Warrior's Lady (11 page)

The man caught the coin in mid-flight and slid it hastily into the pocket of his tattered wool coat. "Aye, Your Grace." He bowed once, then again before heading out the door.

A Ruthven? Surely it was divine intervention. Her family had been loyal to him since he'd been appointed bishop.

He need not deal with pesky undisciplined peasants any longer. Nay, he had a new spy, one who would be more pleasant to his eyes and his nose. The Ruthven girl would tell him whatever he wanted her to.

She would betray her country and her new protector. She would have no choice in the matter.

A smile of satisfaction crossed his lips. And he allowed it to form, knowing that his cheeks looked less angular and more in the popular vogue when he did. "Perhaps it is time I pay my new neighbor a visit."

Chapter Eight

He had hurt her. Camden had seen the angry expression on Rhiannon's face at the sight of the two burly warriors he'd posted outside her bedchamber door. He would make it up to her.

Striding down the long corridor, he chastised himself for the thought. He had nothing to feel guilty about. He was doing the only thing he could given the circumstances.

Or was he?

Could he trust her? Trust. One nebulous and dangerous word that could either bring him the peace he so desperately sought, or send him spiraling to his end. Had James trusted the Ruthvens? Is that how they had managed to get close enough to him to circumvent his guards?

Camden continued down the stairs and outside to where his niece rode through the orchard on his most docile horse with Thomas and a full contingent of guards.

Orrin broke away from the others and came toward Camden. "The men do not seem to mind 'protection' detail. Although they are curious as to why they need to guard the littlest Lockhart with their lives."

Camden gazed out at the young girl as she rode her horse down one long line of trees then up yet another, pushing the animal faster and faster. Thomas chased after her, his face grim with disapproval.

A smile came to Camden's lips. A bit of Clara's adventurous spirit existed in her daughter. "I cannot tell them why," Camden said, his smile fading.

"No one would question your actions. They saw what happened to James."

"I cannot risk it." Camden allowed an edge of steel to enter his voice.

"You can't risk Rhiannon learning the truth," Orrin corrected.

Camden paused before saying slowly. "It's too dangerous for any of them to know the truth. I will not allow the bishop to use any of my people as his puppets. Knowing nothing makes them innocent." Camden frowned. "If our last meeting with the bishop was any indication of events to come, the man will scrutinize every detail of our lives until he finds what he wants."

"What does he want?"

"The Charm Stone."

"And Lady Violet? Why did he want her almost as badly as the Stone?" Orrin asked.

"Did I hear someone mention Lady Violet's name?"

Both men turned, drawing their swords more out of habit than necessity. Camden's sword pointed at the Bishop Berwick's heart. Orrin's aimed for his gut. One sword poised to kill, the other to cause suffering. Which outcome did the man deserve more?

"Lord Lockhart. You've certainly outdone yourself," the bishop said as he frowned down at the weapons pressed against his pristine robes. "You found your niece in record time. Anger and grief usually spur men to accomplish great deeds."

"What do you want, Berwick?" Camden asked, his sword steady.

"You wound me, Lockhart." The bishop's frown increased. "I've come to make certain that little girl has come to no harm." With a gloved hand, he pushed the tip of Camden's blade away from his heart. He scowled at Orrin. "Would both of you cease this attack? I am no threat to you."

Camden sheathed his curved weapon. Orrin followed his example. But he remained close, and Camden could see the twitch in his hand as it hovered over the hilt of his sword. "I repeat. What do you want?"

"I've come to make you an offer. My dear mother would be most happy to take charge of your niece. She will instruct her properly in the ways of a noble lady."

The bishop's gaze moved to the orchard where Violet and Thomas had just finished their lesson for the day. They headed directly for them. For a moment, Camden wished he'd never encouraged Thomas to take his niece out for a ride. Even with a full contingent of warriors nearby the outdoors seemed suddenly too vast, and his niece too vulnerable with this man nearby.

"She stays with me," Camden said with icy precision.

"Then perhaps I may send my mother to you? She can train both your niece and your other young charge."

"We have no need of your help."

The bishop frowned. "Oh? But I know all about Rhiannon Ruthven. What I don't understand is why you trust her, the spawn of a family of traitors, rather than me, a holy man?"

Camden's surprise vanished. His own experience with holy men might color his perspective, but at this moment he did prefer Rhiannon's help to that of the bishop's. And this bishop obviously had connections inside his castle. Only someone who lived inside these walls would have access to information about his niece and Rhiannon. "Rhiannon will teach Lady Violet all she needs to know."

Thomas led Violet up the slope to where he and the bishop stood. With each step, Camden's worry increased. He had to keep Violet away from this man.

The bishop's eye brightened as the young girl approached. "Think of Lady Violet, not yourself."

"She is my first priority." Camden moved to stand beside his niece's horse. He caught the reins, holding them with a firm hand. Caution flared. His men filled in the space around them. They stood with their bodies tense, as though sensing Camden's tension.

"And what about the Ruthven woman?" The bishop's gaze strayed from Violet to the keep. "Perhaps a little repentance might do her good if she is to take charge of something so precious."

Unease passed through Camden. The bishop wasn't after Violet. Not this afternoon, anyway. Nay, he wanted to speak to Rhiannon. That was the true reason for his visit.

"Does she know you are here? Did she ask you to come?" Camden felt his body tighten as he once again questioned Rhiannon's motives for coming to his home.

"Nay," the bishop replied. "It is the shepherd who must find a sheep who has left the flock."

"There are no lost sheep here. The woman is ill. I wouldn't advise seeing her." He lied. But something inside him warned him not to give the bishop access to Rhiannon.

"You cannot dismiss me, Lockhart. I serve the people, all people. She might want me to stay."

"I asked you to leave." He didn't think, merely reacted — a survival skill that had seen him through his days in the Holy Land. He drew his sword. The rasp of steel filled the air as his men drew their weapons. "Or shall I force you?"

The bishop cast a furious glance at him before turning to hustle through the outer bailey. "You are treading on dangerous ground, milord."

"Danger has been my life," Camden replied, striding toward the gate with his men. Once the bishop left, Camden ordered the portcullis lowered and the gate closed, and to remain that way unless he himself granted entrance.

Only when the two heavy planks of wood slid into place did Camden feel the winds of dusk that blew crisp and cold on his face.

He needed that cold to focus his thoughts. He was the new laird of the Lockhart clan whether he liked it or not. With that position came certain responsibilities. The first and foremost, keeping his clan safe from anyone and anything that could harm them.

Could the bishop truly be the threat he seemed? A holy man? Camden frowned at his thoughts. Shaykh Haashim had been a threat for seven years. Never would he allow any member of his clan to suffer as they had at the hands of a holy man.

Camden slammed the door on his memories. He clutched the curved sword that was ever-present at his side. He was no longer a slave. He could protect his people from the invading English, from the bishop, or anyone else. Grasping the comfort the thought brought, he shifted his gaze to the sky now turning from a hazy pink to a pearlescent gray mixed with heavy dark clouds. There would be snow tonight.

He watched as Thomas escorted Violet inside and Orrin dismissed the men. When that task was complete, Orrin joined Camden near the gate.

"The man is a lunatic."

"That may be true, but he's one lunatic we will likely see again. He might claim to want to help with Lady Violet's training, but I am certain he has an ulterior motive." Camden said. "Whatever we do, we must keep my niece safe."

"The two of us along with your army will be all the protection she needs." Orrin's face took on a look Camden had seen so many times before — the look that dared anyone to prove him wrong. It was that look, and his fighting skills that had kept him alive during their captivity.

Camden's thoughts moved away from the bishop and turned to Rhiannon. Was she the insider who had delivered information about Violet to the bishop? "I'm not so certain my army is all that is needed here."

"You think the bishop has that much power?"

Camden nodded. "Aye. We both know the power that lies behind a holy man."

Orrin's brow darkened as he, too, battled memories of their past together. "Then what are we to do?"

"We need to lure the bishop into exposing his true plans before anyone else is harmed," Camden said as darkly as the clouds billowing overhead.

Orrin met his gaze. "What will you do?"

"I need to speak with our new nursemaid. There is a connection between her and the bishop. I need to find out that connection and decide once and for all if she can be trusted."

Camden strode into the castle and up the stairs. At the door of Rhiannon's bedchamber, he dismissed Hamish and Travis, then entered the room after a brief warning knock. "Rhiannon, we must talk."

She lay upon the bed above the coverlet, asleep. He moved silently to her side and gazed down at her, seething with frustration. He should wake her up. He had every right to do so. And yet he hesitated.

Candlelight flickered over her pale blonde hair and stroked the silken smoothness of her cheeks and neck. She lay curled on her side, her cheek buried in the pillow, her pink lips slightly parted. All thoughts of finding the truth about her connection to Bishop Berwick faded as a different emotion took its place.

Desire.

Wanting hardened every muscle of his body as he gazed at the soft shadows that the long lashes cast upon the curve of her cheeks. The long exposed column of her neck led down to the fullness of her breasts as they rose and fell against the bodice of her gray gown with each breath.

Just beneath the fabric of her gown he could make out her hardened nipples. The thought of stroking the sensitive buds sent his heart thudding against his ribs.

He bent closer, until the soft scent of lavender filled his senses. His blood pounded in his veins and the quickening in his loins hardened to an almost unbearable force. Why not wake her and take from her what he could? He had every right to take anything he wanted from his enemy. His own father had taught him that rape and pillaging were the rewards of overcoming one's enemy in times of war. He had pillaged many wealthy enemies in the Holy Land, but had never resorted to rape … yet.

He frowned at the direction of his thoughts. This was no war — only a battle between himself and Rhiannon Ruthven. And despite the fact he wanted to be the victor, he did not want her to yield to him because he had forced her.

Nay, he would prefer a slow surrender, one willingly given. With an effort, he straightened and backed away from the bed. He would wait to speak with her until the morning, just as he would wait to take from her everything she unwittingly offered.

He blew out the candle. Aye, he would wait until the time was right.

Death was all around him. Blood turned Jerusalem's rocky sand into a slick bog. Men who continued to fight found it difficult to find purchase and feared falling among those who were slain by the sword or trampled by horses.

Camden spilled his own share of blood. He fought back to back with Orrin in the way of their countrymen, startling the Moors who attacked. And that brief hesitation was all it took to find their advantage.

They would not die. They would know injury and pain, but neither of them would leave this world surrounded by strangers. He did not think about that during battle. All thoughts centered on a cold, calculating way to kill the man before him, hold on to his fierce determination, and cripple his enemy's offense. 

He would return home in just three years.

Home. Scotland. Freedom.

Camden startled awake. Another dream. He'd had them more regularly of late. Ever since the Stone had come back into his life. He knew it wasn't the Stone itself that caused his memories to return. It was what it represented — a link to his past — to the Holy Lands, and his capture, and the holy man, Shaykh Haashim.