Knight Protector (Knight Chronicles) (2 page)

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“What’s happened?” The question came from the Strathnaver chamberlain who held the gate wide. “Sir Colin ran past us toward the stables; he was wounded.”

“Sorcha!” Her mother and father burst past the chamberlain.

“My son!” The Earl of Strathnaver ran to his heir. “Who did this?”

Brice, who’d begun to stir, was snatched from Sorcha’s arms. At a loss, she lifted her tear-dampened face. Her parents’ concerned expressions gazed back at her.

“Why?” she cried.

Their arms stole around her shoulders from both sides and helped her rise to sit on the stone bench.

“We dinna know, daughter. Can you tell us what happened?”

 The horrifying vision flashed in her mind of Colin, fist raised, a bleeding Brice pinned beneath him. She shivered with combined terror and relief. Colin, her friend, had killed—nae, had tried to kill—his twin brother, the man she loved. How could he? Even worse, he’d tricked her into a kiss that Brice couldna help but think a personal betrayal. Revulsion at Colin’s manipulation knotted her stomach.

On either side, her parents embraced her, warmed her, and comforted her.

“Brice will be fine,” said her father. “But you must help us understand what happened here.”

She swallowed, nodded, and related the events as best she could. She still did nae quite understand what had occurred during that kiss. ’Twas supposed to be a kiss of peace, but it felt more like . . . like passion. That couldna be right. She tried to clear her head. Her passion belonged to Brice, nae Colin. But she had felt so overwhelmed, and Brice had been very angry. She would never betray him, so it must have been a trick Colin played, since he’d always been jealous of his brother.

“Are you certain ’twas Brice who tried to hit you?” Her mother’s voice was gentle, encouraging. “We must be sure where the fault lies, so we dinna falsely accuse anyone.”

Sorcha rested her head against her mother’s shoulder but looked at her father, whose expression grew colder by the moment.

“Aye, in a fit of temper, Brice lashed out at me with the back of his hand.”

Her father frowned. “I canna approve of my daughter’s marriage to a man who would lose control and hurt her, even on an impulse.”

“But father, he dinna hurt me, and we are betrothed.”

“Nae after this incident. Wife, take our daughter to the stables while I inform our host that no marriage will join Marr with MacKai.”

Sorcha’s mother cast her father a sidewise glance. “Perhaps you should wait? The earl is no in the most reasonable frame of mind.”

They clasped hands across Sorcha.

“Fear naught,” her father said. “Do as I have told you. Take Sorcha to the stables and have our mounts readied. I’ll join you shortly.”

He rose and went to where the earl stood berating Brice who cradled his head with his hands in the way of drunks the world over.

Sorcha and her mother moved toward the garden gate and heard her father interrupt the harangue.

“I have changed my mind, Fergus. Nae betrothal will take place between Marr and MacKai.”

“You canna mean that!” the earl shouted.

“I most certainly do.” Baron MacKai replied in a level voice. “I’ll nae allow my daughter to wed your son. Hence, these agreements are null and void.” He withdrew some vellum sheets from within his jerkin and tore them in half and half again then dropped the pieces to the ground.

“Naaae!” Fergus cried. He knelt and scrabbled to gather the torn contracts. “What about Colin? ’Twas him she was kissing. One brother’s as good as another, and I want that breeding stock you promised.”

“Any promises are void because nae betrothal, nae marriage will occur, and without the marriage I’ll nae trade a mule with you, let alone fine MacKai breeding stock.”

Sorcha’s jaw dropped. “Why are you wasting your time with horse talk? Brice’s assassin is escaping.”

The earl cast her an angry glance and motioned her to silence. “Think man, you’re destroying your daughter’s happiness.”

“I doubt that Sorcha’s happiness rests in a union with either of your sons,” the baron stated.

The baroness tugged on Sorcha’s arm. “Come, we must take our leave.”

Stumbling with tear-clouded vision and swiping at her eyes with her sleeve, Sorcha went with her mother.

“Good day to you, my lord, Sir Brice. I’m sure you’ll understand if we dinna linger.”

Behind her, her father’s footsteps sounded.

“You’ll regret this, MacKai! We’ve a signed contract, and if you leave like this, I have every right to take those horses, marriage or nae.”

“Try, and you’ll have a feud on your hands. The king willna stand for that, and when he holds an inquiry, he’ll see the MacKais are in the right.”

Fergus cursed. “If none reports a wrong, ’twill be no inquiry.”

The earl’s erratic temper and his ability to hold a grudge were legendary. But Sorcha was numb to that knowledge. She dinna understand her parents’ reasoning. But she knew when her father had made up his mind. For causing that decision, for hurting Brice, for killing her every hope of joy and love, may God curse Colin Marr and his entire clan from this day forward.

January 1295, Northern Scotland

Once she thought she’d loved him. She’d been wrong.

Moonless night poured in through the two large windows of the earl’s bedchamber at Strathnaver stronghold. Sorcha MacKai-Marr, reluctant Countess of Strathnaver, hung her dark red cloak on a peg, bolted the door behind her, and with halting steps returned to her husband’s bedside. The earl no longer breathed; he’d died while she was out. She sighed, turned from the husk on the bed and sat to warm herself by the hearth. She wished she could weep and moan, but she was no a hypocrite. She’d hated Brice Marr for the past ten years, moreso in the short month they’d been wed. She would mourn the passing of a human soul and pray for it as she ought. However, for the man who’d been Earl of Strathnaver the kindest emotion she could feel was relief and a great deal of worry.

What was to become of her? She had rights she was certain and nae doubt some inheritance from her husband, but she knew none of the details. In this stronghold of enemies, whom could she trust? She would have sought counsel and shelter from her brother, Baron Raeb MacKai, had she nae defied him to marry a hated Marr. She’d had her reasons and chose nae to share them. Now that choice left her without recourse for as a Marr she was nae welcome at her childhood home.

Nor would she remain at Strathnaver; she hated the Marrs as much as did any MacKai. Mayhap, if she were lucky, she might receive an inheritance large enough that the church would take her in. The life of a nun was nae what she’d dreamed of, but what other choice had she? She’d sealed her destiny when she agreed to marry Brice Marr. Nothing would change it now.

She closed her eyes against the bleak and empty future. Worry and regret would serve no purpose, fear and bitterness must be banished or ignored, and the dead must be honored. Time enough to find solutions to her troubles during the three days of vigil over her husband’s body. Resigned to the uproar the death announcement would cause, she opened her eyes and screamed.

Her husband’s hand covered her mouth before more than a squeak sounded. His free arm snatched her from her seat and banded her against his torso—a torso far too well muscled to have been wasted from weeks of fever and bloody flux. At least she thought it was her husband until a wild glance at the bed showed his body still lay there.

But the face looming above hers was …? “Colin?”

Only a muffled gurgle emerged.

“Shh. Do you want the entire clan to hear you?” The cold, green eyes studying her held a warning.

She nodded as vigorously as possible. Of course she wanted to be heard—she was alone with a man who had betrayed her, caused her parents’ deaths, cast her clan into poverty, killed her dreams, and broken her heart.

“Nae. Before you tell anyone of my presence or Brice’s passing, we must talk.” He released her and stepped away.

Hand to her throat, she stumbled backward. “You canna be here. You are dead.”

He smiled, took her fingers and pressed them to his chest. “Does this feel dead to you?”

His heart beat strong and steady. Even through his dark jerkin his heat burned into her palm. She snatched her hand away.

“But. . .” She looked from him to the body on the bed and back. “Brice said you died in France these eight years past.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up. “You never did wish to admit he lied more often than he told the truth. Now you have proof. However, we have more important matters to discuss than my brother’s treachery.”

“His treachery? What of your own?”

Colin closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “I never meant to hurt you,
muirnean
.”

She snorted her disgust at his lie.

“I have naught to say to you,” she hissed, turning her head away. She would nae allow him to hurt her again. Would nae allow his deep voice, his slumberous green eyes, or his clever mouth to influence her. Would nae be swayed by his spicy leather and man scent. The wounds he’d caused still bled, his betrayal an open sore that time could no heal.

“Well enough, but you will listen to me.” He slid his hand along her cheek, exerting just enough pressure to turn her face to him. She jerked her head backward.

“Your brother is dead. Have you no feeling?” Slipping from his grasp, she squared her shoulders and locked her gaze with his. “Say what you must and be gone.”

“This is my home. I shall come and go as I please.” He gave her a hard look. “Since Brice was my brother, how greatly I mourn him is my concern alone. But hear this. You’ll nae speak of his death to anyone.”

“Are you still so jealous of him? What you ask is sacrilege. If I tell no one of his passing, who is to watch over him before his soul can go to God?” Her husband may deserve to roast in hell, but she’d nae be responsible for putting him there. That decision rested with God alone.

Colin bared his teeth. “You ken nothing about Brice or me. The past ten years changed us in ways you canna imagine.”

“Pah! If you’ve something worth saying, say it and cease speaking in riddles.” The only change in the Marr twins was her distrust of them both.

“Brice has been spying for the English. He’s a traitor to Scotland who has made Strathnaver into a nest of vipers loyal to Edward I of England.”

She nearly laughed at the idea. “Surely you could invent a better lie with which to malign him.”

“’Tis truth, I say.”

“What proof have you?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know because I’ve been spying for Scotland.”

Now she did laugh. The sound was sharp and bitter.

Colin gripped her shoulders. “Listen to me. I suspected long ago, because Brice always agreed with Father that Scotland would be better off under Edward of England’s thumb. We may have left Strathnaver separately, but we crossed paths often enough. The last time was in England just before All Hallows. I was certain of his treason when the documents I carried to King John Balliol from France were stolen. Brice was the only person who could have suspected I had them and the only person who could have taken them.”

“If what you say is true—and I have nae cause to believe you—how can you be certain he dinna deliver these documents to Edward?”

“Because I’ve been on his trail since the day he took them. Dungarob was the only place he stopped on his way to Strathnaver.”

Colin’s voice sounded as hard as his eyes. His fingers tightened on her shoulders to a point just short of pain. Still she managed to escape his grip.

“You speak nonsense. Why travel north away from Edward and England if the goal was to give those letters over to the Plantagenet? If there were any letters, which I still doubt.”

A pulse beat at the joint of Colin’s clenched jaw, and she thought uncertainty flickered across his face. It passed as quickly as she’d seen it, and stone returned to his expression.

 “I won’t try to guess why Brice ran from England to Scotland. He’s dead, so all that matters is for you to help me find those documents and expose any English spies remaining at Strathnaver.”

Colin’s lack of concern for his brother fit with the soulless choices she’d come to expect of all the Marrs. She would not aid him.

“You need no help to find imaginary spies,” she scoffed. “That you sank so low surprises me not, but Brice? How could he be a spy? He never met a secret he wouldn’t shout from the rooftops. If he were a spy, I would have known, and I never would have wed so dishonorable a man.” She lied. What man of honor would threaten a woman into marriage as Brice had? Would Colin see himself in her reference to the type of man she would never marry?

She saw nae sign of distress at the doubt she cast on his claims and his honor. Obviously her opinion of him mattered little.

“So, you finally let him into your bed. Now you are the countess you always wanted to be.”

She hadna seen that coming, though perhaps she should have. Her entire life, she only wanted a home with children of her own and certain peace between clans Marr and MacKai. Colin’s envy of his brother had provided the fuel for the fire that destroyed her hope of happiness. Even now, he worried less over his shame as an admitted spy and more over her supposed preference for Brice.

Colin still misjudged her—could she be wrong about him as well? Nae, a spy was the most dishonorable of creatures. He’d claimed that status with his own mouth. Of course he would cast others in the same mold. He was wrong to do so, but she had other, more personal experience of Colin Marr’s treachery.

She glared at him and bit her cheek to keep her hurt and anger from spilling out. Here Colin was, digging up the old hurts. He claimed he and Brice both had changed, sunk to the lowest of acts. ’Twas definitely nae change for the better. Nor did Colin credit her with any maturity. To him she was still a flighty girl with nae more sense than a flea.

“Which is it?” she sneered. “Spying or my bed play with your brother that is so important you would leave him unshriven?”

He ignored her question. “You said you married him.”