His Conquest (16 page)

Fear tore through Linet. “Why does my being Fulke’s sister matter?”

Silence.

“What?” she asked, her mind racing. “Do you think to use me against Fulke?” A brittle laugh stumbled from her lips. “I detest him.”

“My reasons matter not.”

They did, but Seathan would not reveal them to her. “And what of my escort to the Highlands?”

Green eyes narrowed. “My word to escort you to the Highlands was given to a woman whom I believed held secrets, but not one who wielded treachery.”

The arrogant oaf! “Treachery? And which of my actions spoke of treachery? I fulfilled my word and freed you from your foul cell, aided your escape from Breac Castle, and tended you when you could barely crawl.” She paused, fighting to control her temper. “If anyone has misjudged the other, it is I who believed you were a man of honor.”

“My decision is not up for debate.”

Linet angled her jaw in defiance. “Why? Because you are a man? Or,” she barreled on, damn the consequence, “because you are a powerful earl surrounded by a contingent of men who will obey your every wish. Wait, I know,” she rolled on, reckless with fury, “it is because I am half English. Yes, a damnable, horrific crime indeed.”

The arm around her waist drew her tight against his frame. His mouth paused a wisp from her ear, his action far from that of a lover. “Do nae try me further, unless you wish your mouth and hands bound, and to be carted on the rump of my steed as if a forgotten sack of oats.”

He had the brains of a mud-dipped hen! Linet opened her mouth to flay him as he desperately deserved, then stayed her words. However much he deserved a set down, if he bound her, it would end any chance of escape.

She forced herself to relax against him, satisfied as his body hardened against hers. Though he said he despised her, he could not deny he wanted her, a reality that must rub him raw.

In the distance, the soft thrum of hooves echoed through the woods.

Linet searched the moon-swept trees for the rider, the tension from Seathan’s body seeping into her own.

Seathan gave a soft whistle, withdrew his sword, and pulled his mount to a halt.

His men followed suit.

Tense seconds passed. The thrum of hoofbeats increased. As if crafted from magic, cast in the silvery wisps of moonlight, a lone rider, carefully weaving his way through the wash of trees, came into view.

“’Tis Latharn,” a knight whispered.

“Aye,” Seathan said, relaxing behind her.

Moments later, a stocky knight pulled up before Seathan. “My lord, Tearlach’s men are camped beyond the craig.”

“Less than a half-day’s ride.” He paused. “How many?”

“At least fifty, my lord.”

“Is the viscount with them?”

Linet heard the muted fury in Seathan’s voice, anger he fought to control. The thought of seeing her brother did not please her either. She would rather face a rabid wolf.

“Nay, my lord,” Latharn replied. “I saw no sign of Lord Tearlach.”

Seathan turned his horse to face his men. “We will ride north until dawn.”

“Aye, my lord.” His master-at-arms rode through the men, passing along the order.

Seathan shuffled through a pouch. Without warning, he secured a gag over her mouth.

Linet reached up, caught hold of the woven cloth.

He clasped her wrist, drew her arm to her side. “I will not allow you a chance to scream. Try to remove the gag again,” he said in a fierce whisper, “and your hands will be bound as well.”

Never would she expose Seathan to Fulke, but ’twould seem he hesitated to believe her. Fine, then, let him think he’d won. If he was fool enough to think she would obey him, he deserved to awaken and find her gone.

Frustrated, tired of sparring with a man who would exhaust a saint, she closed her eyes, and fought to ignore the task of wool upon her tongue. She tried to rest, to wipe thoughts of him from her mind, but as Seathan guided his men north, away from any chance of being sighted by her brother or his men, sadness built inside to a steady ache.

She wished it possible to turn back time to when they had arrived at Lochshire Castle. Once she’d ensured Seathan was within the care of his family, she should have left. She’d known Nichola would eventually remember her.

But she had remained, had foolishly allowed her emotions to guide her. However much Lord Grey despised her now, for a moment within the tower, she’d tasted the man, his wants, his desires, needs that had matched her own.

Her heart aching, she focused on the night, on the soft whisper of her breaths as they made a counterpoint to the thrum of hooves around her. But with every inhale, every hoofbeat upon the pine-and leaf-strewn earth, she wanted him more.

Linet pressed her eyes shut, willed sleep to come, mindless hours filled with naught but rest. Even as weariness swept over her, doubts persevered that she would find any reprieve this night.

Rain, iced with the last taste of winter, battered Seathan’s face as he guided his mount through the woods. Thick, low clouds blocked any hint of the sun. A sheen of mist clung to his lashes as the fog before him smeared the weather-torn landscape.

In the murky gloom of morning, he took in the slender woman draped in the blanket before him. Though Linet now dozed, from her restless shifting throughout the night, she’d slept little. When he’d lifted the cloak to check on her, she’d feigned sleep. A man well versed in reading a person’s actions, he’d seen through her attempt. Once convinced she’d fallen into a deeper sleep, he’d removed the gag.

If he had not gagged her last night, would she have called for help? A part of him believed she would never expose them. But however much he wanted to have faith in Linet, with his men at his side, he refused to take the risk.

Tiredness swept through him. He wiped his eyes, then studied their surroundings. After pushing his men throughout the night, he needed to find a place to break for camp.

They crested the next knoll. Wrapped within the thick layer of mist, a dense copse of firs spread out before him. Unease crept through him as if an ill-fed wind.

With his pulse racing, he scoured the stand of trees, looking for any sign of men, anything to warn of danger, but he saw naught more than shadows.

He lifted the reins to urge his horse forward, and then lowered his hand. God’s teeth, why was he hesitating? Tearlach’s men lay hours behind them. The fog and the dense copse of trees would provide excellent cover to shield his men while they rested, a respite they sorely needed. Naught but tiredness spawned the worries in his mind.

Seathan motioned toward the dense firs. “We will break camp ahead.”

Tired faces nodded in agreement.

Pride filled him. Though exhausted, his knights persevered without a grumble. Unlike the bloody English, who surrendered when faced with the first adversity, like dogs with their tales between their legs.

A breeze stirred around him, laced with the heavy scent of earth and winter-decayed foliage. He guided his mount down the steep slope, holding Linet secure against his chest. Her face was angelic in sleep, and he found it easy to linger upon the sweep of her lashes, the soft, full curve of her lips.

If her deception had not stood between them, he would have claimed her in his bed, enjoyed making love with her. Irritated by his weakness when it came to her, he turned his focus to the task at hand.

As they neared the stand of trees, he guided his steed into the circle of the sturdy pines.

Needled limbs trembled beneath the flutter of the wind.

Seathan reined in his mount and raised his hand; his men halted. The unease he’d sensed on the knoll returned, this time stronger. He scanned the forest ahead, the wall of trees on either side, listening for any sign of another presence.

Wings flapped. A hawk flew from the thick wave of green, its massive wings spread. The predator’s shadow rippled across the ground with steady grace before the majestic bird disappeared from sight.

Seconds passed. Naught more filled the air but the breeze.

Linet shifted before him. With her amber-gold air teased by the wind, she looked like a bedraggled fairy awakening from a spell.

He frowned, irritated by his compassion. After the painful lesson with Iuliana, he was well aware how innocence could be feigned.

“What is wrong?” Linet whispered.

Turning his focus on the forest, he blew out a deep breath. Wrong? That was the problem—he wasn’t sure. After the hours of hard travel, he should be ordering his men to break camp. Yet…

“My lord,” his master-at-arms asked, “are we to dismount here?”

Seathan yielded to his intuition, instinct that had saved him many times in the past. He shook his head. “Turn the men around. We will travel farther north.”

“Aye, my lord.” The master-at-arms passed out orders. In moments they were retracing their path.

As Seathan guided his steed toward the break in the trees, the overwhelming sense of foreboding increased.

“Why did we not make camp?” Uncertainty crept into Linet’s voice, as if she, too, sensed something amiss.

“I—”

Shouts avalanched through the silence, harsh cries tangled with fury. Mail-clad men, hidden behind the dense trees, charged into the opening, swords drawn.

Leather scraped as Seathan withdrew his sword. “To arms!” His shout melded into the first clash of steel. “Hold on,” he ordered Linet. He wheeled his steed, charged the nearest aggressor, driving his blade into Tearlach’s colors emblazoned upon the man’s surcoat.

Shock streaked the knight’s face. He staggered back, red staining the sturdy iron rings of mail.

Linet gasped.

Bedamned! He wished to spare her the horrors of battle, but there was no helping it now. “Hang on!” Seathan turned and met the next aggressor’s attack with the slash of his blade.

The knight’s sword fell, but he ducked then retrieved a dagger.

Before he could throw the knife, Seathan slid his sword across the man’s throat.

Lifeblood spurted. The warrior dropped to the ground with a helpless gurgle.

Another warrior charged him.

Sweat streamed down Seathan’s face as he pressed through the melee, Linet gripping his arm.

Another knight rushed him from his flank.

Seathan turned, met the swing of the attacker’s blade with his own. His hand shook with the impact.

The man swung again, missed.

Linet screamed.

“Steady, lass.” How could she not be terrified?

“To the left,” she yelled.

He glanced to his other side.

Another warrior was charging toward them.

Seathan shoved his closest attacker back, kicked his mount forward, and drove his sword deep into the man’s chest. Yanking his blade free, he whirled his mount, charged, and finished off the other knight struggling to his feet.

Seconds stumbled past as if hours, each one tainted by the screams, the screech of steel, and the stench of death. Around him, blood stained the earth as if a melancholy rain.

As his next attacker fell beneath his blade, Seathan took stock of his men. His knights were pushing Tearlach’s men back. From the corner of his eye, he caught several of the bastard’s men scrambling for the trees.

“They are retreating,” Seathan yelled.

Cheers arose from his men. They fought harder. The sense of victory filled the air.

Seathan battled on, refusing to lower his guard, Linet clinging to him and shaking uncontrollably as he dealt with his next aggressor, then pushed forward.

Tearlach’s knights continued to lose ground. At last, with their numbers severely diminished, the viscount’s men fled.

“Do not allow them to escape,” Seathan ordered. His knights gave chase, disappearing into the forest.

Heart pounding, he dragged in several deep breaths. The thrill of victory faded as he scanned the break within the trees filled moments before with battle. Several of his men lay injured, others were sprawled upon the ground unmoving. Though they’d won, the cost of victory, as with every meeting of the blades, was high.

Linet trembled in his arms.

“’Tis fine, lass, the fighting is over.” But not the cost. As always, the loss of his men would haunt him. And now, she, too, would carry images of the carnage.

Those severely injured would be taken back to Lochshire Castle. It would weaken his force, but he refused to allow men who’d fought so bravely to die.

With a soft groan, she slumped against him.

“Linet.”

Silence.

Seathan glanced down, stilled. A smear of blood coated her arm. Stunned, he checked his limbs. He did not remember being cut.

Panic lanced him. “Linet?”

A moan fell from her lips.

His heart slammed against his chest. Gently, he turned her, pushed away the blanket.

Her skin was pale as sun-bleached cloth, her eyes dazed as she met his. “I—” She began to violently shake, then her eyes rolled back. She fainted.

God in heaven! “Post guards!” Seathan ordered to several men who had returned. “Everyone else, tend to the wounded.” He swung to the ground, looked up, and caught sight of the gash across the opposite side of her head. Guilt tore through him as he remembered the attacker who’d swung and missed.

Except, he hadn’t. Her scream had not been from fear, but pain. Christ’s blade, the lass had taken the blow meant for him.

He slid his thumb across her cheek. “Linet, look at me.”

Weakly she opened her eyes. “Leave me alone.”

Her pain-roughened words struck like an arrow to the heart. Damn him, ’twas his duty to protect her. “I am going to lift you down.”

“No…” She dragged in a ragged breath. “I—”

With his hand supporting her, he dismounted, then lifted her to the ground.

She cried out.

“Steady, lass.”

“My lord?” a knight said as he rushed over.

Seathan nodded to his man. “Bring me water, quickly.”

His knight hurried off.

Bedamned, though his knights chased those who fled, more of Tearlach’s men might be nearby. If the echoes of battle reached them, the viscount’s men would ride toward them posthaste. Neither could he dismiss the additional threat if but one of Tearlach’s men reached their lord.