Chapter 8
Exhaustion weighing heavy on his mind, Aiden shook the farmer’s hand, the elder’s weathered face lined with grief but determination as well. “I thank you for your loyalty to Lady Gwendolyn. Move your family to safety. Stay hidden until the castle has been recaptured.”
“We will, my lord.” The man’s gaze softened as it shifted to Gwendolyn. “Take care, my lady. We are thankful, knowing you are protected by such a valiant warrior.”
Eyes dark with worry, she squeezed his hand, then stepped back. “Godspeed.”
Though her expression remained somber, Aiden caught the tremor of her lips.
The man climbed onto the wagon, sat, then snapped the reins. The swaybacked mare plodded toward the woods, the cart tethered behind her loaded to the brim.
“I pray they are safe,” Gwendolyn rasped.
Aiden moved to her side and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Away they have a chance. If they had remained, they would have died.”
“I know,” she said, anger sliding into her voice. “I canna believe Lord Comyn could ever trust the English.”
“Why?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.
“It isna important.”
Her upset over her liege lord ignited Aiden’s hope that he could sway her fealty to the Bruce. “I admitted earlier that I have had doubts concerning Lord Comyn’s decisions of late. It wasna as if your words will convince me otherwise.”
She slanted him a measuring look. “My concern with my liege lord arises due to his ties to King Edward I. England’s former sovereign proved himself over and again a ruler not to trust. From his declaring himself Scotland’s overlord after King Alexander’s death, to forcing John Balliol to abdicate the throne, and in his final push for power he went to great lengths to ensure Scotland was excommunicated.”
Indeed, Aiden silently agreed. A religious exclusion that had allowed King Robert to offer all Knights Templar within his realm impunity, a sanction that no doubt had England’s former king turning over in his grave.
“Edward of Caernarfon doesna have his father’s drive to conquer,” Aiden said.
“Mayhap,” she agreed, and withdrew her hand from his. “but he is still king, one who is susceptible to the influence of the powerful nobles advising him. As well, though King Edward I is dead, his father’s influence still lingers.” Rubbing her brow, Gwendolyn shook her head. “Forgive me; fatigue loosens my tongue. I rarely discuss my feelings on such topics.”
Her distrust of England’s monarchs pleased him, and he stifled the impulse to share his loyalty. The time would come, but ’twas too soon now. Stepping away, he lit the torches in the hearth, handed her one. “Let us finish.”
Lips pressed tight, she nodded.
Once they’d burned the crofter’s hut, they ran to the edge of the knee-high oats swaying in the breeze. Bitter remorse ripped through him as he set the fertile crops ablaze.
Sparks flared, caught on the sun-dried stems. A gust breathed life into the fire, nurturing the flames until it consumed the surrounding stalks and raced down the field with lethal intent.
Smoke churned into the sky as the blaze grew, devouring the fields that had held the promise of feeding the family for the winter, a promise lost against the need to keep the harvest from enemy hands.
Aiden cast his torch into the sweltering inferno and glanced back.
Soot smudging Gwendolyn’s cheeks, she trailed her tallow-dredged torch across a swath of oats. Flames consumed the leaves. Wiping away tears, she stumbled back, her face forlorn, her steps faltering.
Aiden took her torch, tossed the weapon of destruction into the field. Sparks ignited, then a wavering orange-red grew until only a vague outline remained. Thick clouds of smoke and soot billowed into the late afternoon sky as the fire destroyed all within its path, leaving naught but charred waste.
“I hate the English,” she rasped, her rough words dampened by tears. “Damn that Comyn made a pact with the bastards, an act I will never understand, or forgive.” Aiden drew her against him, damning the necessity of destroying this field, this home, along with the other crofters’ huts. “He is desperate,” he said, comprehending too well the decisions of such men, a desperation that had swayed France’s king to betray the Knights Templar, men who had protected him for years. “I pray Lord Comyn will one day learn that the Sassenach canna be trusted.”
On a sob, Gwendolyn looked skyward. The smoke-smeared rays of sunlight underscoring her dirt- and soot-streaked face, and the grief haunting her eyes.
“This is far from over,” he ground out. “We will reclaim Latharn Castle. That I promise!”
Eyes dark with fury met his. “Aye, we will.”
He clenched his hand to staunch the urge to sweep back the blond lock lying across her sweat-drenched cheek. Yes, by God, beneath the Bruce’s lead he would reclaim the stronghold for this courageous woman.
“We must leave. If the English havena seen the smoke from the fields by now, they will have discovered our absence.” Aiden gestured toward a depression on the far horizon, clogged with bushes and downed trees. “Though not deep, ’twill provide adequate cover as we depart.”
She nodded.
With long strides, he headed toward the ditch; she followed.
Hours later, though they had long since journeyed beyond the lands surrounding the castle, on foot they had far from traveled a safe distance. Mounted, the English could cover significant ground. Another day, mayhap two, then if they saw no sign of the English, he’d believe they’d escaped. Safe was another matter.
Lord Comyn’s men roamed the woods in search of the Bruce and his supporters. God help them if he and Gwendolyn were discovered. She might believe her lord’s men were honorable, but too often he’d seen warriors who, with the right incentive, strayed from morality. She was a beautiful woman, a fact that could lure warriors to make vile, lust-filled decisions.
Thunder rumbled overhead. A drop of rain hit his face, then another. Aiden glared at the swirl of angry clouds. God’s sword. A storm would complicate everything.
He looked back. Rain splattered the pale curve of her cheek, exhaustion rimmed her eyes, and loose tendrils of hair escaped her braid in disheveled tangles around her shoulders. “We will soon rest.”
“I am fine.” Gwendolyn stumbled over a wet clump of mud, belying her words.
Far from it, nor with her stubborn attitude would she admit such. In the murky light, Aiden scanned the rocky ground, the dark patches of terrain inundated with shadows. All offered some protection, but not enough to safeguard her. “As you are familiar with the land, is there a place close by where we can hide?”
“Aye, there is a waterfall with a hidden cave about two hours ahead.” Her hand trembled as she wiped her brow. “Except ’tis farther south and puts us too close to the Bruce.”
Thunder rumbled nearby.
The thrum of rain upon the leaves increased. A gust of wind swept past, and droplets splattered to the earth with a hard slap.
Blast it. However necessary to put more distance between them and the English, he couldn’t risk pushing her. “’Tis too far. We must find shelter before it begins to pour.” A jagged streak of light illuminated a copse of firs to their right. Thunder slammed in its wake.
He gestured toward the trees. “We will shelter there for the night.”
Gwendolyn gave a weary nod.
Soaked by the driving rain, Aiden slipped his hand around her upper arm, pulled her along with him over the rocky terrain, an overwhelming need to protect this woman burning through his veins.
She stumbled, fell against him. “Steady, lass,” he whispered. However much he cursed the weather, ’twould slow the English as well as wash away any telltale signs of their passing.
The fresh scent of fir filled the damp air as he shoved aside a large bough. “Climb under.” Gwendolyn crawled beneath and he followed, lowering the thick, bristled limb into place to shield them from the storm.
Another slash of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the roll of the land. A blast of thunder followed.
Her body shivered against his.
Aiden removed a blanket from his pack and draped it over her shoulders. “Better?”
“I-I thank you.”
The patter of rain melded with the howl of the wind as he scraped together the weathered needles below the limbs, shaping them into a soft, level mound.
“What are you doing?”
He wiped off his hands, spread the woven material atop the heap, and then sat back. “Making our stay more comfortable. Until the storm breaks, ’tis best to remain out of sight.”
“We have seen no sign of the English.”
Despite the hope in her voice, he refused to give her false assurances. “They are out there. After discovering us gone and the crofters’ huts and fields burned, they will suspect we have learned their true intention.” He spread another blanket atop the one covering the makeshift bed. “Climb under and try to sleep.”
Worried eyes held his. “What of you?”
Aiden scanned the murky, storm-fed surroundings. “I will keep guard.”
Needles crunched and the scent of pine lifted as she settled into place. She handed him the coverlet he’d placed over her shoulders. “Here, t-’twill offer you protection.”
“I thank you.” Her teeth chattered, and he frowned. With the storm intensifying and night quickly approaching, it had grown cold. She was drenched and clearly exhausted, a dangerous combination. With a beleaguered sigh, Aiden lifted the makeshift cover, removed his cape, and crawled in next to her.
She gasped. “W-what are you doing?”
Working to ignore her soft body pressed against his, he pulled the cover over them. “The heat of our bodies will keep us warm.”
Long seconds passed. She lay stiff against him. “I wish we could start a fire.”
“As I do. Even if we had dry tinder, given the circumstances, ’tis unwise.”
Lightning flashed overhead. Thunder boomed.
She jumped, and Aiden lay his hand on her shoulder. “’Tis naught but a storm.”
“Thunder always makes me nervous,” she whispered. Another blast shook the earth, and she caught his hand. On a sharp exhale, she released him. “You must think me foolish.”
“Nay.”
Another slash of lightning severed the blackened sky; thunder raged around them.
“When I was a child, my father would tell me stories to try to calm me.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “He would explain how knights battled in the heavens, the great sounds naught but the warriors’ broadswords’ clashing.”
He arched a brow. “An intriguing tale.”
“One of many,” she said, the hint of a smile in her words. “My favorite memories are of the walks my father and I would take along the shore. At the last moments of day, when the intricate maze of oranges, reds, and golds faded on the horizon, he would tell me stories of the fey. He explained that sunset was the most magical time of day.”
Moved by the love in her words, the tenderness, he swallowed hard. “They are wonderful memories.”
“They are. Now,” she replied, sadness edging her voice, “when the last rays of light flicker in the sky, I catch myself looking at the horizon and making a wish.” She paused, the steady sound of rain against the boughs a somber backdrop. “’Tis foolish, I know.”
“Nay. You are fortunate to have had such a loving father.”
“I-I miss him so much.”
Memories of his four sisters swam into his mind, their laughter, teasing, and that they were fortunate that, like Gwendolyn, he and his siblings had been raised with affection. “’Tis hard to lose those you love.”
She settled her head against his shoulder. “What of your father?”
A smile curved his mouth, the steady beat of her heart matching his. He stroked her damp hair. “He was a proud man, one with high expectations.”
“Those he shared with his son?”
“Aye,” he admitted. “He had plans laid out for me. Yet I chose a different path. You had nay brothers or sisters,” he said, shifting the discussion away from painful thoughts of his past. “It must have been lonely.”
She shrugged. “I had many friends within the castle. And my father would often take me with him on his travels.”
Intrigued, Aiden paused. “Your mother allowed you to go?”
“Aye.” She shifted, her warm breath caressing his skin. “Often, she would join us. Do you like to sail?”
“When I was young,” he replied, fighting back the crush of memories, the unbearable loss of a family he had loved.
For a moment, she remained silent, and then her hand rested over his chest, where his heartbeat thudded. “What happened to make you despise the sea?”
Wind howled as rain slashed against the branches. Lightning illuminated the sky and thunder shattered around them.
Water droplets slid down Aiden’s face, and his mind stumbled back to his twelfth summer, to the crash of waves slamming against the bow with merciless force, and his father’s shouts to his family to remain below. Not believing he would ever be harmed, Aiden had slipped away and climbed up the ladder.
A move he regretted to this day.
As he had stepped on the deck, the moans of the ship savaged by the sea merged with the screams of the passengers. The cog had plunged into the next trough. Terrified, he had clung to the ladder as water had rushed over the bow, ripping crates free as the turbulent force flooded the weathered planks.
On a demonic shriek, the ship had angled up. Massive waves of churning white crashed over the side, and several men who had fought to secure the cargo vanished.
Wind screamed past like the howl of death. Once again, the ship dove into the oncoming trough. The wall of water rushing down the deck tore him off the ladder.
He had opened his mouth to scream but gulped seawater instead. Helpless against the brutal flow, he’d been swept overboard. Tossed about in the storm-fed water, by sheer luck he had caught the edge of a plank.
In the darkness, he’d clung to the wood, prayed for help, for any sign of life. Hours had passed, and with each his hope that somehow the cog had survived, that his family had lived, faded. Exhausted, numb from the cold, sometime during the night he had been overcome.
Fractured memories poured through him of being hauled into a fishing vessel, of the sailors prying his fingers from the water soaked board. In those devastating moments, he’d learned that the ship had sunk.
Days had passed, and with them his hopes that his family had somehow escaped a watery death faded. In the end, naught was retrieved except wood strewn along the shore, one plank bearing the ship’s name.
Another burst of thunder jerked Aiden from the horrific images of his past. With a shaky hand, he wiped away the water streaming down his face and damned the memory, one he hadn’t allowed to surface in years.
“Bróccín?”
“Aye?” he rasped.
“What happened to cause you to despise the sea?” she repeated.
Despise? Too tame a word for his family, who had been torn from his life. A void he’d smothered beneath duty as a Templar, a loss he’d never meant to revisit. Except she’d made him think, made him remember, made him hurt.
“I simply tire of the days of seeing naught but the endless sea and sky,” he said, evading the truth. “I yearn to walk on land, to smell something as simple as the scent of grass on the breeze.”
She shifted her body to face him, her hand pillowed beneath her cheek. “Did you often accompany your father on his business travels?”
“Aye.” The simple answer, one she would expect. “I know you are exhausted. Try to sleep. I will let you know when ’tis time to go.”
“And what of you?” she asked on a yawn. “You are as tired as I.”
“Once we reach the cave and I have ensured nay one is about, I will rest.”
The distant rumble of thunder echoed, and she gave a slow exhale. “I should stay awake with you.”
He stroked her cheek, his fingers hesitating below her jaw, aching to lift her mouth to his. A mistake. “Go to sleep.” At her silence, he tucked the blanket tighter around them. The pounding of rain ebbed into a steady thrum and, however wrong, Aiden savored her presence. Another mistake; soon his time with Gwendolyn would end.
* * * *
The first rays of dawn cut through the murky sky as voices sounded nearby.
With a silent curse that he’d missed the Englishmen’s approach, Aiden pressed his finger over Gwendolyn’s mouth. “Dinna move,” he whispered. With stealth, he eased up, crouched behind the limb.
Her eyes widened, and she nodded.
Through the branches, thick fog clung to the land. Streams of dawn slipped through the sheen of white, crafting faint outlines of trees and rocks.
A horse whinnied.
He glanced toward the sound.
Hooves clattered upon rock, echoed in the eerie silence. Within the murky swirl, the vague outline of several knights rode into view.
His hand clasping his dagger, Aiden watched as the warriors searched their surroundings with slow efficiency.
“Do you think they have traveled this far?” one of the riders asked, his accent marking him as English.
“Aye,” the knight in the lead replied. “His grace believes they are headed to warn Lord Comyn.”
“We still do not know if they are traveling by horseback. If so, they could be leagues away.”
The leader halted his mount, his body shifting as he took in the landscape. “We will travel farther east. I had hoped to pick up their trail by now, but if they are on foot, last night’s storm has washed away any tracks.” He kicked his mount forward. “Nor will we give up. If the men ahead of us have seen no sign of their traveling through, I will have them circle back and retrace our steps while we continue on. Whatever it takes, Lord Balfour and his wife willna reach Lord Comyn.”
One by one, the Englishman disappeared into the thick fog.
Aiden turned back in time to see Gwendolyn shudder as she stared at the fog-tainted woods. He sheathed his knife. “We are safe.” For now. He glanced up. Clear skies hung above the thick shroud of white. “Once the sun begins to rise, the fog will clear.”
She scraped her teeth across her bottom lip. “We must reach Lord Comyn posthaste.”
“Aye, but ’tis safest to take a more southerly direction, one the English willna expect.”
“But that will place us closer to where the Bruce’s men are believed to be camped. Do you think ’tis wise to take such a risk?”
“I believe ’twill serve us best. While the duke’s men search for us, the Bruce willna be aware we are nearby.” At least not until Aiden led her into his camp. “Let us continue to the falls. They will provide adequate shelter this night.”
Gwendolyn’s eyes, filled with trust, held his; she nodded. “Then we can head northeast to Lord Comyn.”
“For now, ’tis crucial to put distance between us and the duke’s men.” Impatient to tell the Bruce of the English duke’s arrival and treacherous plan, he pushed aside the thick boughs that had kept them safe.
Her soft hand touched his arm. “Bróccín…”
Aiden turned.
* * * *
The fierce expression on her husband’s face had Gwendolyn lacing her fingers with his. “I wanted to thank you for last night,” she said, off balance at how this man made her feel, his gentleness hours before meaning more to her than he could imagine. “For your kindness.”
His mouth flattened into a frown. “I did naught but offer protection.”
A warrior, he’d view his actions as such. Yet he’d gone beyond the role of protector and had offered her comfort. Why was it that at every turn he wasn’t the man she believed him to be? The man she was coming to know cared and had a kind heart.
Before, she’d cursed Lord Comyn’s directive to wed the Earl of Balfour. Now, incredibly, for the first time in her life, she was deeply attracted to a man.
Shaken by the way he made her feel, by the desires he evoked, she stared up at her husband, unsure at which moment he had torn down her defenses.
When he offered his hand to help her up, she stood, deliberately pressed her body against his. Embraced by the thick fog, she lifted her gaze.
Green eyes held hers, darkened.
Fingers trembling, she raised her hand to his face, but he caught her wrist.
Bróccín slowly lowered her arm, but he did not let go. “Nay,” he whispered.
Nay? Her eyes narrowed, but she caught the unsteady pulse at the base of his neck. He wasn’t unaffected by her, so why was he pushing her away? Frustrated, she leaned closer.
He stepped back.
Heat washed her cheeks, and she struggled to pull away from him. “Let me go.”
“You dinna understand.”
The roughness of his voice had her narrowing her gaze. “Then tell me why you dinna want my touch?”
He swallowed hard and looked away, his face taut, as if he was fighting an inner demon.
Hurt, she pulled her hand free, stormed past him. “I see.” But she did not. “Come; ’tis unwise to linger.”