Chapter Five

"J illian!"

"Hmmm?" she murmured before drifting away again. Back to Loughmoe and her mother's solar. The women had gathered to spin wool into fine threads. Mayhap tomorrow the weaving would begin. While their hands were busy, the women fretted over their children and complained of husbands.

"Jillian!"

The unearthly shrieking finally broke through her thoughts, and her hand stilled. Disoriented, she glanced worriedly about her, but she was in the stable, her one and only refuge from the prying eyes of her guardians.

Neither the lord nor his lady would dare to brave the earthy perfume that wafted through it on a warm day such as this. Satisfied that no one intruded upon her solitude, she let go of the breath she held.

"Ah, the melodious voice of my stepmother," she whispered. Stroking the sun-warmed neck of the day-old calf, she crooned, "Lady Haldana likes it not that I take so long at my chores. Shall I answer her summons, or shall I play at being deaf?"

The velvety muzzle of the little cow snuffled at Jillian's cheek leaving a fine sheen of moisture behind, evidence of its affection. Her sigh of resignation blew a faint puff of air against the calf's face. He blinked.

"Lady Jillian?" young Stephan's voice called softly a distance away.

Jillian sighed deeply. "I've been too long at the milking today if they've sent Stephen to look for me. Mayhap the lady of the keep needs a servant to collect fresh herbs for her linens, or someone to replace the rushes that lay at her sainted feet?"

"Milady?"

Stephan rounded the corner and stopped, "Oh! There ya are. Her ladyship's been bellowing for ya." He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. "Please come?"

"In a moment." She smiled, sending him on his way. Once he was gone, she kissed the fuzzy face nudging her. Thinking of the list of chores she'd yet to finish, she sighed. "I hope to be finished by the nooning hour and be back."

Unease skittered through her, thinking of the bargain she'd made with the warrior. She'd been able to deal with whatever Owen and Haldana did to her. "Mayhap 'tis better to stay here than to face the unknown."

Her mind raced along at a frightening speed. Garrick would free her from the life of servitude she led at Sedgeworth, but what of her life at Merewood? Her thoughts stopped abruptly. Wasn't Garrick's character unknown to her?

"Roderick speaks highly of him," she mused. "He treats his servants as well as his crofters, almost like family." He is a good man, she thought. Roderick would have no reason to lie about his brother, would he? Exaggerate mayhap? The unwelcome thought that Roderick had stretched the truth about his brother and his good deeds did nothing to reassure her.

One last loving stroke and she turned to go.

*

"But Owen, dearest, you said 'twas easy! Simply take them in and wait to annex their land!" Haldana's shrill voice had reached an ear-piercing crescendo, as she stamped her foot in anger. "Well? 'Nigh on three summers have come and gone and still Loughmoe Keep and all its fields lie fallow."

Jillian hid in the shadows immobilized by the brutal truth she had just overheard. Her heart began to pound in her breast as every muscle tensed in anticipation. The need to escape, to run away, overwhelmed her. But the realization she had nowhere to go had her sinking back against the wall.

"Send another missive to the king, Husband!" Haldana demanded. "Loughmoe Keep will be ours. I'll not have our daughters overshadowed by that half-Scots creature a moment longer than needs be."

Jillian slid further back around the screen at the rear of the hall. She fisted her hands tighter in the soft wool fabric of her worn chainse. The insults wrapped around the truth of Haldana's words, arrowed through her. Dear God, she and her mother had been used! Pawns in Owen's bid to take over their home. Had he known they escaped the Normans? Did he have them followed so that he knew when they were ready to give up hope of surviving the night so they'd eagerly accept his offer of help?

"Dear Father in Heaven," she rasped aloud. "Did he tell King William of our indefensibility?" Her head ached as it filled with dozens of questions. Questions she still had no answers for.

The last three years spent slaving for a man, who in all probability orchestrated the end of her former existence, rankled. She had served them without question, thinking she owed them her life, and had come to believe she should accept the punishment Lady Haldana meted out daily as her due. Had it all been part of a grander plan on Owen's part? A plan to gain her family's holding?

Raw emotion clawed its way up from deep within her. Feeling as if she would split in two from it, Jillian fought desperately for control. She breathed deeply; instinctively her lips formed the oft-said words. "Tell me again, Mother, do you still say 'tis God's will that guides our lives? Mayhap 'twas not His will that you follow Father to Heaven so soon after we found this new home?"

No words of love or compassion filled her heart. Her mother's voice was silent. It would be up to Jillian to face the lord and lady who spouted lies as smoothly as Winslow the Scot wielded his claymore. But it had always ended this way, her guardians would say one thing before others, and then in private, Haldana would beat her until she could not stand.

Jillian ran a hand through her hair, hopelessly tangling it. She could fix it later. Stepping from her sanctuary, she called out, "Lady Haldana!" Sinking into the expected deep curtsy, her braid slid across her shoulder in a wave of fire. Rising slowly with unconscious grace, she waited for the inevitable tirade.

It wasn't long in coming. If anything, her mistress was predictable to a fault. "You were overlong at the milking, what have you to say?"

"Milady, I—"

Haldana held up a be-ringed hand that showed no evidence of the harsh life of those that served her. "Be silent!" she ordered. "You have yet to complete the day's tasks I have given you, and we have guests for our midday meal. Go to the kitchen at once, your other duties can wait until later." Her eyes narrowed. "And you will finish them."

Forgetting to drop into the expected curtsy, Jillian mumbled a weak reply beneath her breath.

"You will address me with respect." Blue eyes flashed the split-second warning before Haldana's palm cracked against the tender skin on Jillian's cheek.

Taken aback for a second, Jillian saw the hatred in the other woman's eyes as she raised her hand to strike again. Jillian choked out, "Your pardon, milady." Head held high, she turned toward the open doorway, vowing not to give Haldana the satisfaction of seeing how deeply the blow affected her.

The cool morning breeze teased a strand of her auburn hair across the burning patch on her face. Too proud to surrender to the pain and give Haldana the edge she so thrived on, Jillian bent to grab her basket off the stone step and descended into the herb garden on her way to the kitchen.

Breathing deeply she caught the scent of sweet woodruff mingling with thyme and yarrow as the hem of her chainse brushed against the tender blooms, releasing their fragrance.

Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the warmth of the sun. Her mind drifted off on the faint breeze swirling around her, allowing her to escape all that was painful. Peace—she always found it here .

Totally absorbed in her daydreams, she didn't hear anyone approaching until a deep baritone voice called out to her.

"Lady Jillian?"

She tensed and whirled around to face the unknown intruder, but instead found herself looking up into the handsome face of her future husband. Lord, he was huge! His form, broad of shoulder and lean of hip, drew her shy gaze. His warrior's build combined with his white-blond hair and brilliant blue eyes left her oddly breathless.

His gaze narrowed, reminding her of the badge of insolence proudly displayed on her reddened cheek. Belatedly, she reached up to cover it.

"Who struck you, lass?" Garrick's voice deepened and grew curiously softer. "It will not happen again. You have my word."

His tone had a soothing effect on her jangled nerves, like a healing balm. He moved her hand, and gently slid his rough fingertips in a wide arc near the edge of the reddened welt. His eyes hardened to a fathomless blue as his gaze came to rest on the stark outline of the handprint marring Jillian's face.

Though his touch had been gentle, she could not help wincing from the pain. She could not speak up and name the guilty party or else she'd end up receiving an even worse fate, a caning with Haldana's favorite switch. She shifted uneasily; her back was not ready for more of the lady's abuse.

"Won't you tell me?"

Bowing her head, she stared at her feet. She just could not feel at ease with him. His first reaction to her bold scheme had been to laugh at Stephan, then later ignore her and walk away.

"Jillian."

She was too embarrassed to look up at him. The Lord of Merewood Keep, her future husband, should not see her like this.

Taking the basket from her clenched hands, Garrick offered his arm. She hesitated, but the knowledge that the arrogant warrior would turn so completely about and treat her as a lady tempted her.

Mayhap he needs me . He must have hated admitting that fact to himself. She had to hold her tongue, lest she blurt out that very thought. Like it or not, they needed one another. Soon they would be duty bound to honor one another for the rest of their lives.

She accepted his arm and told him, "I have duties in the kitchens, milord."

"Garrick," he corrected.

She cleared her throat to dislodge the bittersweet lump of longing lodged there. A lifetime ago she had been treated this way. It brought back memories of happier times.

"As you wish…Garrick. Before I go, I must speak with you privately." She looked over her shoulder and around the garden, relieved to find they were alone.

"Aye, Lady Jillian."

Smiling, she corrected him, "Jillian."

She watched his serious posture relax slightly at the intimate offering of her given name. Would it be too much to hope that he would come to care for her? The emotion flickering across his strong features before disappearing gave her the courage to continue.

"MacInness sent word to you?"

She nodded.

"Have you news of my brother?"

"'Tis done," she whispered. "He's halfway to Merewood on the swiftest horse Sedgeworth has to offer."

Garrick's face hardened, the warrior was back, demanding, "The one Owen hanged a man for stealing just this morn?"

The angry look she shot him should have singed his hair. It didn't, she checked. "Aye, that same horse. There are no others capable of aiding in your brother's escape. Milord's daughters pamper them with sugared fruits. He would have been caught."

Her look darkened as the stark truth hit her, "You don't trust me." Wounded to the very core of her being, she struggled to hide the hurt Garrick had unknowingly caused, snuffing out the tiny flicker of hope in her breast.

He struggled as if choosing his words with care. "I have learned to hold my trust of those I know not in reserve, until they have proven themselves worthy of it."

His words cut Jillian deeply. "Perhaps one day you'll be able to trust your heart without knowledge of deeds done in support of that trust." Jillian weighed her next words carefully. "But what of your word? Do you intend to keep it?"

Garrick clenched his jaw. Had no one ever questioned his honor before? He didn't like the fact that she would turn his own accusations on him, but could she trust him to keep his word?

"I never go back on my word."

She hesitated; mayhap the fear of what almost happened to his brother caused him to be harsh with her. Time would tell . They would watch each other carefully. Bravely she asked, "Will you honor our bargain?"

"Aye, Lady Jillian." He paused and glanced about him, scanning the perimeter of the garden. "Owen has agreed to free Roderick, and granted your hand in marriage, for the price of one hundred pieces of gold and my sword arm in defense of his keep."

Dismay jolted through her. "But he is already free." Owen would never honor his word if he found out his prisoner was gone. She could not expect Garrick to honor his. "Mayhap you should leave now as well."

Garrick grabbed her upper arms and shook her. "I never go back on my word, Lady."

Jillian swallowed audibly and cleared her throat. "How will you convince Owen to let me go if you've no brother or gold to bargain with?"

"'Tis my concern, not yours. Be prepared to travel to Merewood two weeks hence. I'll see to it that you are freed from your duties."

Free . The word echoed joyfully within her. A feeling of contentment slowly unfurled and spread its wings, ready to take flight. But even as she reveled in the idea, a black thought clouded her moment of happiness. Why did Owen agree? Jillian served as personal slave to the mistress of the keep. Haldana would never let her go.

Clearing her throat, Jillian dug deep for the courage to ask, "Owen suggested this? Have I no duties then?"

His gaze dipped to the raised mark on her face. "'Twas my decision. Owen will abide my wishes."

Taking a step closer, she tilted her head back to look into her future husband's eyes. His expression was open and honest. She smiled. "Thank you." Turning about swiftly, she missed the look of intense longing that Garrick was not quick enough to hide.

*

Staring after the beautiful woman soon to be his wife, Garrick stood with his feet rooted to the spot. She was like no other woman he'd ever encountered. Why had she thanked him? For agreeing to marry her, or for rescuing her from a life of servitude?

Would she ever feel more than gratitude toward him? His gut roiled as a heavy truth hit home. God's teeth, he needed her!

He shook his head at the direction of his troubled thoughts. His parents had not married for gratitude. His mother's hand in marriage had been the price her father had paid when he had lost the siege against Merewood Keep. But his parents had found love, and they had shared so much more. The pain returned sharply as he forced himself to remember the love that surrounded his parents.

Grimacing, he realized the whole time his brain planned to marry for wealth, his heart yearned to find what his parents had shared. Grinding his teeth together, he stalked back to the hall in search of Dunstan.

He found him seated with the Lord of Sedgeworth at the center of a long wooden table laden with a feast fit for royalty. Their gazes locked before Garrick turned to look at Owen.

Garrick nodded at Owen, who glanced at the sumptuous feast before him, ignored it, and bellowed, "Fetch my ward. I must speak with her."

Dipping into an awkward curtsy, the serving girl steadied the large tray she carried. "At once, milord."

Turning to finish serving the guests, the girl realized her mistake when Owen let go a loud curse. She nearly dropped her burden as she fled the hall.

Garrick nudged his brother under the table. Dunstan nodded in silent agreement. Another servant abused, counting his bride- to-be, that made four. Remembering their upbringing, he could not turn his back on it. His parents placed honor above all things. Duty came next. It would be their duty to offer better working conditions to any who sought them. They would offer to take in any abused servants Owen could be persuaded to part with.

Not five minutes later, a disheveled Jillian entered the hall. Wisps of her hair had worked free from the braid held back with a leather thong. Smudges of flour could not hide the still angry welts on her face, nor the swelling of her lip.

Her lip?

Garrick rose from his chair and placed his hands on the table in an effort to still their trembling and quiet his rage. "By all that is holy," he rasped, fighting to keep that rage from boiling over. "Who dared to strike my future wife?"

The room fell silent. He could feel all eyes focused on him. Let them look . Straightening to his full height, he let his angry glare sweep the room, letting them all know he was prepared to do battle for his future wife's honor.

Rage simmered to a deadly boil as he struggled with the power of that emotion. Why did it even matter to him? No one deserved such treatment.

Liar, his heart accused. You care what becomes of the lass . In a bid to regain his scattered thoughts, he let his gaze drift from the look of boredom on the Lord of the Keep's face, to the handful of servants grouped together. They stood in the doorway watching Jillian with what Garrick could only guess was resignation. Was this a common occurrence? Mayhap all of the household servants were treated badly.

Innocence personified, Owen stood and motioned Jillian forward. She refused with the shake of her head.

As Garrick watched, anger flashed briefly in the depths of her eyes before retreating behind her mask of indifference. Had she played this game before? Owen, her lord and protector, feigned innocence of the deed, so who else would have struck her?

"'Twas my fault, milord," she rasped, coming to stand before them. "I tarried too long in answering milady's summons."

Haldana's gasp echoed her husband's. Furious, his wife sputtered, "Owen, how dare you let one of her kind speak thusly."

Hand raised for silence, he waited for his wife to regain her composure.

"I'm certain she is confused," Owen replied. "Jillian, pray explain yourself, then make your apologies to your betters."

The man's gaze leveled at Jillian seemed to unnerve her. She turned and looked to Garrick for support, but he was watching Owen. Garrick's glance followed hers to his right. The look on Dunstan's face told him that his brother was on her side. It seemed all the boost she needed.

As he watched, she squared her shoulders, brought up her chin and spoke directly to her guardians. "I jest not, milady, the proof is still on your ring."

Haldana's gasp of horror only added to the evidence mounting against the lady of the keep. Her hand was no longer milky white, but marred, as was the corner of her wedding ring. Both were crusted with a spattering of blood. Jillian's blood . In her haste to preside over the festive meal, the woman had forgotten to wipe away the damning evidence.

Garrick stood, effectively blocking Haldana's exit and chance to strike another blow to the fragile young woman standing before them. Pinning the lady of the keep with his steely gaze, he ground out, "Lady Jillian is no longer yours to discipline. As my wife, she will answer only to me."

Garrick hoped his bride-to-be would not worry overmuch about what awaited her in her new home. He sought to placate the lord and lady of the keep, while at the same time warning them to leave Jillian alone. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted she paled considerably.

He turned his back on Owen and his lady and walked around the table to where Jillian stood. He had to know how she felt. Her cinnamon-colored eyes were so expressive, therein would lie the clue to her thoughts.

Would she still believe his promise of protection? Would she trust him not to take out his frustrations on her once they were wed? Silently urging her to speak with a determined look, he was rewarded when her eyes warmed, deepening to a warm rich brown, as if lit from within.

He gently lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to each of her knuckles. The skin of her small hand felt cool until his breath warmed where his mouth caressed. Confusion marred her brow. He had much to teach her.

He whispered, "Trust me, dear lady." Drawing her to his side, Garrick turned to Owen. "I'll not wait a fortnight. We'll marry this hour."

Owen shook his head. "Our cleric left this morn; the bishop had need of him. There is no one else to record the deed. Father Bernard will return in two weeks' time, the ceremony can take place then."

Garrick weighed the older man's words, finding he did not trust him overmuch, he amended, "Then she will accompany my brothers and me to Merewood. We'll be married two weeks hence."

Owen's shock was palpable. He thundered, "One of your family has already dishonored my good name. How do I know that you intend to carry through with your betrothal promise? What is to stop you from using my ward for your own pleasure before passing her off to your brothers or your household knights?"

Garrick's hands flexed, the need to crush the life from so vile a man nearly overwhelmed him, but Dunstan held him back. "I gave you my word," Garrick bit out. "I will excuse your miserable accusations and conduct this time. Never forget the clemency shown you this day. Such a slur upon my family will not go unpunished."

Garrick reached out to take Jillian by the hand and felt her trembling, "You will apologize for frightening my bride-to-be."

Garrick turned to Jillian. Trust me , he willed her with an intense stare. Her eyes answered, but not what he wished to discover.

She's not sure. Again he sought to lock gazes with her, willing her to understand his unspoken message. He wished they were alone so that he could speak freely. I'll not hurt you, lass. Trust me.

Jillian swayed as fatigue caught up with her. She was thin, and he wondered if it was from too many missed meals, or too many backbreaking hours of hard work. He would soon find out the whole of it. Then he would repay Owen and Haldana in kind.

Garrick felt her weakening. Before he could act on instinct and sweep her up in his arms, he felt her whole body stiffen to ward off the weakness.

My God, she's courageous. We'll have strong sons. Daughters too…with auburn hair and eyes a rich warm brown.

"Garrick?" Startled from his thoughts, he realized she'd spoken to him and he'd not heard a word.

Looking down into her eyes, he started to drift off again. It was starting to become a bad habit where the lady was concerned. "Aye?"

"I wish to return to my chamber, with your permission, milord." Her face was lined with exhaustion.

"Aye, allow me to escort you." Turning to face the Lord of the Keep, he added, "With your permission, of course."

Owen's eyes narrowed, "Aye, but I wish to speak further of our bargain."

*

"Milord?"

As Garrick and Jillian left the hall, Dunstan watched Owen's attention focus on the servant hurrying toward them across the daunting width of the room.

"I must speak with you," he heard the man whisper.

Owen inclined his head slightly to listen. Whatever it was blotched Owen's face with barely controlled rage. Rising up from his carved wooden chair, the man resembled an angry god about to wreak havoc on the lesser mortals.

Those that parted to give him a wide berth shook their heads. Their lord had a fierce temper, and it appeared to be ready to break loose. All eyes were on him, speculating as to the cause of it. Owen spared a glance to no one, leaving the room without looking back.

Dunstan stood and felt all eyes shift from the retreating lord to himself. He quelled the urge to follow and sat back down.

*

"What do you mean he's gone?" Owen's voice boomed as it echoed off the thick walls of the keep.

"The door to Roderick's cell was locked when I came down to fetch him, but he was gone," his manservant whispered, with a furtive glance about the lower level. "'Tis like he was spirited away."

"Of all the preposterous notions. He was no more spirited away than I can walk through this door." Proving his point, Owen slammed his tightly clenched fist against the heavy wooden door which only hours before held his prisoner.

"MacInness!" He roared. Waiting for his vassal to answer the summons, his face changed from angry red to apoplectic purple.

"Aye?" The burly Scot rounded the corner, joining the others gathered outside the locked door.

"Where is the prisoner?"

MacInness looked questioningly at him before answering.

Owen, well used to the look, waited impatiently for the Scot to continue. He smiled when his vassal attempted to draw out the true meaning of his words.

"Behind lock and key and this one-hundred-year-old, solid oak door."

Grabbing the keys from MacInness's hand, Owen unlocked the door and shoved it open wide. Proof of Revas's claim taunted him. It was empty. Roderick was gone.

"I dinna understand. How could he have escaped?" The tall Scot's amber eyes darkened; his face flushed then promptly drained of all its color.

Owen judged his vassal's reaction to be genuine. MacInness was cagey, but honest to a fault. He knew from experience that the Scot could not be bribed.

"I must return to my guests. Find Roderick. Search the keep, the bailey, and woods. Bring him back by nightfall."

Turning to put the fear of God in his men, he added, "Your very lives depend upon it." Owen turned on his heel and was gone.

Jaw set, eyes focused, MacInness spoke to Owen's retreating form, "Aye, but 'tis the last time I'll do yer biddin'."

Motioning for the men to follow, he headed toward the inner bailey where their horses were being made ready to ride.