Warrior's Lady (5 page)

"Aye." She'd spent much of her childhood on the back of a horse, riding the woods near their home, alone. It was the one thing her father never reprimanded her for. He'd even seemed pleased that she had as much, if not more, skill with the beasts as her brothers.

The stranger brought one of the horses to her side. Before he could offer her a hand up, she swung easily onto the horse's bare back.

He said nothing, but a hint of admiration shone in his eyes. Then he turned away, busying himself with securing the body of their driver to the back of the third horse. He had just completed the task when hoofbeats echoed at the top of the ridge.

His men had returned.

The stranger mounted his horse behind Violet, then secured the reins of the other horse to his saddle. They held their position until a tall, elegant man rode up beside Violet and the stranger. "Lord Lockhart," he greeted with a nod. "We lost the archer when he fled into the woods."

Lord Lockhart nodded. His gaze held a shuttered watchfulness as he studied Rhiannon. His intense scrutiny sent a shiver of fear down her spine. "The man won't return anytime soon. Besides, we have the prize he was after."

"What prize?" the slim man asked. He shifted uneasily on his horse when his gaze lit upon the driver's body, and then he stared at Rhiannon.

Lord Lockhart ignored the question clearly written on his friend's face about who she was. He playfully jostled his niece's hair. "Orrin, do you remember Lady Violet?"

Orrin's eyes went wide. "Your niece? She's grown since I saw her last. Praise the saints. But how?"

"She is safe. That is all that matters." Lord Lockhart wrapped his arms around his niece and nudged his horse forward, sparing Rhiannon not so much as a glance. "Let us return home. Once there, we can explore the issue more fully."

"Agreed," Orrin replied. He positioned his horse next to Rhiannon's on the trail, then signaled the men to fall in behind them.

As both men ignored her, Rhiannon did the only thing she could do, sit quietly by and follow where they led. As the moments ticked by, the terror of her ordeal along with the biting cold seeped through what remained of Rhiannon's defenses. She started to shake uncontrollably. No matter how hard she tried to force her limbs to still, she could not stop the shudders that wracked her body. She'd almost been killed, and now she was powerless and in limbo again.

She had no illusions about why someone wanted her dead. But why now? She'd been relatively unprotected for days after her father died, as well as when she'd sought shelter at the abbey.

Why did whoever wanted her dead wait to strike just when she'd started to believe she had a chance to start over? 

Rhiannon and the others rode through the iron gate of Lee Castle as the sun painted the horizon a deep scarlet. The first of the stars winked overhead and the ground reflected the creeping shadows of dusk.

Rhiannon's body ached from an untold number of bruises she'd no doubt received when she'd been slammed against the sides of the cart, and her temples throbbed in rhythm with the beat of her heart.

As they progressed through the bailey toward the keep, Lord Lockhart's mood darkened until it matched the impending nightfall.

The castle servants streamed from the door, lining up along the bottom of the stair to the keep as if following some ritual of greeting their lord upon his return. It was something that had never happened at her father's country house.

Lord Lockhart reined to a stop before them and dismounted. An older woman, most likely his chatelaine, stepped up to his horse to receive Violet who had fallen asleep on their journey. "Place her in the nursery, and prepare the room next to it for our other guest."

The woman assessed Rhiannon without a hint of friendliness in her gray eyes.

Rhiannon held her head high, refusing to let the woman see how intimidated she was beneath the hard stare. The once fashionable gray traveling gown Rhiannon wore was covered with splatters of mud beneath the wings of a light woolen cape. Her hair was pulled back from her face and protected by a muslin cap trimmed with lace. The small gray hat that used to cover the cap had been lost at some point during the wild journey here.

Rhiannon dropped her gaze to her hands — her bare, work-roughened hands. She would have worn gloves had she had them, as a proper lady should. But when had she ever been a proper lady? Rhiannon swallowed thickly, certain at any moment the woman would send her away.

"Thank you, Mistress Faulkner. That will be all," Lord Lockhart's voice broke through the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over those assembled in the courtyard.

Without speaking a word, the woman nodded, then slipped up the stairs with Violet tucked safely in her arms.

"Milord," an older man said in a tight voice. He stepped forward from those gathered.

"Bertie," Lord Lockhart's dark mood faded, and a smile brightened his face. "You are looking much improved. Your injuries worried me when we left—"

"How could you?" the man interrupted.

Lord Lockhart's frown returned. "Explain yourself, Bertie."

"How could you bring that woman into this castle in anything but irons?"

Rhiannon felt her face pale beneath the older man's glare. Her breath stilled in her chest and the world around her wavered.

"How could you bring a Ruthven into this castle?"

Chapter Four

"What do you mean, a Ruthven?" Lord Lockhart erupted.

Bertie's eyes narrowed as he pointed at Rhiannon. "The lass is a Ruthven. Although she is fair where her kin are mostly dark, you can see it in her eyes, and in her chin. A Ruthven stands before us, by all that is holy."

Lord Lockhart's light, penetrating gaze shifted to her. "Correct the man if he is wrong," he demanded, striding toward her. He unceremoniously gripped her ankle and yanked her from her horse, imprisoning her in the hook of his arms before she could tumble to the ground.

Rhiannon caught her breath and stared up at him.

"Explain yourself." He pulled her against the hard contours of his body. His eyes demanded her full attention, insisted on the truth. She was only dimly aware that the others had closed in around them as though protecting their master from a threat. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. He held her too close, demanded too much.

"Are you suddenly mute? Or does your silence damn you?" he asked, his voice cracking with anger.

Rhiannon jerked out of his grasp. She took several halting steps back, creating some distance from him, but she still felt penned in by the others.

"I am Rhiannon Ruthven."

Lord Lockhart stared at her for a long, taut moment. Bewilderment flared in the depth of his gaze. "A female Ruthven?"

Rhiannon straightened beneath his regard. "The last."

"But a Ruthven nevertheless."

She tightened her jaw, prepared for the onslaught of insults certain to follow.

"The abbess knew who you were, and still she entrusted you with Lady Violet's care?" His voice was low and deceptively silky.

"Not all people judge others by their name alone."

He seized her arm and pulled her tight against him once more.

She gasped and tried to break free, but to no avail.

"Some people deserve such judgment." He yanked her across the courtyard. His people scattered as he approached, then fell in behind him, their curiosity evident.

They came to a halt in the churchyard, before several freshly turned graves. He released her for a moment and drew the sword from his back.

Rhiannon flinched back as he drove the blade not into her, but into the ground at her feet. "Is that your family's crest upon that sword?"

She swallowed roughly as she recognized her father's sword. "Aye."

"Dougall Ruthven. Who is he to you?"

"My oldest brother."

"All of these men died at the hands of your kin." Before the horrific image could sink into her soul, he grasped her arm and jerked her to the right, to stand before the freshly turned soil of another grave. Beside that grave lay a body, wrapped in sheets of linen.

He pulled her down to her knees beside the concealed body. "I have every right to judge you, and any Ruthven, by name alone when it is your family who has murdered my own." Kneeling beside her, he grasped her chin, forcing her gaze to the fresh grave. "My brother was disemboweled by your kin."

Hot tears sprang to Rhiannon's eyes.

"And this," he said, forcing her chin toward the wrapped body. With his free hand, he pulled back the white cloth to reveal the even whiter face of a female whose face was frozen as though in a mask of pain bored into her own, accusing her, damning her, as Lord Lockhart did. "This is my sister-in-law, Lady Violet's mother, who was left unprotected because of your kin's actions. In the absence of anyone to defend her, she was charged with witchcraft and hanged."

Rhiannon squeezed her eyes shut, blocking the sight of such horror from her vision, but the images would stay with her always. The pain and desperation she could hear in Lord Lockhart's words would haunt her all of her days.

And his treatment of her… A sob escaped her. Would she never be free of abuse? Her father? Her brothers? This man? "Milord, I am sorry for your loss." She brought her gaze back to his. His face hardened to a mask of freezing rage.

Beneath the chill of his scrutiny, Rhiannon continued. "That my kin had any part in either of their deaths grieves me most desperately." On limbs that trembled violently she stood, praying her legs would support her. "But I am not my family, milord." She nearly crumpled to the ground once more at the hatred mirrored in his eyes.

"Regardless of my name, I have been appointed as Lady Violet's nursemaid by Mother Agnes. Until a suitable replacement can be found, I must remain with my charge as instructed by the abbess."

His contemptuous gaze raked her.

"That girl has already lost everything. Don't take me away from her as well." With all the courage she could muster, Rhiannon straightened and met his hard gaze. "Hate me, milord. Despise my family, but don't make Lady Violet suffer for it."

His jaw clenched in anger, Camden watched the woman stride away, her head held high, toward his keep. He could force her to go. Even if the abbess had designated her as Violet's governess, he was the child's uncle. His gaze dipped to Clara's pale, delicate face frozen in death. He was Violet's guardian. And, with a final glance at James' freshly turned grave, he reminded himself that he was also the leader of the Lockhart clan.

Camden sought out Orrin in the crowd around the graves. "Get the men to dig a grave for Lady Lockhart. Call me when you are done. It will be dark soon."

"What about the woman?" Orrin asked.

A Ruthven female? He'd had no idea any daughters had been born to Malcolm Ruthven. Or he never would have given the order that sentenced her to death. "What have I done?" His words jolted him into action. "Secure the portcullis and close the gates. No one enters without my permission," he instructed the gatekeeper. "Double the guards at their posts."

The grinding of the iron chains filled the air as the heavy portcullis slipped back into place. When the heavy doors closed a moment later, relief surged though Camden. Yet even with the castle secure, unease settled in the pit of his stomach.

Camden had sentenced all the Ruthvens to death.
All of them
. And if the attack on the ridge told him anything, it was that the assassin he'd hired knew more about the Ruthven family than he himself did.

A woman?
With a curse, Camden ran a hand through his hair. He had never considered the possibility.

Camden found her in the great hall next to the hearth. Rhiannon stood off to the side, staring into the flames while the others went about their evening duties. She twisted in her hands the lace cap she'd worn earlier. Thick, luxurious waves of gold cascaded across her shoulders — shoulders that dipped with the weight of her burdens. She looked as vulnerable as a child. All of her previous bravado had vanished.

In the moments since he'd discovered who she was, his temper had cooled. An inexplicable irritation took its place. He was partly to blame for how discomfited she appeared now. He shouldn't have thrust James's and Clara's deaths in her face. Simply being a Ruthven didn't mean that she'd killed them.

Even so, it was difficult to accept that his enemy's spawn stood before his hearth. He balled his fists, fighting his own revulsion.

She cast a glance sideways and he could see by the redness surrounding her eyes that she'd been crying.

She looked away. "I must apologize. I had no right to talk to you that way. You are lord and master here, and regardless of what Mother Agnes has said, you are in charge of your niece. I shall leave immediately."