Forbidden (22 page)

“Nay. I dinna want ye. Another does not scorn
my wounds.”

He crooked his finger. A woman flew from the
shadows to lock her arms around his neck. Lady Muriele looked back
over her shoulder, triumph gleaming from her eyes. She whispered a
word Catalin read on her lips.

“Mine.”

o0o

One balmy May afternoon, Ranald settled back
on his heels beneath a gnarled oak far to the rear of the training
field. Gille, now healed as best as he would ever be, crouched by
his side. While Ranald stripped the leaves from a small branch, he
listened to his sire, Raik and Domnall discussing the men best
suited for quick forays. After the last leaf fell to the ground, he
began to sketch a map in the dirt.

“I have no doubt now. Our second listener
must have made a fatal mistake, for he has not returned. It is
turning summer and we canna wait longer. We must send men to each
village Gille spoke of. Some to Hunter Castle, others to
neighboring barons.”

Satisfied when he had a reasonable outline of
Northumbria south of the border, he began placing large rocks where
special castles were located.

“Hunter Castle lies here.” He settled the
largest rock east of Raptor across the border. “De Burgh’s Seton
Castle,” he said as he placed the next rock south of Hunter. He
picked up and palmed the last of the rocks. “Ridley Castle
northeast of Hunter belongs to relatives of the Morgan’s of
Blackthorn. No one is to touch even a fallow field of these two
estates.” He eyed each man as he spoke.

“The targets we seek are here, here, here,
here, and here.” Ranald identified and placed stones at five
different locations until the ground had pebbles in all directions.
“These smaller stones mark castles where we plan to rouse trouble
for Hamon.”

“Ye marked a castle north of the border to
Hunter.” Broccin grinned and rubbed his hands. “Hm, right sneaky of
ye to include a Scot’s holdings. They will ken it is more proof of
discontent from King Stephen’s reign.”

Ranald tilted his head and studied his
father. Was that a glint of approval in his sire’s eyes?

“There is a fallow field there filled with
overgrowth. We will set it alight. They will rant about the burnt
ground, but no harm will come to the families there. They will
blame Hamon, of course, as will the others.” He stuck a twig in the
ground next to the stone.

“South and southwest of Hunter are neglected
fields that could do with a good burning.” Ranald positioned two
more twigs. “Their lords are so busy causing Stephen strife, that
they neglected them. The southwest holding also has two huts that
naught but rats and curious pigs enter.”

“What of this land southwest of Hunter?”
Domnall rubbed his chin, where a busy ant scampered amongst the
bristles there. “Gille, ye didna venture there, did ye?”

“Nay, ‘tis said to be an evil place,” Gille
replied, his eyes wide in his gaunt face.

Ranald nodded. “Aye, it is. Baron Rupert
holds it. Send three men within the west curtain wall. Ye will find
a thatched hut set apart from everything else. Check to see no one
is within, then burn it, the fields and whatever else ye can get
to.”

“And if someone is there?” Domnall asked.

“Take care to bring them to safety. They will
likely need help.” Ranald frowned down at the dirt. He lifted his
eyes to study each man’s face. “Baron Rupert is known for his
cruelty. I tended three men in as many years who had fallen from
his
special
favor. He tortured them all. After he used
dull knives to cut off their ballocks, he left them in the woods to
fend for themselves. Two died, for by the time their family or
friends found and brought them to Kelso, it was too late.”

“Better they died than live as half-men,”
Broccin muttered.

“How fared the third?” Raik’s raised brows
helped ask the question.

“His cousin followed Baron Rupert’s men when
they took him deep into the forest. Once they left, he slung the
injured man over an old nag and made haste to bring him to me. Ye
met him, cousin, as did ye all.”

“I saw no ill man,” Broccin said.

“None but men of the cloth,” Domnall
added.

“It was the young novice, Clement, who took
charge of yer weapons.” Ranald’s lips thinned, his lids near closed
over his eyes. “One day, I will take pleasure in maiming Baron
Rupert in the same way. And I will see to it he survives.”

Broccin’s laughter caused warriors to pause
and glance their way. One in particular had been watching Ranald
closely all morn.

“So, ye are more man than yer pious manners
show,” Broccin said when he stopped laughing.

“If cruelty makes me a man, than ye have
little to worry of.”

Ranald nodded toward two of the men who
lingered overlong returning to battle practice. They talked
together, motioning and snickering when they glanced at Ranald.

“Who are those two?” he asked Domnall.

“Giric and Kerr. Both enjoyed hunting with
Moridac. Yer brother was right fond of them both.”

Domnall’s face did not give Ranald any clue
to what he was thinking, but Broccin frowned.

Ranald turned back to the dirt map and, using
his hand, roughed up the ground so it left no trace. One of the
watching men laughed, then spoke with a sneer in his voice.

“Huh, Giric. What knows a monk of battle
plans and fighting? Most likely, he will piss his breeches and run
at the first sight of blood. Mayhap he should have been a
lass.”

“It is unlikely, Kerr. He is Moridac’s twin,
without doubt.”

Ranald’s lips twitched and bared his teeth.
The man Kerr had called him monk several times before, always when
he was with other men. For truth, he wanted Ranald to hear for he
did not say it quietly. Kerr turned and started to walk away.

Ranald sprang to his feet. He jerked his
tunic off and let it drop to the ground, leaving naught but his
scant braies to cover him. Before Kerr could speak again, Ranald’s
hand shot out, grasped his shoulder and spun him around. His hand
closed around Kerr’s throat, the rock hard muscles of his biceps
bulged, and his back muscles tightened as he lifted Kerr off the
ground. Wisely, Giric stepped away.

“Ye talk a good deal, Sir Kerr. Mayhap ye
feel I could learn from ye?” He lowered the man until his feet
stood firmly on the ground. “Get yer weapon. Since I am so poorly
trained from living at Kelso, I need the exercise.”

“Aye. And if I scratch yer delicate skin, no
doubt ye will kneel all night praying in the church, begging God to
help ye be a man.” Kerr laughed as he strutted over to take his
sword from his squire.

Ranald nodded at Raik, who grabbed Ranald’s
sword from against the oak and tossed it to him. Keeping his eyes
on Kerr’s back, Ranald threw his mask to the left, where he knew
Raik stood. Kerr turned with an arrogant smile on his face. It
faded when he found Ranald’s sword tip just a finger’s width from
his nose.

“Are ye finished stalling, Kerr?” Ranald
grinned at the surprised man.

“It isn’t fair. I had not yet armed myself,”
Kerr blustered.

“Ye are ready now, are ye not? I wait to be
taught how to fight like a man.” Ranald stepped back several paces,
pretending to be as inept as the man supposed, his sword held
slackly at his side.

Hearing the exchange, those training close-by
formed a ring around them. He paid them no heed, though he sensed
his father’s eyes watching him.

Kerr no doubt thought Ranald lacked the
skills of a squire, for his eyes lit with delight as he lunged for
Ranald’s right shoulder. Ranald’s blade whipped up, deflected the
blow then dropped again. Kerr again struck, this time aiming left,
expecting the same maneuver. Ranald turned sideways, leaning back
at the waist. Kerr’s blade met thin air. Ranald did not lower his
sword again. It whistled as he reached up to slice the ribbons on
Kerr’s shirt. The cloth gaped open, revealing the sweat glistening
on his neck.

Their blades rang out as they parried and
thrust, and though Kerr was more than an adequate fighter, Ranald
read each strike correctly. Both men had thin strips of red
glistening on their sweaty flesh, though Kerr’s cuts far
outnumbered Ranald’s.

Ranald had long since learned to note
expressions on an opponent’s face. He watched as Kerr’s eyes
widened after an especially effective maneuver, then narrowed as he
more closely studied Ranald’s moves, a small smile of appreciation
beginning at the corners of his lips.

Before long, Kerr’s laughter rang out in pure
delight when Ranald swiftly parried an unexpected maneuver. Ranald,
some nine to ten moves later, repeated the pattern. This time it
was he who laughed, for Kerr was an apt pupil and showed he had
learned his lesson. What started as a battle of dislike turned into
a sparring match, each enjoying the testing of the other’s
skills.

Soon, Ranald began to tell Kerr what he was
doing wrong, becoming the instructor, not the supposed hapless
monk.

“Dinna watch only my hands, my body.”

Ranald made as if to strike on Kerr’s right,
but at the last moment, whipped his blade to Kerr’s left. Before
Kerr recovered, he again feigned an attack, this time on Kerr’s
shoulder, but struck at his thigh instead.

“If not yer hands, how then will I know what
ye are planning?” Kerr’s brows near met. His gaze switched from
Ranald’s hands to his face.

“There ye have it. Ye must watch my face, my
eyes, and ye will see in what direction I will swing the blade
next.”

They worked until both dripped with sweat,
their breath bursting loudly from lungs working hard as any
blacksmith’s bellows.

“I cry defeat,
Sir
Ranald,” Kerr
called out. He stepped back, stuck his sword into the ground and
leaned over, laughing and coughing. “Ye canna tell me ye were only
a monk. Not when yer sword flashes like lightning.”

“I didna say I was. Ye named me a man used to
only kneeling in prayer. Ye failed to learn I was also Kelso’s
Protector. I had ample time to hone my skills, for the abbey is
often raided from across the border.”

Sweat ran down his temples and stung the
corners of his eyes. He swiped it away and pushed back his wet
hair, its length now grown long enough to fall over his brow. Of a
sudden, his skin prickled. Surprise marked Kerr’s face as he stared
beyond Ranald’s shoulder.

Ranald breathed deep. He picked up the scent
of another, one not bathed in sweat.

He crouched ready to spring. A feral growl
rumbled from his throat.

Ranald’s lips lifted with a snarl and his
feet kicked up a cloud of dirt as he whirled around and came face
to face with Lady Muriele. And her probing stare. Expecting her to
screech with disgust, he rose to his full height and stiffened his
spine. She did not. Instead, she held out a sweating pewter goblet
of cold well water, all the while studying his face as if it were
as any other man’s.

“What do ye here? It is no place for a lady,
and well ye know it.” Ranald ground out the words through a jaw
locked near closed.

She flinched, but instead of fleeing like he
had expected after his harsh tone, she squared her shoulders and
thrust out her chin.

“Why cannot a lady admire your skills? There
are lasses aplenty gawking from behind the wash house.”

“Lasses, aye. Not ladies of the keep.” Had
Catalin ever watched when he trained? Had she stayed away, fearful
of coming upon him without his mask?

Muriele dropped her gaze to his chest. The
tip of her tongue stole out to wet her upper lip. Her breasts rose
and fell with her quickened breathing. Each intake of breath made
the round, creamy swell of inviting flesh visible there at the
opening of her kirtle, stirring his loins.

“I watched from the wall walk atop the north
tower. Even from that distance, I sensed you were in dire need of a
cooling drink.”

Her gaze studied the breadth of his
shoulders, lingered on the sweat snaking through the hair on his
chest as it made its slow way down to his stomach. His muscles
tightened. Her eyes were as enticing as warm fingertips whispering
down his body.

His stomach muscles corded, loosening the
cloth at his waist. A heartbeat after, her brazen gaze studied the
hair disappearing beneath the gap at the top of his braies.

She blinked and moved her head slightly
forward. Closer. A wave of heat rushed to that part of him which
was easily interested of late. He feared his body was more than
willing to show her how she affected him.

Aye. She was well aware of it. He did not
miss the way she shivered and gave his groin one more quick study.
Seeing the change there, she started and her regard slid
upward.

Ranald grabbed the goblet from her hands.
Never had he expected to see her face flush and desire cloud her
eyes on looking at him.

“Get ye back to the keep.” His arm flung out
and he pointed across the wide expanse.

His voice was grating, abrupt, and must have
hit her like a physical force for she jumped back and spun. Her
skirts trailed behind her like she faced a driving wind, so fast
were her feet leading her away.

“Cousin, mayhap I should comfort the lass.
Yer snarl near scared the curl from her hair,” Raik said.

“I didna snarl.”

“Aye, ye did.” Raik nodded his head and
grinned. “And she has interest in ye.”

“Ye imagine things that are not there.”
Ranald’s brows near touched. “Her only concern was learning what
lies behind the mask.”

“Ha!” Raik’s lips quirked as he tried to
still them. He gave up as laughter rumbled from his chest. “More
likely it’s what lies behind that linen wrapped around yer loins
that peaks her interests!”

Domnall came up behind Ranald and cuffed him
on the shoulder.

“Had a lass looked at me so eagerly, we would
be behind the nearest tree, her legs clamping my waist while I
plowed her like a needy hare.”