My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (2 page)

*

Nicholas could hardly believe his eyes. By the Holy Rood, did she have to cry? Sympathy washed through his veins and he took a step closer, trying to think of something to say that might calm her. The last time he’d tried to soothe a woman had been the day his mother died. And then, he’d been sent away to live in hell. Now, his throat tightened and his heart beat faster with the memory.

“Scottish cur!” Malcolm charged him.

Whirling around, Nicholas knocked the man’s blow aside. No doubt he’d taken the broadsword from the hooks on the wall.

Ysabelle’s scream filled his ears as the bed curtains were sliced. Malcolm de Litz fell against the four-poster, knocking over the table. A yellow earthenware washbasin toppled to the stone floor and burst into fragments.

Malcolm’s plump limbs tangled in the bed curtains and he flapped like a peacock caught in a snare. Freeing himself, he whirled about and lunged at Nicholas. As their weapons clashed, Nicholas felt Malcolm buckling against his greater strength. Malcolm had the advantage of weight, but instinct told Nicholas the older man had little skill at fighting. Malcolm drew back his arm and Nicholas stepped aside. Malcolm’s blow went wild. Goose feathers flew into the air as a pillow was severed in two.

“Do you need help, brother?” Alex asked with an amused grin. Leaning against the threshold, he held his sword, but made no move to assist.

“No, Alex,” Nicholas clipped the words as he met another attack by Sir Malcolm.

“I thought not,” Alex responded cheerfully.

Several times, Nicholas could have killed Malcolm. Irritation skidded through his mind. Surely this caricature of a man didn’t really think he could best the Scots Ram in combat. The idea was almost laughable.

Nicholas preferred not to spill blood in securing his lands and betrothed wife. But the thought that her English king had tried to steal her away drenched him with rage.

The point of his sword flashed across Sir Malcolm’s cheek. Crying out, Malcolm clasped his face. Blood gushed from beneath his plump fingers. Out of the corner of his eye, Nicholas caught Ysabelle’s movements. She clenched a fist to her mouth, her eyes wide. Malcolm fell back and the point of Nicholas’s sword hovered at the man’s throat, ready to spear him. It was no less than Malcolm deserved, the filthy thief.

“No, don’t!” Ysabelle cried. “My king will destroy us all if you kill him.”

Nicholas stilled, not out of fear of the English king, but because she asked him to.

“You belong to me,” he said.

He glanced at her, seeing her ashen face. Her eyes flashed with fury. she didn’t like his claim.

“You prefer him to me?” Nodding toward the rolls of flesh jiggling beneath his blade, Nicholas could not contain a bemused frown. It couldn’t be true.

“I had no choice, but neither did I speak the vows. He ignored my refusal and threatened to have the king’s army kill my people.”

Ah, it was just as Nicholas thought. She sought to protect Sutcliffe. It was a duty he would now shoulder with a glad heart. She would come with him and he would wed her with haste.

“The marriage has not been consummated and will be annulled. I willna be denied.” Nicholas stepped back, releasing his prey.

Sir Malcolm rubbed his throat, his breath wheezing from his nostrils like a charging bull. His face reddened from his exertions and his gaze dipped to where the ax lay upon the floor.

“Do not pick it up again or I will kill you,” Nicholas warned.

Ysabelle tried to dart past Nicholas toward the door. She yelled as he grasped her fragile wrist, breaking her hold on the dagger. It clattered to the floor and she kicked his shins. Through his leather leggings, Nicholas felt no pain. Her bare foot came down upon splintered slivers of the washbasin and she cried out. When he tried to grab her arm, she bit his hand. His gauntlets protected him well enough, but he realized his betrothed had claws and sharp teeth. No doubt it would take time to win her trust.

Pressing her slender body against his, he held her almost without effort. His hands moved over her delicate shoulders and back, a fragile creature with the heart of a tigress. In the next moment, her eyes widened.

“Nicholas!”

He turned at Alex’s warning. Lifting his sword, he almost failed to deflect Sir Malcolm’s blow as the man attacked from behind. Malcolm laid the flat edge of the ax against Nicholas’s metal helm, knocking him off balance. Spots of light shimmered before his eyes. Dropping to his knees, he was aware of Alex thrusting his sword into Malcolm’s side. In a fog of pain, Nicholas heard Ysabelle scream. Looking up, he saw her face scrunch in a mask of horror.

Disbelief filled Malcolm’s eyes. Blood ran down his belly and left thigh. He dropped to the floor, his body motionless like a slaughtered cow. Blood stained the emerald carpet in an ever-widening pool.

“You’ve killed him.” Ysabelle rushed to Malcolm’s side.

As if from a tunnel, Nicolas watched her press her fingers against Malcolm’s nose, searching for breath. Laying her cheek against the man’s flabby chest, she listened for the beating of his heart and movement of life.

Finally, she drew back, her face pale, her golden-white hair fanning over the naked man’s body. Surely she didn’t have tender feelings for the old knight.

“He’s dead. King William will be furious,” she exclaimed without looking up.

Nicholas stood, bracing a hand against the bed to gain his balance. Because she was a woman and vulnerable, he didn’t blame her for fearing her king’s vengeance. But her father had given her into Nicholas’s care and he would now protect her and Sutcliffe from harm.

Alex held out a placating hand. “I know you ordered no killings, but I had no choice, brother. He would have hacked you to pieces.”

Ysabelle whirled about and glared at the two men, her hands covered with blood. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Nicholas reached up and felt a slight dent in his helmet. Malcolm had delivered a solid blow. If Alex hadn’t interceded, it would have killed him.

Nicholas clasped his brother’s shoulder. “My thanks.”

Alex grinned. “I’m happy to repay you for saving my life so often.”

“You fools,” Ysabelle hissed.

Turning to face her, Nicholas saw her delicate allure through a haze. Her lips parted as she breathed in short gasps. Dismay glimmered in her blue eyes, her porcelain skin flawless and flushed. She had an ethereal beauty, delicate and so fragile he thought her a fairy princess of ancient lore.

Exquisite.

Walking to her, he extended an arm. “Come, lass.”

She refused his hand, her gaze fixed on his face.

“I will return to Sutcliffe alone, Scotsman. I will wed no man,” she insisted.

Clenching his hands, he lowered his arm. “Your father betrothed you to me. It’s verra important we leave now.”

As Alex scurried about the room gathering her clothes, Nicholas watched Ysabelle press a blanket to Malcolm’s wound. What did she think to accomplish? “The mon is dead. Leave him be.”

She shook her head. “To assume I will be your wife now is beyond arrogant. You’ve brought the wrath of King William down upon us all.”

“I didna plan for this mon to die,” Nicholas said.

“How kind. You can explain that to King William.” Her voice sounded shattered with unshed tears.

Nicholas prayed she didn’t cry. A woman’s tears tore at his heart like nothing else.

Scowling, he pulled her away from Sir Malcolm’s corpse. She fought him, staining him with the blood on her hands. Her blows did little damage, no match for his greater strength.

Nicholas had no doubt as to how her clothing had become torn. He tensed his jaw with anger. “Did he hurt you?”

Her gaze darted to where the dead man lay and her color heightened. She must be too embarrassed or too upset to answer. Thank the heavens Nicholas had arrived before the marriage had been consummated. If he didn’t wed Ysabelle soon, his claim to Sutcliffe would be lost.

Bending, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. She was light as a goose down pillow and smelled of heather. Her scent filled his senses and he breathed deeply as he carried her out of the room and down the stairs to the hall below.

She yelled with fury and pounded his back. When he stepped into the main hall, he placed her on her feet. His armed warriors stood around the room, wearing chain mail and helms, their blades drawn as they rounded up the castle guards.

The manor belonged to Ysabelle’s uncle, a weak man if ever one lived. Otherwise, he would never have stood by and allowed the English king’s emissary to force Ysabelle into marriage with Malcolm de Litz. No doubt her father would howl with fury if he were still alive.

The king’s soldiers had been disarmed, rubbing burgeoning bumps and bloodied noses as they slumped against the wall. The long tables had been knocked over, dishes smashed, food spilled. Hounds scurried out of Nicholas’s way, growling as they fought over a meaty bone. A woman crouched in a far corner, her desolate sobs filling the void. Nicholas tensed, and ignored the urge to offer them clemency.

*

Ysabelle took a deep breath. She tried to step away from the Scots Ram, but he held her close by his side. She wished he would remove his helm so she could read his expression. An urgency to flee almost overwhelmed her. She must escape. But how?

Guilt nibbled at her, yet she could not prevent the relief that flooded her. Praise the saints she would not be forced to tolerate Sir Malcolm’s loathsome touch. Now, she faced a greater foe.

Dread shrieked inside her mind. What would her king do once he found out Sir Malcolm was dead?

Nicholas Ramsay glowered at the chair where her bridal wreath lay. The Ram’s expression darkened and his eyes narrowed with fury. Drawing back a long arm, he proceeded to smash the chair with a single blow. Ysabelle flinched as the wood splintered and the fragrant heather lay crushed upon the stone floor.

Would he turn his anger on her?

One of her uncle’s men approached, a determined look on his face. “You cannot take Lady Ysabelle.”

Without breaking stride, the Ram backhanded the man hard across the face. The man fell to the floor, knocked unconscious.

Ysabelle recoiled. She tried to help the man, but the Ram pulled her back. A foreboding gripped her. She couldn’t understand why her father had betrothed her to such a cruel man. Today’s events were a premonition of evil.

The pinch-faced priest who had happily spoken the words binding Ysabelle to Sir Malcolm stood before the fire, wringing his hands. The silver cross hanging at his waist glimmered in the fireglow. “Heathen. Vile demon. It is a sin for you to take another man’s wife.”

With barely a glance, Nicholas Ramsay brushed past. The priest tottered back on his heels, sputtering with outrage.

All of the Scots warriors wore somber frowns, their weapons glittering in the shadows. How simple the task had been to take possession of her uncle’s manor house when all within were drunken. It was a terrifying sight for a mere woman wearing nothing more than her torn bridal clothes. As she stood in the firelight, they stared at her with lust. The cads! Her father would have taught them some manners with his sword.

Clasping her arms in front of her, she glared her defiance.

“Take the prisoners to the stable,” the Ram barked the order to his men.

Their laughter ceased as they scurried to usher the manor guards outside.

The man named Alex trotted down the stairs, carrying her woolen cloak over his arm. “This was all I could find.”

With a disparaging frown, Nicholas Ramsay took the cloak, then whisked it over her shoulders, pulling it snug beneath her chin. Breathing a sigh of relief, she clutched the voluminous folds about her like a sanctuary, wondering at his territorial kindness.

“Ysabelle!”

She looked up. Uncle Ewen stood at the end of the hall next to Lord Marshal, the king’s emissary. Marshal’s face whitened with rage. His gaze darted to where spears and swords hung upon the wall over the vast fireplace. Surely he was not fool enough to test the Ram’s anger.

Nicholas Ramsay’s hold loosened and she tried to run to her uncle.

“No!” The Ram caught her, his left arm wrapping around her as he pulled her close against his side. Jerking at his solid grip, Ysabelle fought him. It did no good. His hold was as strong as steel.

“There will be nowhere you can hide if you continue this outrage,” Marshal vowed. “Lady Ysabelle has been wed to Sir Malcolm de Litz. King William will send more men to destroy you and your clan of rabble.”

The priest nodded his head in agreement. The Scots Ram raised his sword and Marshal’s eyes widened. Ysabelle stiffened, prepared to watch yet another man die.

Tension pulsed from Nicholas Ramsay’s powerful body. She could feel it rushing at her, engulfing her in a tide of fury. Would he thrust Lord Marshal through? Angry fear glowed in Marshal’s eyes as he stared warily at the Ram’s sword.

The Ramsay shot him a look of scorn. “The marriage was not consummated and I will have it annulled. Malcolm de Litz is dead. Lady Ysabelle is free to wed once more, so be warned. Her father betrothed her to me. She and Sutcliffe are mine.”

Marshal snorted. “A Scotsman rule Sutcliffe? King William will never stand for it. You’ve come here without provocation and murdered Lady Ysabelle’s husband.”

“No provocation? Be verra careful what you say. Your king is a thief and tried to steal what is mine.” Nicholas’s chilling tone raised the hair on her nape.

Turning, he swept Ysabelle along as they left the hall and entered the bailey. A host of Scotsmen mounted on strong warhorses awaited them. They held torches to light their way through the darkness. In the shadows, their eyes appeared grotesque and cruel.

The manor guards and the king’s knights lay upon the ground, groaning and nursing bloodied lips and heads. The Ram had spared them all, and Ysabelle wondered at his mercy. It was contrary to everything she’d been told about him.

When he tried to place her on his black destrier, Ysabelle panicked. As she flailed about, the ill-tempered stallion snorted and swung its massive head and sidestepped them.