a person she could rely on. At least for a while. And in his delusions, he’d almost given in to his desire.

Now he would pay for his foolish thoughts.

’Twas best that he allowed her to believe that he didna care. Bittersweet emotions curled through his heart. As if she could ever love him—a reiver.

The anger in her gaze brewed to fury. Once again she’d resurrected her icy walls, but he would have to live with that. To accept their relationship as anything but a sterile companionship would threaten the very essence of his mission.