An Oath Taken (15 page)

“I will take care of him,” Nicholas said, untying the dripping rope around his waist.

Sodden and shivering, his squire stood before him, his eyes wide and empty.

“You did it,” Nicholas said, watching for any response.

Naught.

Fear streaked through him as he rubbed Thomas's hands. They felt like ice. With a quiet curse, he drew the blanket tighter around the lad as guilt festered. He knelt before him, stared at him straight in the eyes, eyes the color of iced emeralds. “I am sorry.”

Blue lips chattered as he stared straight ahead.

“You are wet and need a change,” Nicholas continued as helplessness stole over him. His gut jerked. He'd never intended this.

Thomas didn't move, nor answer, but stood there shaking.

“God's teeth!” Nicholas swept the lad into his arms. “Sir Jon, send a man to fetch the healer.”

“Aye, Sir Nicholas.”

Thomas trembled in his arms.

With distance-eating strides, Nicholas headed toward the keep. He yelled out orders for a hot bath and food as he crossed the great hall, then half-ran up the stairs. Once inside his chamber, he set Thomas down intent on changing his clothes and getting him dry.

He rubbed the blanket with brisk movements over his shoulder and arms. “We are in my chamber now,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “You are going to be fine.” As Nicholas started to remove his squire's shirt, with a gasp, the lad shoved his hand away and stepped back.

White-knuckled fingers clutched the front of his shirt with a wild edge. “Stay away!”

“You are wet,” Nicholas said, relieved by Thomas's reaction. At least he had one.

A tremor ran through Thomas, then another. “I—I am fi-fine.”

Blasted stubborn! “You are not fine, you are shaking like a leaf, you can barely talk, and you are scared to death.” He wanted to reach out and shake him, but he wanted to draw him near and comfort him more.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Stay!” Nicholas walked over and opened the door, then moved aside to allow the men carrying the buckets of hot water inside.

Water steamed from the tub as the last man emptied his bucket.

“Thank you,” Nicholas said, accepting the platter of sliced meat, bread, and cheese from another man before closing the door behind him as he left.

Thomas stood where he'd left him moments ago, watching him, the hint of fear still clinging to his gaze, and water dripping from his tunic and trews onto the floor.

“A hot bath and a change of clothes will help.”

His squire's shoulders slumped. “I—I am sorry. You needed me to help, but I . . .”

“Thomas, 'tis over.”

“I have to explain my fear of dark, confined spaces,” Thomas whispered, an ache in his voice. “At least in part.”

Moved by his squire's caring, he nodded. “Take a hot bath first. You can tell me after you eat.”

“Please, I need to tell you now, before I lose my courage.”

He sighed, understanding the lad's pride demanded an explanation.

Shrouded in the blanket, Thomas shuddered. “When I was younger, I became lost in a tunnel. I—I do nae know how many hours I tried to find my way back. Then, my candle burned out.” His eyes grew dark, afraid. “It was black. Everywhere.” He shuddered. “It was so dark.”

The crisp snap of the fire shattered the silence, and his squire's eyes began to glaze as he once again slid toward shock.

Nicholas caught the lad by the shoulders. “Thomas,” he said, refusing to lose him again.

The first sob came, then the next. “I—I am sorry.”

“Do not be,” he said, drawing the lad against his chest, stunned by the ability his squire had to touch him to such an intense degree, and more so by his strong need to give in return. When the sobs eroded to tears, Nicholas released him, then gave Thomas an encouraging smile. “Take a bath, then eat. After you will rest.”

“Th-thank you.”

The humbleness of his squire's words moved him. “You are welcome.”

Thomas glanced at the tub, and a light blush suffused his cheeks.

“You will have your privacy,” Nicholas assured him.

“My thanks.”

His squire's face softened, became alluring, almost sensual.

The moment shifted. Need slammed into his gut. With a muffled curse, Nicholas departed the chamber, cursing himself the entire way. The sooner Thomas left for his brother's, the better.

 

Inspired by the beauty of the day, Nicholas urged his horse faster, needing to erase his growing feelings for Thomas. Hoofbeats thrummed upon the fertile earth as his steed raced across the glen. Pansies, poppies, purple thistle, and foxglove swayed as he raced past, their sweet scent and explosion of color doing little to lighten his mood.

The dense turf gave way to moss and rock as he guided his mount past timeworn boulders then up the steep, rocky incline toward the edge of the cliff.

Cool, salty air greeted him as he reached the ragged plateau. He drew his mount to a halt and closed his eyes, savoring the serene moment. His decision to escape the confines and pressures of his position, even for a brief time, had been the correct one.

On a rough exhale, he gazed over the harsh, unforgiving land. A land where for hundreds of years men had fought for their beliefs, endured hardships for their people, and through it all loved with a fierce abandon.

Pride filled him. Since his arrival he'd accepted the challenges of this land and of the people hewn from its soil. Inroads to build a foundation of peace with the bordering Scots had taken shape. Now, a fragile peace had settled over
The Debatable Land.
A peace allowing him much-needed time to focus on Ravenmoor Castle.

No longer did the remaining Scots eye him with malice, but with a guarded sense of trust. With a firm but fair hand, in time the last inhibitions of the residents would flee. Then he would have fulfilled his duties to his king.

Nicholas stroked his gelding's neck, then guided him down the rocky path and back onto the thick grasses of the glen. He urged him into a gallop, and they raced as one across the rolling expanse of green.

A light sheen of sweat coated his horse as he reined him to a halt at the end of the valley. Wind sifted past, rich with the taste of summer, warmed by the abundance of sun.

He sat back in his saddle, absorbing the golden rays, but an issue he must resolve haunted his peace of mind—the sentencing of Lord Terrick.

Nicholas frowned. He'd reviewed the previous earl's ledger filled with heinous charges against the Scot: murder, reiving, and plotting against the crown, to name but a few. After meeting with the earl once he'd regained his health, he, too, believed him dangerous, but the notorious villain crafted within the bindings of the ledger didn't characterize the noble locked within his dungeon.

He rubbed his jaw. When he'd asked, Terrick's claim that his retaliation and subsequent attack on Ravenmoor Castle were spawned by the injustices served to the Scottish people by Sir Renaud were confirmed by the Wardens of the Western March. As well, Lord Terrick had stated he'd heard rumors of Sir Renaud's raping and pillaging for his own gain, but he'd never caught the man in the act.

The governing officer's charge substantiated Lord Terrick's suspicions that Sir Renaud had acted without the king's knowledge or best interest at heart. In fact, given the vile acts the previous castellan had committed, death by the hand of a Scot had been a fitting reward for the scoundrel.

But, had the previous castellan smuggled goods and sold them for his own gain, then sent false reports to the crown as well? The ledger, though inscribed with personal comments, indicated no such actions.

He wrapped the reins around his hand. What if there was another ledger? Would Sir Renaud have been so brazen to document his treachery? From all he'd learned, the man would. If indeed a second, personal ledger existed, 'twould be the undeniable proof he needed. Then he could connect Sir Renaud with his illicit dealings, release Lord Terrick and clear his name, and end the last of the discord between the borders.

He was convinced that the recent uprisings, though agitated by the unrest arising from the state of affairs between England and Scotland, were due to the atrocities committed by Sir Renaud.

Neither would he keep Terrick locked up much longer when he believed the man had been wronged and just in his subsequent siege upon Ravenmoor Castle.

Shadows engulfed him. Nicholas glanced up.

Thick, billowing clouds dark with rain slowly filled the sky.

A storm was moving in. 'Twas best if he returned to the castle. With a nudge, he guided his horse down the steep incline. At the base, he headed west, the most direct route home. Foxglove, bog myrtle, and heather lined the bog as he skirted the edge, the rich scent of decaying foliage intermixed with that of imminent rain.

Nicholas kicked his mount into a canter and left the moors. As he crested the hillock, a river unfolded in the valley before him, graced with a stand of trees all but hiding an enlarged pool. With the incoming downpour, the river would swell and the tranquil waters would grow into a raging torrent. Long before it rose to such treacherous depths, he would be safe within Ravenmoor.

The thrum of hooves biting through soft turf accompanied him as he rode. At the bottom of the glen, he guided his horse to circle the stand of trees.

A horse whinnied.

Anger slid through him as he drew his mount to a halt. Had the reivers who'd stolen Lord Dunsten's cattle returned? If so, they would rue this day. He scoured the area.

Within the small grove trees, and nearest to the stream, stood a huge, twisted rowan tree enclosed by a hedgerow of brambles. Blast it, in the dense thicket, he could see naught. Regardless, he would catch whoever it was. Nicholas withdrew his broadsword and urged his mount forward.

The first drop of rain splattered on his cheek.

Careful to keep quiet, he guided his steed through the outlying trees. As he neared the water, a blackbird fluttered amongst the branches of the gnarled rowan tree, heavy with clusters of red berries. At the edge of the thick shrubs he spied a horse tied to the lower limb. Closer inspection disclosed no traces of any other riders.

The intruder was alone.

Where was the rider? By God he'd find out. Dismounting, he shoved the thick, prickly brambles aside.

A woman's sweet voice echoed through the stillness.

Blast it! What maiden would be daft enough to be out here alone, much less with an advancing storm? The thickheaded woman. Torn between propriety and her welfare, he chose the latter. He walked around the base of the rowan tree and searched the sweep of water. Near the shore, a beautiful woman swam through the chilled water with ease, laughing, diving, and then floating on her back.

He groaned as her pert breasts glistened, water beading on their rosy tips. Heat speared through him like a well-honed lance. With a soft curse, Nicholas sheathed his sword and stepped back trying to clear his lust-fogged brain.

A swath of white through the branches caught his attention.

He stilled.

On the edge of a broken limb, a familiar white tunic hung beside a conspicuous pair of trews.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

The playful slosh of water shattered his musings.

Stunned, he glanced from the garments given by his own hand to his squire, to the woman frolicking in the water naked.

The tap of rain upon the leaves around him increased to a steady patter. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Wind gusted through the thicket and brambles scraped across his face.

A woman.

Nicholas clenched his fist on a sturdy twig then jerked back as a thorn pricked his flesh. A small drop of blood beaded on his thumb. The color of lust. The color of lies. With an angry swipe against his trews, he wiped it away.

Thomas! 'Twas bloody not even her name!

All this time he'd believed his squire to be a wayward lad, mistreated by society, shunned from love. Gullible, he'd taken him—
her
under his wing.

The events since Thomas's arrival replayed in his mind. His squire's adamant refusal to bathe with the other knights, the extreme caution he'd used to avoid being around people, and his guarded words.

And she was beautiful. So why in God's name hadn't he recognized her as a woman?

Because he'd expected to see a lad and had looked for none other.

And yet, from the start his body had discerned what his eyes had failed to see. The hot rush of desire he'd battled to keep in check over and again had been as natural as the fury searing him now.

His ire shoved up a notch.

The many nights they'd lain in his chamber discussing his dreams and his desires, and all the while a slow but sure bond had grown between them. Had their closeness been a lie as well?

He glared at the woman frolicking in the water with innocent abandon. 'Twould serve her well if he hauled her to shore and demanded answers, kissed her senseless as he'd yearned to do since the first.

Nicholas shoved another bramble aside, and halted as her reason for accepting the position at Ravenmoor slammed into his gut.

Terrick.

The strand of raven black hair he'd found caught within the pages of the ledger, her nervousness when accompanying him to the earl's chamber, and her tender hand wiping the same brow but a day later. Was there no end to his blindness in dealing with this woman?

Jealousy clawed through him with biting green fury. The pain was immediate, searing. She'd used him, deceived him at every turn, for another man. He shoved his way through the dense thicket.