Chapter Two

G arrick's mind was filled with fragments of the strange visit from one of Sedgeworth's stable lads and more recently, his midnight encounter with the stubborn woman who insisted she could help him free his brother.

The urgency behind her words could not be denied, but he wasn't about to let a mere woman dictate the course of action he would take.

His gut told him Roderick was in trouble. Grave trouble. His mind raced. Could he risk the life of another of his family, entrusting his brother's life to the whims of a woman? No. The price was too dear .

His boot heels echoed on the hardwood floor as he strode into the near-empty hall. Gertie had left a pitcher of ale and a loaf of dark brown bread on the table for him. The gesture made him smile.

She still thinks I'm a green lad, hungry at all hours of the night .

"Dunstan!" he shouted loud enough to be heard across the bailey where he'd last seen his brother.

While he waited for his brother to show himself, he poured a flagon of dark ale, watching the doorway. His brother should have heard his call. His stomach rumbled. Hungry, he broke off a hunk of still-warm bread. Placing it in his mouth, he slowly chewed and swallowed.

A few moments later, he was still waiting. Sighing, he lifted his ale and sat down. "Never around when I need him," he grumbled into his drink. "Probably got his head stuck in the keep's accounts." His drink was half gone before he heard footsteps descending the stair.

"You bellowed, brother?" Dunstan asked, entering the hall.

"Aye, we've a problem—Roderick."

Dunstan grabbed the loaf of bread. "What's the lad done this time?" Ripping off a large chunk, he popped into his mouth, straddled the bench, and sat down.

"If I heard a'right, he is to pay the piper this time."

"Was he caught with Lady Gwendolyn again?"

Garrick shook his head.

Dunstan slapped the heel of his hand to his forehead in mock disbelief. "Can our brother not find a woman of his own? Must he insist on sharing other men's wives?"

"Our brother has a healthy appetite," Garrick replied, "one that may cost him his life."

"Go on," Dunstan urged.

"He's being held captive at Sedgeworth Keep."

The brothers locked gazes. No other words were spoken, but each knew the other was thinking about the rumors running rampant through their keep and the surrounding area.

"How did you hear?"

Garrick rubbed his index finger across his forehead with enough force to leave a dark red smudge behind. "'Tis the one part of the puzzle that does not fit."

Dunstan waited.

"First a stable lad, then one of Roderick's women—"

"Married, titled, or serving wench?"

"I'm not certain, it was too dark to tell." Garrick paused, trying to remember. "But she spoke like a lady, in soft cultured tones."

Unable to sit still any longer, he braced his hands on the table, pushed back and stood up. The movement helped; at least he was doing something. Walking over to the brazier, he stared into the remains of an earlier fire. "If he's at Sedgeworth," Dunstan said, "there is no time to wonder which woman."

Garrick turned around to face his brother. Their eyes met and held; and he knew his brother understood what he was thinking.

They spoke at the same time, "The Lord of Sedgeworth is not to be trusted."

Garrick nodded. "We may need help getting into the keep."

Dunstan squared his shoulders as if ready for action. "I know of a knight who feels as we do about Owen. But I warn you, we may not be able to convince him to aid our cause."

"What is his name?"

"MacInness."

"A Scot?" Garrick hadn't expected to enlist anyone's help, let alone that of a Scotsman.

His brother nodded. "A mercenary with skills enough to match your own."

Emotions battled within Garrick as he fought to choose the right words, "Not everyone can wield a blade." Looking up he met his brother's direct gaze. "Some are more content counting barrels of grain and salted meat, brother. Our people would starve without someone keeping track of our stores."

He wished he could tell his brother how proud he was of Dunstan's ability to keep track of which field to plant, which grain needed to be resupplied, but had learned to keep his own counsel after their father died.

'Twas his fault their father was dead.

Unaware of the turmoil rioting within Garrick, Dunstan grinned. "'Tis the truth, you've no stomach for the task."

Garrick set aside his dark thoughts and concentrated on the problem at hand.

When he didn't speak Dunstan prodded, "You have a plan?"

"Aye," Garrick bit out. "Marriage."

His brother accepted his words without question; they had had this conversation before. "Beatrice is the one, then?" Dunstan asked.

"Nay." Garrick was sorry he'd not have the chance to offer marriage to the wealthy heiress his brother referred to. She'd be the perfect choice. "I've yet to offer for her."

"Then who?"

"If we cannot breach Sedgeworth's walls," Garrick said, "I must try to convince the lass to ask me again."

"Again? Which lass? Who asked?"

"Her name is Jillian."

Dunstan scrubbed his hands over his face. "Who is she?"

"The one who brought news of Roderick's capture."

"But I thought the stable lad told you," Dunstan said.

"We shall talk later."

The brothers walked to the doorway. Dunstan stopped before going through, placing a hand on his brother's arm. "What of your plans for Beatrice? Did you not love her then?"

"What has love got to do with marriage?" Garrick hated the thought of spending his life with a woman he had yet to meet, but he'd been prepared to offer for Beatrice. He'd simply switch intended brides. After all, the only thing he knew about Beatrice was the sum total of her dowry.

"It makes the marriage bed—"

"Not important." Garrick glared at his brother. "Marriage is a simple agreement," he said. "A merging of households and land. Mayhap a promise of protection."

Dunstan stared at him expectantly, but Garrick could not bring himself to confide the underlying reason he pushed to rebuild Merewood Keep and for marriage to the wealthy heiress.

He never would tell Dunstan. Besides, the curtain wall was almost complete. I have to finish .

"'Tis not my goal to rebuild," Dunstan interrupted Garrick's thoughts as if they'd been had spoken aloud. "Nor is it my plan to marry some faceless lady. What if she is the size of a cow? What if she has the face of a hag?"

Dunstan's words hit home, with alarming accuracy. But Garrick had already asked himself those questions. "You worry like an old woman."

As they walked through the doorway and outside, Garrick added, "We've strength and cunning enough to breach the walls of Sedgeworth Keep."

Dunstan's face showed his concern. "Garrick—"

"Leave it." He couldn't let anyone or anything sway him from his noble cause. "We must find MacInness."

*

Garrick nudged his horse closer to his brother's mount and asked, "You are certain he will help?"

His brother grunted, "He has no liking for his overlord."

"Why does he pledge allegiance to Owen?"

"MacInness is a mercenary. He serves his forty days, collects his gold, and moves on. I'm certain we can come up with the coin to convince him to aid our cause."

A drizzle of rain softened the dirt on the road before them, muffling the sounds of their approach. The lateness of the hour cloaked them in velvety darkness.

"Why should we trust him?"

Dunstan's sigh was heartfelt, "Because we have to."

All will be well, Garrick tried to convince himself. Now if the damned Scot would agree to help…

He followed his brother to the wattle and daub hut at the edge of the wood. Dunstan dismounted first and strode to the door. Coarse laughter and crude suggestions reached their ears.

Dunstan turned back and grinned at him. "I'd like to see that one tried."

Garrick shook his head. "'Tis the mead talking," he said quietly. "'Tis not possible to—"

Dunstan nearly choked on his laughter, "Nay?" Shaking his head, he knocked twice before opening the door. The sounds of revelry immediately died away.

"MacInness," he called out.

"Aye," a deep voice answered back.

Garrick saw a redheaded man rise up from a bench by the far wall and begin to make his way across the crowded room toward them. Fighting the urge to wade through the crowd and meet the man halfway, he stood beside Dunstan and waited until the man stood in front of them.

Dunstan nodded at him. "MacInness." Turning back to his brother, and as an introduction, mumbled, "Garrick."

The two men greeted one another warily while the room grew quiet. Garrick noted MacInness was not the only warrior present. He glared at the group closest to them, satisfied when they quickly lost interest and went back to their pitchers of mead and ale.

The Scot was half a head taller and wider through the chest and shoulders than himself. Few men were. Searching the man's face for a clue to his thoughts, Garrick was more than satisfied when MacInness's eyes gave nothing away.

Garrick found his first smile. God's teeth, the warrior impressed him.

"We need your help," Dunstan said simply.

MacInness nodded and led the way outside, crossing the yard toward the stable. "Ye've come aboot yer brother."

"Aye," Dunstan agreed.

Garrick was impressed the man already knew the situation they faced. He may be the right choice after all. "Can you get us inside the keep?"

The Scot scratched his shaggy head and answered, "Aye, but I canna get ye in to where they've got yer brother. I dinna have the keys. ?'Twould take a batterin' ram or a miracle to open that door."

Garrick thought of the midnight woman and her offer, the one with the hefty strings attached, and whispered her name, "Jillian."

"Do you ken the lassie?"

"We've met."

"She could help ye if she's of a mind," MacInness said, "but I canna ask her. Lady Jillian's suffered enough."

"Lady?" Garrick's voice strangled out the word. So her voice matched her station in life.

"Aye, she is ward to Owen. Before the Normans came into power, she was an heiress in her own right."

More and more pieces of the puzzle that surrounded Jillian fell into place. "She offered to help."

"Weel now, 'tis her choice," MacInness said slowly. "Ye'll no' be sorry."

Garrick cleared his throat. "I turned her down."

"Are ye daft, mon?"

"Nay, but I didn't think I would need her."

MacInness scowled at him. "Ye do. Dunstan, go to the third hut down, the one badly in need of a thatchin'. Tell the mistress we need Stephan to get a message to the lass."

"Aye." Dunstan met Garrick's questioning look with a shrug before hurrying off into the night.

Garrick turned back to the Scot. "How can you keep the guard from skewering us with their arrows?"

"Didna yer brother tell ye aboot my Irish Contingent?"

Garrick shook his head. He couldn't put into words exactly what it was about the warrior, but his gut said to trust him.

"Wait here," MacInness ordered.

Stunned by the quiet force behind the command, Garrick did just that. Before he could mull over his instinctive reaction to obey, the man returned with a flagon in each hand.

MacInness smiled. "We canna talk wi'out a wee bit o' mead." He motioned toward a fallen log and sat down.

Garrick hesitated; not taking the mead, his overwhelming need to find and free his brother ate at him. "I don't have time."

"Aye, ye do," MacInness said pleasantly. "Let me tell ye aboot my men."

"Your men? But I thought they were Owen's."

"Oh, aye." the Scot grinned then drank deeply. "He thinks so, too." He licked his lips, "Ahh… eases the throat."

"We're wasting precious time," Garrick bit out.

MacInness bent toward him and whispered, "Keep yer voice down, mon, or ye'll have the guard on us."

Defeated, Garrick knew he would have to wait until the damned Scot was ready to talk. He took the mug offered, downed a healthy gulp, and glared at the man.

When MacInness emptied his flagon, he started to talk. "I've four men I'd trust my life with, ye ken?"

Garrick understood and nodded.

"O'Malleys—two brothers, two cousins. They head up the reinforced guard atop the curtain wall."

The Scot was crafty.

"I dinna think Owen knows aboot the others though."

"Others?"

"I've recruited twenty others who've seen the kind of mon the Lord of Sedgeworth truly is. He's no' to be trusted. The mon has no honor."

Garrick had heard rumors about the Lord of Sedgeworth, but hearing one of Sedgeworth's men speak of them convinced him.

"What of Jillian?" Garrick asked. "What has she suffered?" He watched the now-silent warrior beside him closely and noticed MacInness chose his words with care.

"She's a bonny wee lass, a true lady, but—"

"But?" Garrick prompted.

"There're rumors the mistress beats her."

Garrick's blood ran cold at the thought. He half-rose before a meaty hand pulled him back onto the log.

"Think first, mon."

Recognizing the wisdom in the other man's words, Garrick settled back down. Raising the mug to his lips, he drank deeply.

"Tell me why she came to see ye." MacInness kept his voice pitched low.

As Garrick related the story, he remembered her scent vividly. Taking a deep breath to clear his head, he set the mug aside.

MacInness listened, nodding every once in a while, then told Garrick about Lady Jillian. By the time Dunstan returned, Garrick had a clearer picture of her life at Sedgeworth.

Garrick and MacInness stood together. "Well?"

"'Tis done," the younger man answered.

Garrick took MacInness's hand in his. "My word is my bond."

The burly Scot nodded. "Ye've mine as well."

*

The wind whipped the lone figure silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky. Jillian raised her face, welcoming the turbulence buffeting her. It more than matched the unease clawing at her from within. Garrick would come; he had to. His brother's life lay in the balance.

Young Stephan had roused her from a dead sleep just hours ago to tell her Garrick sent word he was ready to bargain.

What had changed his mind? He had been so sure he did not need her help he hadn't stayed to listen to the whole of her plan. Was he really willing to believe she was his only hope of freeing his brother in time?

If he kept his part of their bargain, would he gentle his warrior's strength on their wedding night, the way he'd brushed the hair from her eyes, or would his grip be bruising as it had been when he questioned her? Dear God—her scars! How would he react to the marks crisscrossing her shoulders and back?

She drew her black woolen cloak tighter . Too late to worry now . The plan had been put into action. Garrick was her only way out. He wouldn't change his mind again. Would he?

She paced the wooden platform running the length of the stone wall surrounding Sedgeworth Keep. She paused, desperate for a glimpse of him, but the empty horizon offered nothing. "He's late."

Gray clouds drifted together, while vibrant strokes of orange and pink slashed through the misty gray of morning.

She drew in a breath, she was not afraid. He'd given his word, he would come.

From within the keep, her guardian's voice exploded in anger, sending a jolt of fear through her.

"At least 'tis not my clumsiness he has endured this time." Three years spent serving the lord and lady of the keep had taught her to guard her tongue and mind her ways. But even that had not spared her from the wrath of her mistress; she had the scars to prove it. But it was the marks that could not be seen that bled slowly, draining the very spark of life from her.

If she did not get away soon, she'd die…on the inside… where the true Jillian still lived and breathed. She closed her eyes remembering running through Loughmoe's southern meadow, stopping to let her father catch up to her.

He'd lift her up and swing her around in a circle before setting her back down on the ground to teasingly scold her for soiling the hem of yet another gown.

"'Twould make your mother frown, Jillie lass," he'd say. He knew her all too well, knew how she hated to see her mother's pretty face do that. As their faces blurred into the mist of her memories, she vowed not to forget the lessons learned. They were all that she had left of her parents. "I won't forget you." Her voice broke, and she opened her eyes.

Roderick's imprisonment changed everything. Instead of having to face another year of humiliation and servitude, she had a chance to escape, to start her life over, mayhap as mistress of Merewood Keep. She had the skills; they were just a bit rusty.

Owen's voice rang out sharply followed by a resounding crash. A pang of kinship for the servant unlucky enough to incur the wrath of her guardian swept through her tumultuous thoughts.

Pulling the edges of her cloak tighter around her, she felt the work-roughened skin on her hands snag in the coarse fabric. Lifting her once-smooth hands to the early morning sunlight, she grimaced. They were no longer the hands of a lady.

What would Garrick think of them? Yet another imperfection; she had so many now. Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to cry. Her once graceful hands were no longer fit to strum a harp or sew fine linens. They were rough and clumsy. She was clumsy. Her mind mimicked the daily taunt she had learned to live with.

Jillian stiffened her spine, recalling with sadness the words her mother so often used: There is no shame in hard work. But where did one draw the line between honest work and servitude, duty, and blind obedience?

Her mother had not slaved on her knees for hours scrubbing the stains of food and dirt from the soiled linens of the temperamental Lord and Lady of Sedgeworth Keep. She had. In her heart she knew her mother would not have wished her daughter to either.

"'Twould never have been Father's wish to see us as servants to a man with no more honor than a goat!"

Us. The word stuck in her throat. They'd had only two short months before her mother had slipped away to join her father. She could almost hear the sound of her mother's bright laughter and her father's deep rumbling chuckle. Lord, she missed them.

The sudden glare of the sun intruded, reminding her of the hour and the events about to transpire. Events she had bargained with her life to alter.

Her gaze swept the horizon one last time. Sharp pain arrowed through her heart while a dull ache throbbed at her temples. There was no time left.

"God help us, his brother is as good as dead."

A flicker of movement off to the north caught her eye. Two mounted riders came into view. Garrick! She took the stairs down two-at-a-time, nearly pitching headfirst down the last few.

Behind her she heard the cry go up to open the gates. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Winslow MacInness and half a dozen men make short work of hefting the massive wooden bar that secured the gate. The immense structure creaked and groaned as it swung open and two grim-faced warriors spurred their lathered mounts past her, toward the lifeless form that swung from the hastily constructed gallows.