Saving Grace (5 page)

She kept her head bowed when she addressed the men. “I would like to be alone now. I must . . . pray.”

She didn’t wait for their agreement but turned and walked to the first pew. She knelt down on the leatherpadded kneeler and made the sign of the cross, signaling the beginning of her petitions.

The priest went outside first. Kelmet followed. He was just pulling the door closed behind him when his mistress called out to him.

“Swear it, Kelmet. Swear on your father’s grave my husband is truly dead.”

“I swear it, m’lady.”

The steward waited another minute or two to see if there was anything his mistress wanted from him and then pulled the door completely shut.

Johanna stared at the altar for a long, long while. Her mind was a riot of thoughts and emotions.

She was too stunned to think reasonable thoughts.

“I must pray,” she whispered. “My husband is dead. I must pray.”

She closed her eyes, folded her hands together, and finally began her prayer. It was a simple, direct litany that came from her heart.

“Thank you, God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God.”

The Highlands of Scotland, 1207

The baron obviously had a death wish. The laird was going to accommodate him.

The MacBain had heard through the intricate gossip vine four days before that Baron Nicholas Sanders was making his way up the last steep, winter-covered hills to the Maclaurin holding. The Englishman wasn’t a stranger and had in fact fought by the MacBain’s side during a fierce battle against the English infidels who’d taken root on Maclaurin land. Once the invigorating fight was finished, MacBain had become laird over both his own followers and the Maclaurin clan; and as their new leader, he made the decision to allow Nicholas to stay on long enough to recover from his rather substantial injuries. MacBain believed he’d been very accommodating then, damned gracious too, but for good reason. As grating as it was to acknowledge, Baron Nicholas had actually saved MacBain’s life during the battle. The laird was a proud man. It was difficult for him to say thank you, actually impossible, and so, in appreciation for saving the laird from an English sword aimed for his back, MacBain didn’t let Nicholas bleed to death. Since they didn’t have anyone experienced in the ways of healing, MacBain personally cleaned and wrapped the baron’s injuries. His generosity hadn’t stopped there, although in his mind he’d repaid the debt sufficiently. When Nicholas was strong enough to travel, the MacBain had let him have his magnificent horse back and gave him one of his own plaids to wear so he would have safe passage on his return to England. No other clan would dare touch a MacBain, so the plaid was actually better protection than chain mail.

Aye, he’d been hospitable all right, and now the baron was determined to take advantage of his good nature.

Damn it all, he really was going to have to kill the man.

There was only one bright thought that kept his mood from going completely sour. He would keep Nicholas’s horse this time.

“Feed a wolf once, MacBain, and he’s bound to come sniffing around here again for more food.”

The laird’s first-in-command, a thick-shouldered, blond warrior named Calum, made that remark with a forced sneer in his voice. The sparkle in his eyes indicated he was actually amused by the baron’s arrival.

“Are you going to kill him?”

MacBain thought about the question a long minute before answering. “Probably.” His voice had been deliberately blasé.

Calum laughed. “Baron Nicholas is a courageous man to come back here.”

“Not courageous,” MacBain corrected. “Foolish.”

“He’s coming up the last hill wearing your plaid as pretty as you please, MacBain.”

Keith, the eldest of the Maclaurin warriors, shouted the announcement as he came strutting through the doorway.

“Do you want me to bring him inside?” Calum asked.

“Inside?” Keith snorted. “We’re more out than in, Calum. The roofs gone from fire, and only three of the four walls are standing proud now. I’d say we’re already outside.”

“The English did this,” Calum reminded his laird. “Nicholas ...”

“He came here to rid the Maclaurin land of the infidels,” MacBain reminded his soldier. “Nicholas had no part in the destruction.”

“He’s still English.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” He pulled away from the mantel he’d been leaning against, muttered an expletive when a slat of wood crashed to the floor, and then walked outside. Both Calum and Keith fell into step behind him. They took their positions on either side of their leader at the bottom of the steps.

The MacBain towered over his soldiers. He was a giant of a man, fierce in appearance and temperament with dark black-brown hair and gray-colored eyes. He looked mean. Even his stance was belligerent. His legs were braced apart, his arms were folded across his massive chest, and a scowl was firmly in place.

Baron Nicholas spotted the laird as soon as his mount crested the hill. MacBain looked furious all right. Nicholas reminded himself that that was a usual condition. Still the scowl was black enough to give the baron second thoughts. “I must be daft,” he muttered to himself. He took a deep breath, then let out a shrill whistle of greeting. He added a smile for good measure and raised one fist in the air as a greeting.

The MacBain wasn’t impressed with the baron’s manners. He waited until Nicholas had reached the center of the barren courtyard before raising his hand in an unspoken signal to stop.

“I thought I’d been damned specific, Baron. I told you not to come back here.”

“Aye, you did tell me not to come back,” Nicholas agreed. “I remember.”

“Do you also remember I told you I’d have to kill you if you ever set foot on my land again?”

Nicholas nodded. “I’ve a strong memory for details, MacBain. I remember that threat.”

“Is this not open defiance then?”

“You could conclude it is,” Nicholas answered with a negligent shrug.

The smile on the baron’s face confused the hell out of MacBain. Did Nicholas think they were playing some sort of game? Was he that simpleminded?

MacBain let out a long sigh. “Take off my plaid, Nicholas.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to get your blood on it.”

His voice shook with fury. Nicholas hoped to God it was all bluster. He believed he was equal in muscle and strength to the laird, and he was certainly every inch as tall. Still he didn’t want to fight the man. If he killed the laird, his plan would fail; and if the laird killed him, he’d never know what the hell the plan was until it was too late. Besides, the MacBain was much quicker in battle. He didn’t fight fair either, a trait, Nicholas decided, he found impressive.

“Aye, it is your plaid,” he shouted to the barbarian. “But the land, MacBain, well now, that belongs to my sister.”

MacBain’s scowl intensified. He didn’t like hearing the truth. Taking a step forward, he pulled his sword from its sheath at his side.

“Hell,” Nicholas muttered as he swung his leg over his stallion and dismounted. “Nothing’s ever easy with you, is it, MacBain?”

He didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one. He removed the plaid he’d worn draped like a banner across one shoulder and tossed it on the saddle of his horse, then reached for his own sword. One of the Maclaurin warriors rushed forward to lead the horse away. Nicholas paid him little attention and tried as well to ignore the crowd gathering in a circle around the courtyard. His mind was fully focused on his adversary.

“It was your brother-in-law who destroyed this holding and half the Maclaurin clan,” MacBain roared. “And I have suffered your presence long enough.”

The two giants matched glares. Nicholas shook his head. “Keep your facts straight, MacBain. It was my sister’s husband, Baron Raulf, who placed the infidel, Marshall, and his sorry men in charge of this holding; but when Raulf died and my sister was freed from his control, she sent me here to rid the land of the traitorous vassals. She owns this holding, MacBain. Your King William the Lion forgot to barter it back from Richard when that good man was king of England and in such desperate need of coins for his crusades, but John never forgot what was passed down to him. He gave his land to his faithful servant Raulf, and now that he’s dead, Johanna inherits. It’s her land all right, like it or not.”

Dredging up past offenses made both warriors furious. They advanced upon each other like raging bulls; the clash of their mighty swords drew blue sparks and ear-piercing sounds as steel slapped steel. The noise echoed down the hills, drowning out the crowd’s grunts of approval.

Neither warrior said another word for at least twenty minutes. The fight consumed every ounce of their strength and their concentration. MacBain was the aggressor in this battle, Nicholas, the defender, as he blocked each deadly blow.

Both the MacBain warriors and the Maclaurin soldiers were thoroughly satisfied with the show. Several muttered approval over the Englishman’s quick moves, for in their minds Nicholas had already shown his superior skill by staying alive for so long.

MacBain suddenly twisted back and used his foot to trip the baron. Nicholas fell backward, rolled, and was back on his feet as quick as a cat before the laird could take advantage of the opportunity.

“You’re being damned inhospitable,” Nicholas panted.

MacBain smiled. He could have ended the battle when Nicholas had fallen backward, but he finally acknowledged to himself that his heart just wasn’t in the fight.

“My curiosity is keeping you alive, Nicholas,” MacBain announced, his breathing labored. His brow was covered with sweat even as he swung his sword in a wide, downward arch.

Nicholas arched his own sword upward, meeting the powerful blow. “We’re going to be related, MacBain, like that or not.”

It took a few seconds for the statement to penetrate. The laird didn’t let up on his attack when he asked, “How can that be, Baron?”

“I’m going to become your brother-in-law.”

MacBain didn’t try to hide his astonishment over the baron’s outrageous and surely demented announcement. He took a step back and slowly lowered his sword.

“Have you gone completely daft, Nicholas?”

The baron laughed. He tossed his weapon aside. “You look as though you just swallowed your sword, MacBain.”

After giving his observation, he lunged headfirst into the laird’s chest. It felt as though he’d just rammed a stone wall. The ploy hurt like hell, but it proved effective. MacBain let out a low grunt. The two warriors went flying backward. MacBain let go of his sword. Nicholas ended up sprawled on top of the laird. He was too exhausted to move, and in too much pain to want to. MacBain shoved him aside, made it to his knees, and was about to reach for his sword again when he suddenly changed his inclination. He slowly turned to look at Nicholas.

“Marry an Englishwoman?”

He sounded horrified. He was out of breath, too. The last observation pleased Nicholas considerably; and just as soon as he was able to draw a deep breath again he would boast over the fact that he had worn the laird out.

MacBain stood up, then hauled Nicholas to his feet. He shoved him backward so he wouldn’t think the action had been an act of kindness, then folded his arms across his chest and demanded an explanation.

“And who is it you believe I would marry?”

“My sister.”

“You’re mad.”

Nicholas shook his head. “If you don’t marry her, King John will give her to Baron Williams. He’s a mean son of a bitch,” he added in a gratingly cheerful voice. “God help you then, MacBain. If Williams marries her, the men he’ll send will make Marshall seem as good and just as the day is long.”

The laird didn’t show any outward reaction to that bit of news. Nicholas rubbed the side of his head in an attempt to ease the sting before continuing on. “You’ll probably kill whoever he sends here,” he remarked.

“Damned right I will,” MacBain snapped.

“But Williams will only retaliate by sending more . . . and more . . . and more. Can you afford to risk constant war with England? How many more Maclaurins will die before it’s settled? Look around you, MacBain. Marshall and his men damned near destroyed every building. The Maclaurins turned to you for help and made you their laird. They’re depending on you. If you marry Johanna, the land will legally become yours. King John will leave you alone.”

“Your king approves of this union?”

“He does.” Nicholas’s voice was emphatic.

“Why?”

Nicholas shrugged. “I’m not certain. He wants Johanna out of England, that much I know. He made that remark several times. He seemed eager for the marriage and agreed to give you the Maclaurin land the day you wed. I’ll receive title to her holding in England.”

“Why?” MacBain demanded again.

Nicholas sighed. “I believe my sister understands why John wants her settled so far away—he calls this place the ends of the earth—but Johanna won’t tell me what his reasons might be.”

“So you would also profit from this marriage.”

“I don’t want the holding in England.” he said. “It will only mean more taxes each year, and I already have enough to do rebuilding my own estates.”

“Then why did you ask for your sister’s . . .”

Nicholas didn’t let him finish. “John understands greed,” he interrupted. “If he thought I was only protecting my sister from Baron Williams, he might have declined my suggestion to marry her to you. He did insist upon a large fine, of course, but I’ve already paid it.”

“You’re contradicting yourself, Baron. If John wanted Johanna away from England, why would he consider marrying her to Baron Williams?”

“Because Williams is extremely loyal to John. Williams is his lapdog. He would keep my sister under control.” Nicholas shook his head then. In a low whisper he said, “My sister was privy to some damning information, and John doesn’t want his past sins coming back to haunt him. Oh, she could never give testimony in court against any man, not even her king, for she is a woman and, therefore, would not be listened to by any official. Still, there are barons ready to rebel against the king. Johanna could possibly ignite their fervor if she told whatever it is she knows. It’s a puzzle, MacBain, but the more I reflect upon it, the more convinced I become that my king is actually afraid of what Johanna knows.”