An Oath Taken (8 page)

At the armory she gathered the sand needed to clean her sword. Elizabet settled into a solitary corner near the guard shack and began to scrub the neglected steel. What was she going to do? She couldna risk the chance of being identified, but Nicholas expected her to attend him throughout the meeting.

A small patch of the tarnished blade began to gleam beneath her ministrations. Worry for her brother fevered in his cell ate at her as she continued working in slow circles. It would all work out, she had to believe such. Regardless, at this point, there was no turning back.

 

Hours later, a pitcher of ale in her hands, Elizabet hurried around the corner of the great room.

“What out!” a deep authoritative voice boomed.

Too late, she barreled into a tall, sturdily built man.

Narrowed hazel eyes glittered with unsheathed malice when she dared to glance up. “You clumsy fool. Out of my way.”

The stench of mead clung to her as she scrambled from his path. “I am so sorry, my lord!”

Mail rattled as he stormed past.

Elizabet closed her eyes as the rich brew dripped from her bangs to slide down her cheeks like golden tears. So lost in her own worries, she hadna even considered that the Earl of Dunsten would be in attendance. Thank goodness he'd nae recognized her.

Fighting for calm, she bent down to mop up the spilled mead, and slid a glance toward the dais where Nicholas and the other officials sat, their voices raised in heated debate.

Lord Dunsten stepped onto the raised platform, confidence as well as arrogance embedded in his stride.

Conversation halted.

Nicholas stood and turned toward the new arrival, his gaze assessing. “Lord Dunsten, I am Sir Nicholas, castellan of Ravenmoor Castle, I bid you welcome.”

After a brief introduction, Lord Dunsten took a seat. Within minutes the men became engrossed in the discussions of border law.

With a relieved sigh, Elizabet finished mopping up the sticky mess, then moved to the shadows. She must keep out of Lord Dunsten's sight.

As she stood shielded by the murky light, Dunsten's entreaty to her father for a marriage contract echoed in her mind. Thank heaven Giric had intervened and swayed her father's decision. Though they had played as children while their fathers discussed concerns of Scotland's future, she didna love Dunsten. Aye, a foolish belief in this day, but the wish to marry for love throughout the years lingered.

Nor could she forget the rift between her brother and Dunsten spanned many years. At the age of six and ten years, Giric had gone on a hunt with Dunsten. Her brother had returned, anger carved upon his face. When asked, Giric refused to reveal what had passed between them, but from that day forth her brother and Dunsten had remained at odds.

Giric's insistence to their father to deny Dunsten's request for marriage had served to add another wedge of dissent between the now grown men, one that still thrived.

Elizabet took in the earl as he debated with the officials halfway across the room chamber. Was he aware Sir Nicholas held her brother imprisoned within his dungeon? A shiver stole through her. More than likely he was aware, news that had pleased him. A new fear arose. Would he use her brother's imprisonment to his advantage, charge him with false crimes, and rid himself of Giric for good?

A warden slammed his fist on the table and rose; another heated argument ensued.

Elizabet jumped. What was she thinking? She couldna hide. Nicholas had sent her to fetch another round of mead. With a prayer she could avoid Lord Dunsten's notice this eve, she turned and hurried to refill her pitcher.

Tension began to ebb between the powerful men seated at the table, and Nicholas paused, intrigued by his squire's cautious approach, curious as to his drenched state. He lifted his tankard and drained the last few drops.

Considering the two times during the heated discussions that swords had been drawn in an angry retort, and twice he'd diffused each confrontation, he was pleased with how well the evening had fared. It had taken all of his experience as a mediator to keep the men focused on the topic without bloodshed; not an easy feat when mixing Englishmen and Scots.

Thomas worked his way along the table, refilling cups with the golden brew, but all the while he kept his gaze averted, and his body remained tense.

Sinking back in his chair, Nicholas took a long drink of his ale. He covertly scanned the powerful wardens surrounding him. The lad's cautious manner assured him Thomas knew at least one of the influential leaders. Whoever it was, the man terrified his squire.

Thomas halted at his side. “Would you like more, Sir Nicholas?”

Nicholas met him square in the eyes and kept his voice low. “Which man is it?”

Color fled from his squire's face. “Which man is what?”

That the lad should fear someone this much infuriated him. “Who do you know that you are afraid of?” Nicholas asked in soft demand.

“Please,” Thomas whispered, his gaze slanting briefly toward the powerful men seated at the table. “Let me serve you and be gone.”

The desperation laced within the soft-spoken plea convinced Nicholas to end the subject—for now. With the volatility of the officials gathered around the table, he needed his wits about him. After the meeting was another matter. Nicholas waved his squire away, but searched for recognition in any man's face as Thomas passed.

Naught.

Frustrated, he sat back, strummed his fingers upon the edge of the table. Secrets, he despised them. With a grimace, he lifted his cup and took a long draught. For the moment he would celebrate his achievement, but on the morrow Thomas's secrets would end.

“
And the whoreson shall live no more,
” Nicholas's rich voice sang out in a deep, hearty bass, but in a key that would surely rival a wounded bear.

The fire in the hearth popped cheerfully, warming his immense chamber as Elizabet rolled her eyes at his drunken rendition of an English fighting song.

The bells of Matins pealed.

She glanced out the window. Stars glittered in the sky, but soon streaks of dawn would come. Regardless of the late hour, after she'd helped Nicholas stumble into the room, he had demanded a bath.

She scrubbed the damp linen on the bar of soap until it formed a thick lather as she eyed the castellan propped in the wooden tub with frustrated tolerance. Even drunk, why did he have to be so charming?

Nicholas kicked back and plunged into the next chorus with fervor, and water sloshed over the sides of the wooden tub to join a growing pool.

He opened his mouth, but before he sang another word, she clamped her washrag over his mouth, stifling the next off-key verse.

“Lad,” he sputtered as he shoved away the offending linen. “ 'Tis no way to . . . I say 'tis no way to treat your kniiiight!” He shot her a fierce frown, but the slurred sentence punctuated by the hiccup stole the impact of his inebriated threat.

The smile she'd fought to suppress as she'd guided him up to his chamber this night stole to her lips. He was incorrigible, but in an enchanting manner. She sighed and again began to scrub his broad shoulders hewn by countless battles. How could she nae be charmed by this fierce warrior when he wallowed in such a defenseless drunken state?

He lolled his head back and closed his eyes as she continued to scrub, giving her ample opportunity to view him at leisure.

Running the soaped cloth over his well-muscled chest sheathed in a mass of silken curls, she braved sliding it down into the lukewarm water to wash his taut, flat belly. Honed muscle rippled beneath her touch, and excitement stole through her. How would it feel to be loved by this man, for his hands to skim over her flesh in a soft caress?

At her wayward thoughts, guilt filled her. She glanced up at Nicholas.

His eyes remained closed, and he lay limp against the wooden frame. On a mumble, a hearty snore fell from his lips.

Elizabet gave a soft laugh. So much for him noticing her interest. The warm fragrance of soapy water steamed between them as she knelt and rested her arms on the side of the tub.

Golden rays of candlelight flickered over his face in a soft caress, easing the hard lines.

How easy 'twould be to reach out and ruffle his sodden hair, to trace her fingers over his jaw, or to lean forward and steal a kiss.

Struggling to deal with all this man made her feel, she shoved to her feet. Why couldna he be the callous Englishman she'd expected? This position as his squire was temporary. She was a fool to think it could lead to anything more.

Nicholas would be furious to learn his squire was nae a deprived lad that life had treated with a callous hand, but a woman of stature who had used his empathy for her own goals. Nay, he must never find out. Such a discovery would put her life in jeopardy, worse it would end her chance of freeing her brother and people.

He gave a soft snore.

For the heartache he caused her, 'twould serve him well if she left him in the tub overnight. She grimaced. Like it or nae, at this moment he needed her. And like it or nae, she needed him as well.

Resigned to her task, she moved behind his head and worked her hands under his arms. His rich scent of male and soap teased her, and desire stormed her senses. Blast it! “Up you drunken beast.”

He mumbled something about his sword as he rose an inch in her arms.

She tugged. He was as heavy as weighted armor! She let go.

With a splash, Nicholas slid back into the tub and gave a low snore.

With the front of her tunic soaked, she stood, placed her hands on her hips. If the situation wasna so hopeless, 'twould be funny. Should she go to the great hall and fetch his men to help her? Nay, after the meeting that had turned into a drinking fest, she would be hard-pressed to find a man less drunk than the castellan.

Well, the sodden beast would just have to help. She nudged his shoulder none too gently. “Wake up.”

“Is my horse readied?” Nicholas slurred.

She'd give him a horse—a clonk over his head with the blasted shoe was more like it. “ 'Tis time to go to bed.” She gave him another nudge. “Get up. I canna lift you myself.”

A sensual grin slid to lips. “Anicia?”

Jealousy sliced Elizabet, and she released him. What had she expected? She'd nae guarded her speech, and he'd heard a woman's voice. Her spirit sagged further. Who was Anicia? A friend? More like his mistress, a woman who'd tasted his lovemaking many times over.

“Where is my bloody sword?” Nicholas grumbled.

Disgusted by her own regret, she caught his shoulders and shook him hard. “Get up, Sir Nicholas. 'Tis late and you need to seek your bed.”

His eyes flicked open. “To bed?” He wrinkled his brow then searched the chamber with a sluggish look. “Anicia?”

Her throat tightened. “Nay,” she replied, deepening her voice. “ 'Tis Thomas, your squire. You are dreaming.” She tugged on his arm. “To your feet now. I canna carry you alone.”

“Ah, Thomas lad.” With her help, Nicholas struggled to his feet. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as he fought for balance.

As he stepped out, Elizabet tightened her grip, steadying him as best as she could. Only by the grace of God did she aid him from the tub without him taking them both to the floor. The moment of victory faded when water streamed down her tunic as his naked body pressed against hers.

“Sir Nicholas, I—”

“No more rambling lad. To bed!”

The bed. She would nae think of that! Too aware of him, she tried to focus on her task and ignore the intimate press of his muscled body against hers. Well into his cups as he was, she doubted the castellan could even see the bed much less distinguish that she was nae a he.