Claimed by a Scottish Lord (7 page)

She rode astride, wearing a pair of boy‘s breeches and a woolen overcoat belted at the waist. She yanked her cocked hat lower over her brow and lifted her face to the sky. Despite her fierce mood, she could not deny the afternoon was beautiful. As a child, she had ridden the empty fields surrounding the abbey at night. With only the moonlight at her back, she‘d imagined herself a painted Celtic warrior. Even in the bright sunlight and heat of the day, she felt a vague recollection of the child she‘d been. Never afraid. Never alone. Yet restless like this horse—in part due to an imagination that kept constant companion with her want for adventure.

Soon she slowed the stallion to test his gait and high-stepped him in a circle. Leaning over to rub him affectionately, she held tight to the reins and studied his leg to reassure herself that he had healed. She had already ridden six miles from the abbey over dale and hill, through the woods and around fields planted with rye. The high-strung stud pulled restively at his bit, fighting his restraint.

―Take it easy, boy,‖ she said, catching the scent of campfire smoke. She straightened in the saddle and tented a hand over her eyes, locating the ribbon of gray smoke above the trees. ―I see the smoke, too.‖

The corner of her mouth crooked. She had specifically waited two days, when she knew the mountebank would be returning this way on his route back to Chesters. He never ventured far from the border.

The road wound its way another mile around a shallow stream through a tunnel of trees. She followed the scent of cooking fish. The peddler‘s gayly painted wagon filled with an assortment of wares and pots and pans dangling from the roof sat at the edge of the woods. Two horses chomping on the high grass raised their heads and watched her dismount before deciding she was no threat and returning to eating. She untied the two horses, encouraging them with a
thwack
on the rump to run away. She tied the stallion reins to the wheel of the wagon and walked into the clearing.

The peddler and another man sat playing a game of dice over coins piled on a rock between them. She recognized the second man sitting with the mountebank as Geddes Graham even before he turned his head.

The peddler jumped to his feet. ―Miss Rose,‖ the mountebank said, nervously wiping his greasy hands on his trousers.

He wore a checked waistcoat and greasy leather leggings, the same unwashed clothes she‘d seen him wearing the last three times he‘d come through Castleton, and for just a moment, she felt sorry for his circumstance, until she reminded herself that he‘d cheated Jack of his coin.

―Mr. Rolf,‖ she said.

But it was Geddes whom she watched as his eyes widened a fraction on the stallion. The mountebank might be an opportunist and a cheat, but Geddes was a snake. Unlike most men Rose towered over, Geddes Graham made up for his lack of height in bulk.

―Why, if it isn‘t our thorny Rose what come to visit us, Rolf,‖ Geddes said, resting his hand above the knife he wore on his hip like a shiny rapier sheathed in gold. ―What brings ye to see the mountebank?‖

The mountebank stepped eagerly forward. ―Ye want a nostrum or other medicines for an ailment, Miss Rose?‖

―Jack Lowell gave you a coin for a bonnet he did not receive. I want the coin back.‖

Geddes snorted as he approached. ―Jackie boy is a thievin‘ scoundrel, Rose. That coin was no‘ even his.‖

―You are wrong. He earned that coin. And I want it back. Now.‖

―Do ye hear that, Rolf? Our thorny Rose wants Jack‘s coin back.‖

The mountebank twisted his hands. ―Now, ye can no‘ be grudging any man an honest living, Miss Rose. Even someone as pretty as you—‖

Geddes laughed. ―Miss Rose, pretty? She‘s as skinny as a fresh-hatched sardine, Rolf.‖

His leer raked the natty jacket that fell just to the top of her scuffed boots. ―A man wants a woman beneath him who is no‘ afraid of his touch. Look at her, Rolf. One day, she‘ll be a shriveled old crone like ol‘ Nessa wonderin‘ why a real man would never have her.‖

―I don‘t see a real man standing in front of me, Geddes. I see an overgrown boy playing at being a man.‖

Geddes‘s eyes narrowed. He remained near enough that she smelled his fish breath.

―Maybe you stole the coin the same place you stole that stud, Rose. How else would that brat get his hands on a coin?‖

He made a move toward the stallion but she stepped into his path, startling him.

Rose slid the knife from its sheath on Geddes‘s hip and, moving only her hand, inserted the blade between his legs, stopping him cold. ―Careful, Geddes. I have never gelded a man. But if you move one inch nearer, I swear on my life, you do so at your own peril.‖

―Bluidy hell, Rose,‖ he gasped.

―I mean what I say, Geddes.‖ She spoke to the mountebank without turning her attention from Geddes. ―Mr. Rolf? I want that coin. Set it on the rock next to me, then move away.‖

―
Now,
Rolf! Give her the boy‘s coin. Can‘t ye see she‘s got a bloomin‘ blade to me bollocks?‖

The mountebank scurried to do as he‘d been told. He put the coin on the rock then hurried to the clearing‘s edge and stopped. Still holding the knife, Rose backed a step and scraped the coin from the rock. Without taking her eyes from Geddes, she slipped it into a small pocket inside her coat.

Rose narrowed her eyes on Greta Graham‘s slovenly son as she backed toward the stallion. ―The only reason you‘re still in one piece is because I have a fondness for your mam. For some reason she loves you and I would not be the cause of her broken heart.‖

―You ain‘t no saint, Rose,‖ Geddes shouted as she stepped into the stirrups and reined the stallion around to face him. ―One of these days you‘ll regret you weren‘t nicer to me.‖

She threw the knife end over end into the ground between his boots. ―But not today, Geddes.‖

The horse sprang forward, clearing a fallen log and scattering the other horses. Behind her, the pair shouted obscenities but Geddes couldn‘t catch her. She reached flat ground and finally allowed the stallion his head. The distance between them extended until she could no longer hear them.

She had no thought of returning to the abbey yet. She came on the old Roman road and cut through a flock of sheep, sending them scurrying in all directions. A farmer holding a scythe shouted at her, but even then she but waved at him. ―Good afternoon, Mr. Herring.‖

―Are ye daft, girl?‖ he shouted. ―You‘ll break yer bluidy neck.‖

Even wearing breeches and a cap with her braided hair tucked beneath, people recognized her. Today, she didn‘t mind as she skirted the village another pair of miles and left the road, careful not to ride through the vegetable gardens. A warm breeze tugged at her clothes.

She felt as if she were riding Pegasus through the sky. Even while a part of her knew she should not have taken that horse, another part cherished the freedom.

And a sudden memory of her childhood surfaced an impression that had stayed with her despite the years. It confused her for it was from a time before the abbey and the man in her memories was not the evil man her mother was running from but of one who had once set her upon a pony and told her that one day she would know how to ride like the wind.

As Rose galloped Lord Roxburghe‘s stallion through the high grass toward a crimson sunset, she no longer let herself worry if Mrs. Simpson was right about the wishing ring being dangerous. Tonight was a full moon.

By the time she returned to the abbey and reined in the stallion, her thick hair had unraveled from its plait, and streamed in windblown tangles to her waist.

Having given up on keeping the cocked hat on her head, she‘d shoved it in her knapsack miles ago. The thought of spending hours combing out her hair did not make her regret ridding herself of the hat. Some decisions were like that, she realized—like borrowing the stallion for a day.

Yet, a sudden chill went down her spine. The horse tossed his head. She rubbed her hand along his neck. ―What is it, boy?‖

She looked toward the abbey. The late-afternoon sun shone on its stone walls like a beacon of light—or a warning. The main keep tower, slightly higher than the abbey itself, also seemed to glimmer in the dying sunlight. For a bare fraction of a second, she held the stallion‘s restless pacing in check.

Friar Tucker lived and worked in the rooms that overlooked the fields. The curtains were opened.

The abbey had guests!

Chapter 4

“I
refuse
to listen to a holy man lie to me.‖

Ruark turned to face the man standing in front of the window. The curtains were partly drawn, but the sun had set and shadows obscured most of the room. One candle burned on the desk. Tucker was a tall man but not big, yet he had always seemed larger to Ruark. He still wore his brown robes, dusty from his journey. A cap covered his short, clipped hair. Ruark had been at the abbey when Tucker returned. Ruark had arrived only to find Loki gone and Rose with him.

Impatience brought Ruark to the window to see what had grabbed Tucker‘s attention but he saw nothing.

―I can‘t help you, my lord.‖

Ruark stepped in his path, his cloak swirling around his calves with the agitated movement. He had not removed the sword or other weaponry upon entering the abbey. The message itself said he had not come as a friend. But it said more. He had come willing to fight for his prize. ―Do you think I have been sitting on my arse enjoying my grand homecoming while my brother rots in one of Hereford‘s hellholes?‖ he demanded. ―Probably to spend the rest of his life imprisoned if I cannot find a way to secure his release.‖

―I told you, I can‘t help you,‖ Tucker persisted. ―I have no idea what you are talking about!‖

Ruark‘s thoughts crowded around him like brooding buzzards as he focused on Tucker.

―I asked you if you knew Countess Hereford. She was from Redesdale. You are from Redesdale. As is the uncle you just buried from Redesdale. Except you have no uncle.‖ He withdrew from his cloak a packet. ―My man of affairs has been in Carlisle these past weeks mining for information on Hereford‘s past. It seems the widow of the man you went to Redesdale to bury is an ungrateful blatherskite with greasy palms and an intent to blackmail you. We found Lady Hereford‘s maid. She and the child never got on the ship to France.‖

―Move aside, Roxburghe. Or I will forget we were ever friends.‖

Ruark grabbed Tucker‘s wrist and forced the package into his hand. ―Your father was a vicar living at Kirkland Park for twenty years. Lady Elena‘s father was his patron. You grew up with her. When she needed help she came to you.‖

―Nay.‖ The word came out in a desperate rush.

―Is Rose Lady Roselyn Lancaster?
Is
she?‖

―She is like my own bairn‘, my lord. You can no‘ have her!‖

The revelation struck him like a punch in the gut. He had not known positively until this moment that the daughter lived, that the rumors might be true or that he could feel so betrayed by a man he had considered his friend.

Ruark could not think clearly. ―Christ . Tucker. How could any man have kept such a secret for seventeen years? Does she know Hereford is her father?‖

―Aye, she does.‖ Tucker grabbed Ruark‘s sleeve. ―Wait!‖

Ruark had never laid his hands on a woman or child or a man of cloth, but by God, he was tempted to do so now.

She knew! He‘d talked to her less than a month ago in this very abbey.

She‘d known about his brother, all along knowing ‘twas her own sire that held him imprisoned, and he damned himself now for wasting precious time in finding her. He realized the rage he felt. Rage because of who she was or something else .

―You don‘t understand,‖ Tucker whispered.

Ruark‘s voice lowered to a rasp. ―What I understand is Rose Lancaster is alive. Hereford must know she is alive or he would not still be at Kirkland Park.‖

―Wed her and Kirkland Park will be yours.‖

Ruark laughed. Incredulous. ―I would not join Kerr and Lancaster blood if we were the last two beings on this earth. She is valuable to me as a hostage.‖

Tucker grabbed his arm. ―I have known you to be an honorable man—‖

―Damn you.‖ He shrugged off Tucker‘s grip. ―Do not throw that word in my face. There is no bloody thing as honor when fighting a man who has none.‖
Christ
, he had learned that much from his own father.

Tucker stepped around Ruark to block him from reaching the door. ―She is more valuable than you know. Hereford can‘t touch her inheritance. Everything is in trust. If something happened to Rose before her twenty-first year, Kirkland Park, her great-grandfather fixed it so that everything goes to the church, which is why Hereford never declared his daughter dead. But upon Rose‘s marriage, everything goes to her husband. That man can be you, Ruark.

―You‘ve seen Rose. You‘ve met her. She is beautiful and vibrant. She would make a fine wife to any man worthy enough to hold on to her.‖

Someone pounded on the door. Tucker nearly leapt away.

Colum called from the other side and Ruark opened the door. ―The girl returned with your stallion a half hour ago,‖ Colum said. ―But no one can find her.‖

Ruark‘s eyes narrowed on Tucker as he spoke to Colum. ―Is everyone else in the dining hall?‖ Ruark asked.

―Except for the boy, Jack.‖

Ruark looked past Tucker to the window where the friar had been standing. Tucker had not moved, but Ruark recognized the truth on his round face. He had sent the boy to wait for Rose‘s return and warn her. How much time had Ruark given her by remaining here with Tucker?

Ruark pulled on his gloves. ―If you see Hereford before I do, give him my regards.‖

―Sweet Mary, I‘m protecting my own.‖

―And I am trying to save mine.‖

Ruark removed the key from the door as Tucker grasped his forearm. ―If you give her to Hereford, you commit an abomination against that girl. I am sorry I ever knew you.‖

Tucker was not the first to utter those words. Ruark doubted he would be the last. ―I know.‖

He stepped into the corridor and turned the key in the lock. The door was English oak. The good friar would not be getting out of this room anytime soon.