Chapter 11

The Bailey was awash with horses, men shouting, and the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles—enough noise to send Brodwyn running frae the solar and down the manor house stairs in her soft slippers and outside with nae heed for the rough cobbles underfoot. “What has happened, are the Scots attacking?” she begged of Sir Charles St Clair, sitting proud and tall, all in black frae his gleaming stallion to his tunic and feathered hunting cap. All fit the dark aura he carried about him. She had thought Harald threatening but controllable, yet this man? She looked into his cold eyes and sensed danger and felt pity for Melinda, of a surety she was why Henry La Mont had brought St Clair to Wolfsdale.

“No, mistress. Lady Melinda’s horse has bolted with her, startled by an owl flying at its face. Her woman returned to raise the alarm and has gone to look after the twins, while we...” With a flourish of his hand he indicated Henry. “Let me just say I have no intention of losing a wife before I’ve even wed her.” Sir Charles slid a lethal smile in her direction. She had nae doubt that though so young he had seen and done much that would shrivel the scrotum of most Scots. Once more she found it in her heart to pity Melinda. For all she was a mother, she was young, na?ve, without a skerrick of Brodwyn’s experiences since leaving Cragenlaw. She had fled the castle, certain that her cousin Astrid would die in childbirth, and from then until the day Henry rode into this very Bailey at Wolfsdale ahead of her on the pretext of her being his daughter’s companion, her ability to wonder at anything she saw had gradually disappeared.

The question now was, what happened to her if Melinda married St Clair or had been thrown from her palfrey and died?

She stood on the steps and watched until the last horse passed through the gates, and the last she saw of them was the flick of a horse’s sandy coloured tail. Henry hadn’t even spared her a look as he left Wolfsdale at the head of his men.

The sigh that left her lips was long and low, rising up frae the tips of her damaged slippers to her mouth. When Henry returned, simply satisfying his needs in bed wouldn’t be enough. Now she must entice him, make him crave what she had to offer, she decided, running her tongue across her lips in anticipation, certain that at last she could enjoy their encounters without Melinda’s contemptuous looks and no longer be required to pretend to be Henry’s daughter’s companion.

She was in a wagon, that much was obvious, and by rolling about, Melinda managed to loosen the length of cloth enough to breathe fresher air, though she was still unable to see aught. More difficult to come to terms with, she had actually fallen asleep, exhausted by hours of sobbing. Her engorged breasts hurt and the skin beneath her eyes felt raw and stiff from the tears that had dried there as well as on her eyelashes, making it painful to blink.

When Melinda had ridden into the forest with Becky, she had been certain that since her father had gone hunting with Sir Charles, he would never know they had gone. The possibility of being abducted by gypsies had never entered her mind. No, she had been too caught up in solving her personal cares and fears for the future. Now it appeared she would be fortunate if she still had a future.

A lone sob caught in her throat, and she shuddered. Was this how Rob had felt waiting for his father to pay his ransom?

Falling in love with Rob had happened in a rush. At last she had truly felt like a woman grown—a youthful misconception. Na?ve, she had tumbled head over heels into an amusing game, caught up in the heady romance of first love, one that had ushered in her coming-of-age. Mayhap if she’d had a mother to demonstrate the true meaning of love and commitment—the giving of oneself body and soul to another—she wouldn’t have been so quick to leap.

She had been too young to even remember what Ester looked like. Before Brodwyn arrived, her father had always seemed a cold, uncaring man she couldn’t imagine loving anyone. All that still resided in her memory of her parents’ marriage was the sound of a soft voice singing sweetly in her ear. She clung to that, afraid to lose the one fragile silken thread left of her mother from her childhood. A remembrance her sons would be fortunate to share—Harry, mayhap, but Ralf, not?

Had she held him even once since his ghastly entry into this world? She expected that, for him, his birth had come as a moment of exquisite relief while, as his mother, she had cursed him for the pain and fear of those hours—him and his father. She had cursed them both.

Now she would be fortunate to see them again, her darling Harry and the babe who had almost taken her life. She had screamed as he struggled to be born and screamed again as the blood spilled frae betwixt her thighs while her maid called for a priest to give the last rites. Thank the Lord the midwife hadn’t given up so readily.

What a waste for God to have saved her life then to now fritter it away on a few gypsies. If they thought to bargain for a ransom frae her father, she was left with nae certainty that his response would be aught but disappointing. Henry La Mont had never been what one might call a loving father, and what need had he of a disobedient daughter when he had both her sons for his heirs.

Her bones jarred as the wagon hit another pothole. It felt as if they had been travelling forever, for who could say how long she had lain here in a stupor? Where were they taking her?

Would this journey end with her alive or dead?

“Ye’re nearly home, lad,” Rob murmured to the warm bundle of flesh and blood strapped close to his heart, his son. He’d never been told he’d feel such unreserved love at first glance—he had to admit that with Melinda it had been second glance. That didnae mean he hadn’t fallen hip deep in love with her at that glance.

They had stopped twice along the way to feed the bairns. Rowena had stayed with Becky while the bairns drank their fill. Becky hinted that Melinda might be sore, her breasts full of milk, yet there was naught he could do about that until they caught up with the wagon. He and Nhaimeth waited; filling their flasks frae a nearby burn, clean, with a tang of iron that reminded him of the braw taste of water flowing near Cragenlaw. As they drank, Rob’s breathing slowed, his body relaxing as he pictured his father’s face when he brought his sons into Cragenlaw.

They would cross the Border in darkness with Melinda and Guaril and the other members of the gypsy clan travelling ahead of them, but more slowly, and by morning they would catch up with them. He could hardly wait to see Melinda, see her face—her smile.

Within two days they would reach Cragenlaw, and everything would be new again—a wife a family, a life. He couldn’t wait.