Forbidden

FORBIDDEN

Book 1 of the Raptor Castle
Series

SOPHIA JOHNSON

“
Highly
emotional and beautifully descriptive. An enchanting love
story.”

—
Jessica Trapp

HIS FORBIDDEN DESIRE

His head jerked up. His eyes probed the
shadows. A woman’s graceful steps barely disturbed the stones, but
it was enough to announce her. He whipped his cowl up to cover his
head and hide his face in its shadows.

He moved to stand in the deep gloom where a
thin shaft of moonlight split the darkness in front of it. He would
see who hurried to him with such purpose in her stride.

HER SHAMEFUL SECRET

“Has Chief Broccin brought you here to speak
the vows this next morn?”

“Aye.” ‘Twas the truth, though she thought he
would be doing the asking—not the answering.

“Chief Broccin has said I would not have time
to talk with a priest before the ceremony, but I cannot marry with
such sin on my conscience.”

He heard Catalin take a quavering, deep
breath as she stared up at him, her eyes probing the gloom.

“Will you hear my confession?”

Copyright 2011 by June J. Ulrich

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written
consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

The book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents either are products of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
localities, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Electronic books or eBooks are not transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement
on the copyright of the work.

Cover design by Delle Jacobs

http://www.dellejacobs.blogspot.com

Visit the author’s website at
www.sophiajohnson.net

Raptor Castle, Scotland’s Border, 1128

“Make haste, Ranald, afore someone discovers
us.” Moridac staggered and near dropped the reins of his father’s
destrier when the great horse stamped and huffed. Blinking rapidly,
he wrapped the leather around his fist and held fast.

“All are sleeping off the feast, Moridac.
‘Tis a wonder they didna drown in the wine vats while celebrating
yer betrothal to Catalin.”

The massive double doors to the stables near
reached the ceiling, allowing room for a knight to ride through and
dismount inside. Only one door stood open. This morn’s sun was
still hiding behind the mountains to the east. The young men had
barely enough light to see the courtyard remained empty.

“Aye, but dinna tarry.”

Moridac, the elder of the twins by twenty
heartbeats, gave an explosive belch, staggered and near fell. The
startled horse jerked its head so high it lifted the young man off
his feet. Clutching its mane, he tried to steady himself.

“Do ye ken I canna fly through the air,
brother? Dinna let him move. I’ll make it next time.”

Moridac snorted in disbelief.

Ranald’s head was as heavy as if he wore a
helmet forged for a giant. He blinked, clearing his wavering
vision. Mayhap standing atop an upended barrel was not so wise?
Huh, mayhap it was. He couldn’t mount using stirrups, for his
unsteady legs refused to stop wobbling. The steed sidestepped
close. Seizing his chance, he leapt. His ballocks hit the saddle,
shooting pain clean up to his chest.

Humph! “Satan’s spawn!”

With one hand clutching his throbbing sex, he
fumbled for the reins his twin tossed at him. Triumphant laughter
burst from his throat.

He had achieved the forbidden: he would ride
Goliath, their father’s prized warhorse.

A loud groan signaled the second door
opening. Two dreaded shapes framed by the dim light outside,
appeared in the doorway. Blessed saints! Ranald had no need to see
who stood there. Angry shouting near shook the rafters.

“What means this? Ye drunken fool!” Chief
Broccin of Raptor Castle charged toward his sons, his right hand
uplifted clutching a whip.

Goliath snorted and threw his head about,
jerking the reins from Ranald’s hand. The horse’s angry stamp
bounced him around in the saddle near unseating him. He grabbed the
heavy black mane and clamped his long legs around the heaving
sides.

The horse had a mind of its own. Chief
Broccin barely jumped aside before Goliath made a leap through the
doorway. Angus, the stable master, slammed against the doorframe
then righted himself and ran after the beast.

He had no need, for Broccin’s whistle split
the air. Goliath skidded to a halt. Ranald flew over the horse’s
head to land in deep, wet mud left from last eve’s downpour.

The thud took his breath. The surprise near
sobered him.

His nose wrinkled with the rancid odor. The
mud tasted as rank as it smelled. He gagged and spat it from his
mouth. Had every bone in his body cracked like last morn’s eggs? He
giggled, picturing himself as a huge yellow-yoked egg, floating
atop the mud. Trying to get up on his knees, he slipped. Feeling
his father’s presence, his gaze traveled from naked toes planted
firmly in the mud, and up hairy, muscled calves’ sturdy as a block
of wood. He got no farther.

The whip whistled. Pain streaked Ranald’s
back.

“Ye drunken fool. Ye dared defy me and sat my
mount?”

Ranald gasped and tried to stand. His
father’s foot slammed him back into the mud. The whip whistled
again then struck. He barely had time to draw the next breath
before more blows landed. Chief Broccin cursed and ranted like a
brainsick man.

How many times had the whip struck? He
clamped his teeth tight and struggled to get a firm grip on the
land to fight his way out of the mud. A foot crashed into his hips,
knocking him to his left side, his back to his father.

“Nay, Father!”

From the sounds of it, Moridac’s shouted
protest earned him a forceful backhand.

The next lash caught Ranald’s right shoulder,
his forehead and cheek. To his shame, he screamed. Blows continued
to rain down on him. The agony in his face was worse than his back,
for the cold mud soothed it. Desperate, he tried to catch the whip,
to cover his face. His sire was too swift for him.

“My lord, ye’ll kill him,” Angus shouted.

“Broccin. Enough!”

‘Twas Domnall’s bellow. Footsteps thudded
across the ground. Sounds of scuffling followed and the beating
stopped.

Had he passed out for a short time? The next
thing he knew, he heard others talking.

“Dunk him in the horse trough afore ye carry
him to his room. I canna tend the poor lad’s wounds if they be
hidden by filth,” a woman’s shaky voice demanded.

Ranald could not bite back cries as brawny
arms grasped his legs and under his arms then lifted him. Each step
jarred his torn flesh. Soon icy water surrounded him.

“Hold yer breath, lad,” Domnall muttered.

It was enough warning before his head slid
beneath the water. He near drowned when unbelievable pain tore at
his face. He screamed again.

o0o

“Dinna lie to me, Domnall. He is near death
and burns with fever. It has been days, yet he hasna spoken.”

Why was Moridac’s voice strange? Like he
choked on a sob? His twin was too much a man to cry. He hadn’t
since the fevers took their sweet mother five years before.

Ranald strained to hear Domnall’s answer but
couldn’t. Longing to be free of the pain and heat ravaging him, he
hoped his father’s commander said aye. Death would be a
blessing.

Heavy boots striking the floor announced his
sire’s baleful presence approaching the bed.

“He doesna even resemble a man. Turns my
stomach to look at him.”

“Through no fault of his own! ‘Tis your
handiwork.” Domnall’s footsteps came closer, as if to force Broccin
to move back from the bed.

“The fool deserved it. He should have
protected his face.”

“How? When you kicked him over? Gave him no
chance?”

His father snorted. Uncaring. His voice
sharpened.

“He fares no better. Joneta canna always stay
at his side. I grow tired of foul meals since my sister hasna had
time to instruct the cook. Put him in a cart and take him to Kelso
Abbey.”

“To move him now may well kill him!”

A muffled sound followed Domnall’s words.
Like his fisted hand striking his thigh in anger.

“‘Tis close enough. Monks from Selkirk have
settled there. I have heard talk of a healer skilled at treating
wounds. He is far more learned than Joneta.”

Did his father seek to rid himself of an
unwanted burden? Ranald sensed he leaned close again, perusing
him.

“Hmpf. He is of no use to me now. I know no
man desperate enough he would wed his daughter to such a horror.
Leave him at Kelso and return.”

Chief Broccin’s footsteps faded. The door
banged shut.

Ranald tried to find voice, but his body
would not respond. For all the power he had over it, he may as well
have been stone.

Ranald thought his suffering couldn’t be
worse.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

Kelso Abbey, 1143

“Ho, there, Brother Ranald. ‘Tis good the sun
is hiding else yer pate would rival a lush apple. Why did yer sword
not greet me when the bell rang?”

Smiling, Raik of Castle Douglas strode toward
the monk kneeling in the dirt amongst medicinal herbs in the
Infirmary’s garden.

“What need have I of a sword, cousin? Ye know
full well I can lay ye flat without its use.” Ranald kept his head
bowed as he grasped the edge of his black cowl and pulled it to
shield his head. He leapt to his feet. “Besides, all know yer
pretty face and remember ye couldn’t knock over a wee kitten.”

“Aye, mayhap when last ye saw me. Take a
look, my friend.”

Raik wore naught but a kilt gathered around
his slender waist. Leather boots covered his feet. He stretched
strong arms out to the sides, his muscles bunching at his
shoulders, and turned slowly. The sun highlighted shining hair so
deep a brown it looked near black. Startling blue eyes that could
hold a person in a trance when they stared into them, laughed back
at Ranald when he completed his turn. His skin, browned from the
sun, was taut over a broad, muscled chest that tapered to a flat,
hard belly.

Ranald studied him, glad to find he looked
strong and healthy, though he didn’t like the dark circles under
troubled eyes that watched him in turn.

“Ye dinna look to need my care. Have ye been
plagued with the fevers again?”

“Nay.” Something flashed in Raik’s dark eyes
as he answered.

Uneasiness? Hesitation?

Raik huffed and reached out a big hand to
grasp the monk’s hood and toss it backward, revealing Ranald’s
ravaged face.

“What need have ye to hide from me?”

Ranald shrugged for answer. “Come, I must
check on Brother Mathias. He fell down the dormitory stairs when
coming to Matins this last night.” He strode through the garden
outside the Infirmary cloister. His long legs ate up the distance,
but Raik was not outpaced.

“Ah. So that is why pain lingers on yer face.
‘Tis
that
ye tried to hide.” Raik clasped him on the
shoulder and gave it a little shake. “How do ye stand it, Ranald?
All the anguish ye see when ye aid their healing? How do ye control
yer feelings?”

“Hsst. There are those here who know not of
my “problem.” I wouldna have them affrighted for naught.”

“I was not affrighted when ye tended me.”

“Hmpf. Ye say that now. Do ye not remember?
Ye didn’t know me. Ye seized my throat and held yer knife to it
whilst asking if I was the Angel of Death?”

Ranald had been careless that night they had
brought Raik to him so badly injured. In the struggle to save his
life, and needing light to see to the man’s wounds, he had merely
crooked his finger at the brace of candles, and they appeared at
his side. One hard look from his eyes and the unlit candles flamed.
He had not noticed his cowl had slipped, revealing the scarred face
of a man Raik believed dead years ago. ‘Twas no wonder he thought
Death had come for him.

Not wanting his cousin to know how very tired
he was, he squared his shoulders. He had not slept well of late.
Anguish had filled his soul for the past three sennights. He knew
not the cause of it, but he couldn’t shake it off.

“I dislike remembering what a fool I was.”
Raik sighed and looked away, ashamed.

“Come, I must wash before I go in.” Ranald
shrugged and led him to the lavatorium across the courtyard. They
stepped inside the long, vaulted room. Water fed by a nearby stream
ran in a raised smooth wooden trough down the length of the room; a
wide groove in the floor led outside to release water sloshed from
rinsing.