The Wolfe (4 page)

But the issue was complicated.
John’s wife, the mother of his children, had been killed by a marauding band of
Scots years ago, enough to ease the ache but not enough to quell the anger. He
had to keep reminding himself that this girl had nothing to do with Helena’s
death, hoping his offspring would take the same fact into consideration when
dealing with the lass. But to say he was satisfied with the arrangement was a
lie.

Lord de Longley wondered darkly what
he was going to do with the wild young lass. Not only did he not want her at
Northwood, but he would have to protect her from his men. They had all lost
friends and relatives in the border wars, and this bride would be a living
symbol of all they had lost. She would only bring trouble to his home.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his
forehead, trying to ease its ache. A fine mess the king had handed him. As he
was contemplating his cloudy future, there was a knock on his heavy oak door.

“Come,” he bade.

The door opened, spilling forth a
figure dressed entirely in black leather and gleaming armor. The room
immediately filled with the heady scent of power – complete and utter power.

The knight was exceedingly tall and
muscular and moved with the grace of a stalking cat. Thigh-high boots echoed
loudly against the stone floor as he approached, fairly shaking the room. De
Longley had long ago ceased to react to the presence of his captain, although
lesser men had actually fainted from the sight of him. There was not a man in England
or Scotland who could not feel the presence of The Wolf when he entered a room.

The knight stopped next to his
liege’s chair, waiting silently, a huge and imposing sentinel. At well over six
feet and dark as the devil, he stood like stone, larger than life and by far
more terrifying. It was a few moments, however, before the earl glanced up at
him.

“Ah,” de Longley mumbled. “You have
come.”

“My lord,” the man greeted in a
deep, husky voice, like the voice of the devil.

“Sit, William, sit,” de Longley said
and pointed to the adjacent chair.

Sir William de Wolfe sat opposite
his master, his hazel-gold eyes focused intently on the man. He had served the earl
for twenty years and was concerned to see him so distressed. As captain of the earl’s
eleven-hundred man force, it was his job to serve his master in every possible
way. He could see now that the earl had an important reason for summoning him
by the expression of his face.

“William, our magnificent King Henry
has burdened me with an awesome responsibility,” de Longley said with muted
sarcasm. “It seems that at my age I am to be a bridegroom.”

“A bridegroom, my lord?” William
repeated with surprise.

“Indeed,” the earl continued,
acknowledging his captain’s astonishment. “What’s more, ‘tis a Scot bride I am
to take, a peace offering from those barbarians for an absence of hostility
along the border.”

William let out a low whistle and
Lord de Longley chuckled. “My feelings exactly, lad,” he said. “Therefore, it
will be your duty to retrieve this woman from her home and return her to me. It
will furthermore be your duty to protect this woman from any and all harm.
‘Twould not be a good thing to have an accident befall her and not only have
the Scots breaking down my door, but Henry breathing down my neck as well.”

William nodded solemnly, belying the
disbelief he felt.
A Scot bride here at Northwood?
Lord, the men would
be at her like termites on wood, he thought grimly. She would be lucky if she
survived the week.  The hatred, and animosity, ran long and deep.

De Longley broke in to his thoughts.
“On the morrow, you will take as many men as you deem necessary and proceed to Langton
Castle, a little less than a day’s hard ride into Scotland near the Bog Forest,”
he said with more enthusiasm than he felt. When William didn’t reply, he eyed
his silent captain. “William, I need not stress how important this mission is.”

William was as concerned as his lord
over this crisis, but he offered the expected answer. “I will protect this
woman with my life, my lord.”

“See that you do,” the earl said,
knowing it was an unnecessary statement. He paused, studying William’s
preoccupied face inquisitively. “You are lost to me, lad. What are you
thinking?”

William’s features were steady for a
moment before washing with an oddly gentle expression, entirely out of
character for him. His mouth worked for a moment, as if searching for the words
to explain. After a frustrated attempt, he cleared his throat and tried again.

“My lord, do remember when I was
wounded a year past, the wound that nearly claimed me?” When the earl nodded,
he continued with some hesitation. “I had crawled away from the battlefield
into a group of trees to await death when Scots lass came upon me. I expected
her to disembowel me, but she did not. Instead, she tended my wound and saved
my life.”

De Longley listened intently. “I
asked you who sewed your wound, William, and you simply told me an angel,” he
said, remembering the day his captain had returned from the dead. It had been a
dark day when William had not returned with the army and they were convinced he
was lost until a search party located him days later. “So it was a Scottish
lass that saved you?”

“Aye,” William replied softly. “Strange;
I have been fighting the Scots for most of my life and viewed them all as
barbaric vermin. I have seen too many good men cut down by these primitive
dogs. But this woman… she was not like that at all. She was so… different.”

“So my William grows soft on
Scottish lasses?” Lord de Longley teased gently.

“Not at all, my lord,” William
grinned with embarrassment, looking down at his gauntleted hands.

The earl was very amused at this
show of emotion from serious William. The man was pure perfection - no
weaknesses, no faults, and little emotion. The earl had known him for twenty
years and had never seen this side to him. He swore the man was actually
blushing. He could not resist the opportunity to spur him.

“Was she beautiful, this lass?” he
asked, drinking of his pewter cup.

William fixed the earl with a look
that amazed him, an expression of tremendous sincerity and depth.  It was
unusual for the emotionless man.

“My lord, no one is greater an
admirer of English women than I,” he said, “but in all honesty I have never
seen an Englishwoman that could compare in beauty to this Scot. When I said she
was an angel, I meant it literally.”

“Truly?” the earl raised his
eyebrows. “William, this is not at all like you to expose your fondness for a
woman. Pity I shall never meet this lass who has branded you.”

William smiled wryly. He had not
thought of the fair Jordan in a long time. The months following his wound she
had permeated his mind like a soft wind, gentle yet unmistakable. For the sake
of his promise to her, he truly wished to return to Scotland someday on a
peaceable mission to reward her for her kindness.

He had convinced himself that the
only feelings he held for her were those of thanks and appreciation, and
nothing more. Yet every time he thought of that beautiful face, he felt a tug
at his gut like none he had ever known. Every time he smelled lavender he was
catapulted back to the damp spot on the dark Scot earth while Jordan’s delicate
hands ministered to him.

As time passed and the border wars
continued on, he knew the impossibility of seeing her again and reluctantly
pushed her from his mind. But he would find her someday to thank her; he felt
strongly that his honor was at stake. But her smile, the last gesture she gave
him, stayed with him.

He forced himself to push her aside
again; it was getting a little easier with time to forget about her.

“If that is all, my lord, then I
shall go and inform my officers,” he stood on his long, long legs. “We have
preparations to make.”

“Aye, prepare them.” The humor was
gone from the earl. “And, William, I want only the officers carrying daggers;
none of the men-at-arms. Swords and spears only.”

William eyed him disapprovingly. “My
lord is sending us into enemy territory,” he pointed out. “Why would you
insist…?”

The earl put up a curt hand. “
No
daggers,” he repeated. “It will be much more difficult for one of the men to kill
the lass with a sword or a spear than it would be with a dagger. I want only
the officers to carry daggers. Am I understood?”

“Completely, my lord,” William
answered formally.

He left the chamber without another
word.  Out in the dim and cold corridor, he paused a moment to collect himself.
A Scot bride. Damn the king for bringing this element into Northwood. Life was
hard enough this far from London without having the fear the enemy from within.

He knew how the men were going to
react and he did not blame them. But he was not God; he could not be everywhere
at once watching everyone to make sure they were not contemplating murder. But
he could be with one person all the time; the woman. He would have to be with
her every hour of the day and night until he felt the threat had passed, if
indeed it ever did.

If she were the vile sort, then he
might just take a dagger to her himself. He fervently hoped that it would not
come to that.

CHAPTER FOUR

Jordan had not slept the entire
night. Well before dawn she had carefully dressed in a green woolen surcoat
with a square neckline that displayed her torso and round breasts very nicely.
The front of her hair was pulled off her face and secured with a strip of
ribbon, allowing the rest of her hair to flow in soft silken curls to her
waist.

She looked extraordinarily beautiful
but felt like a lamb to the slaughter. No amount of mental encouragement could
bring about the bravery she so desperately sought. She spent weeks working up
to this moment, frightened to her very bones, afraid of the unknown horrors awaiting
her. Ever since she had been a child, she had been taught that the clans south
of the border were her enemy. Now she was to live in the heart of them.

Down in the bailey of Langton stood
three large wagons laden with goods for her dowry. Bolts of Scottish wool,
barrels of whisky and finely milled soaps sat alongside her personal
possessions. Everything in the world of any value to Jordan was loaded into the
carts which now waited in the damp early dawn for transport to Northwood
Fortress. They were a silent testament to the future that await her, silently
taunting her that there was no turning back.

The sun rose steadily no matter how
Jordan prayed that it would never rise again, and the day promised to be bright
and beautiful. Outside on the castle grounds, the village was coming alive,
preparing for the important day ahead. She could hear shouts and voices and
squeaking wheels as the courtyard rose to a steady hum of activity. Jordan
gazed out over the scene, a lump in her throat as she realized this would be
the last time she would ever hear those comforting, familiar sounds.

Behind her the chamber door opened,
and Caladora and Jemma entered.  While Caladora sat quietly, Jemma moved for
Jordan. The dark little lass was dressed in the red and green of Scott, her
brunette hair in unbound curls down her back.  She came bearing a wrap of
sorts, a shawl, intended for her cousin to wear when the English came to
retrieve her.  But with that wrap came a small, bejeweled dagger. She silently
exposed it to her cousin so the woman would get the message. Jemma wasn’t about
to send Jordan off without some measure of personal protection.

Jordan eyed the weapon without
enthusiasm. “This isna a war, Jemma,” she said, her voice sounding oddly weak.
“‘Tis to be a wedding.”

Jemma’s jaw set hard. “‘Tis always a
war with the English, Jordi, and well ye know it.”

Jordan’s eyes strayed to the open
window, envisioning the scene below. “It will be what I make of it,” she said,
echoing her father’s words. “If I fight them, they will fight me. I canna live
the rest of my life fighting my husband like a she-cat.”

“But ye canna give in to them,” Jemma
insisted.  “One good thrust to yer husband on the wedding night and there will
be no husband at ‘tall.”

“I willna do it,” Jordan returned
forcefully. “But there be other ways to win a war, Jemma, not just the physical
ones. Yer cousin will make ye proud, have no doubt. I shall show them what Scot
pride is.”

Caladora was far removed from the
conversation, sitting on a small stool nervously. Jemma eyed her younger cousin
for a moment before moving closer to Jordan.

“Take me with ye, Jordan,” she
whispered. “Caladora would be so much baggage to ye, but I would make a fine
lady. Take me.”