The Penitent: De Wolfe Pack Connected World Read online

  Beady eyes stared at her from beneath one thick brow. His nose, already veined and reddened with the tell-tale signs of indulgence, rested above a mustache ripe with bits of food, ale, and things Iseabal did not wish to examine.

  I’d rather marry an Englishman.

  Caution barely kept the words behind her teeth. She fisted her hands in her lap, her nails biting into her palms as she struggled to tame her racing heart.

  “I will manage the keep for him.” For as long as it takes to hie away from here. “But marrying him is out of the question. The church will not allow it.”

  James’s glower dropped closer to anger, clearly a man unused to being denied.

  “Then I will keep ye as my mistress,” he growled.

  Albert raised a hand. “No need.” He graced Iseabal with an icy stare. “She has no family to contest the marriage.” He leaned back in his seat and took a sip from his cup. “And the priest is easily swayed.”

  Hew appeared at her elbow, his wrinkled face creased further with concern. “My lady, Ewan is . . . .”

  Iseabal didn’t scold Hew for giving her a title when she had none, but understood his deference and subtle rebuke to the loathsome men at either side. She wondered how much he’d overheard. None of it mattered, however. She must see to Ewan before Albert or his son questioned her.

  A child’s wail pierced the rowdy commotion. At the base of the stairs, Aggie stooped, her charge tugging against her hold. The lad slipped free and darted across the room, dodging both her attempts to capture him, and the various legs, boots, benches, and bodies in his path.

  Iseabal rose to her feet. Albert’s fingers clamped over her wrist, tightening painfully. Bringing her hand up, she swept it across his arm and down, breaking his grip. She sent him a cold look then stepped to the side, folding Ewan against her as he catapulted into her skirts.

  Albert’s furious gaze promised retribution. He calmly picked up his cup and took another sip, his eyes riveted on the child in her arms.

  “Who’s bairn is that?”

  Iseabal’s heart raced. “Mine.”

  James burped loudly and sat up, peering at Ewan. He gaze swam to Iseabal. “Ye arenae a virgin?”

  She leveled a steely glare at him and did not answer.

  James glanced at his da, a scowl on his face. “I dinnae want a spoiled wife. I willnae take another man’s bairn.”

  Albert stormed to his feet. “Ye will take her to wife.”

  James slumped back in his chair.

  Albert spun to Iseabal. “Get rid of the brat.”

  Simon de Brettesby canted his head as Lady de Wylde laughed, her voice a pleasant trill cutting sweetly through the general clamor of the hall. The sound almost brought a smile to his face. Almost. His lord’s new wife charmed everyone she met—including himself, though he was reluctant to admit it—but even her charms paled recently.

  A failure of his own, not hers. Nothing seemed as bright as it had only a month earlier when Lord de Wylde, now Baron of Galewood, had given him the distinct honor of his own holding. North Hall was strategically placed between his home of Belwyck Castle and the Scottish Border, which is why, Lord de Wylde had explained, it needed Simon’s leadership. Lord de Wylde, known along the Border as The Saint, had, it seemed, traded in his sword in anticipation of an enlarged family by late fall—and peace.

  Simon shook his head at his friend’s fanciful notion. Lord de Wylde was not infatuated enough with his new wife to imagine he’d never draw sword again. His reputation and the Border were both too volatile for that. But he was still in the first throes of marriage, and diligent enough that his lady wife was rumored to be breeding. With years of fighting behind him—and the scars to prove it—The Saint sought peace.

  Simon glanced about the room, newly reconstructed from the ruins of Friar’s Hill—as it had been known during Scottish occupation. The Border was a fluid thing. What was once Scottish was now English, though who knew where the line would be in a year? Two?

  Tonight he honored his liege lord and lady, welcoming them to his new hall. Colorful gowns and lithesome forms graced the chamber—a distinct difference from the past sennights when only a handful of dull-coated, rough-hewn knights and workmen had eaten at North Hall’s tables. He heartily approved the change, though it appeared his month of roughing it without female companionship was not yet at an end.

  “Times were simpler before The Saint accepted the title, eh Ellerton?”

  Walter de Ellerton, his closest friend and now de Wylde’s first in command, did not answer for the moment it took him to chew and swallow the chunk of roast pig he’d just placed in his mouth.

  “’Tis quieter,” he agreed, his words pensive and abbreviated as usual. Simon despaired of ever coaxing his friend into a deep philosophical discussion, or even light sardonic banter. No, Walter was too straightforward for such. But a better warrior or more loyal friend he’d never find.

  “Battle is uncomplicated,” Simon put forth, slouching on his bench—having relinquished his chair to de Wylde—pushing a piece of squash around on his trencher with the point of his knife. “Go here and fight. Go there and hold a castle.” He paused, a thoughtful tilt to his head. “With no lingering long enough to break the ladies’ hearts.”

  Walter grunted. “’Tis never worried ye before.” He glanced from Lady Marsaili to Simon. “Looks like ye are wishing for a woman to do more than warm yer bed.”

  “Bah.” Simon shoved his trencher across the table. “I like variety.”

  Walter grinned. “The women from Belwyck are familiar with yer reputation.”

  Simon snagged a piece of meat from Walter’s tray and popped it into his mouth. “Mayhap ye are right,” he grumbled around the pork. He swallowed. “The women who accompanied my lady greet me with sweet smiles and firm shakes of their lovely heads.”

  “They seek to be Lady of North Hall, not its master’s bawd.”

  “Is that all they think about?” Simon tossed his knife to the table with a clatter. A group of young ladies at the far end of the table glanced up then tittered, heads clustered together like a flock of guinea hens. Simon eyed them, looking for the slight tilt of chin, the twinkle of an eye, anything to indicate one of the ladies would welcome his advances.

  Nothing.

  “Is it so wrong to share the master’s bed?” he murmured, not really expecting Walter to answer.

  “A woman doesn’t wish a skirt full of bastards, Bretteby. Even the meanest among them wishes a husband who is faithful.”

  Simon shifted, placing a booted heel upon the bench. “Then why do ye not have women flocking to your side? Ye are strong, lacking in reputation as a lady’s man, and not ill-favored—from a woman’s standpoint.”

  To his surprise, Walter flushed. A dull red swept up his neck and stained his weathered cheeks. “I do not have the funds to keep a wife,” he replied, his voice low. “A woman isn’t likely to see me as a worthy husband.”

  “Nonsense! Ye could have your pick of cottages in the keep and sport a new babe every year. The Saint isn’t going to allow his commander’s wife to lack in food or shelter.” He clapped Walter on the shoulder as he rose. “I believe ye could have your pick of the young ladies here—if ye but showed an interest.”

  With sudden clarity, Simon caught the subtle drift of Walter’s gaze. A young woman, her dark locks burnished copper and gold in the bright glare of torches, waited the tables.

  “Ah, young Rosaline.” Simon clucked his tongue sorrowfully. “I could inquire as to her preferences, though ’tis my understanding she is betrothed to one of the village lads.”

  Walter drew back, eyes wide. “Nae. I will not approach a woman who is spoken for.”

  Yet his gaze returned to Rosaline as she refilled mugs. She stiffened as a man’s casual hand rested lightly on the curve of her buttock. Walter’s knuckles whitened on his knife.

  “Relax,” Simon murmured. “My men know better than to force a wench.”

  Walter
gave a single nod and wrenched his gaze away.

  “We both should consider the benefits of a comely woman, even at the expense of installing her as a preferred bed partner for a time.” Simon frowned. “Though I hesitate to give that much power to any who seek to rise above their rank.”

  “I could put forth a rumor ye are looking for a bride,” Walter offered. “A lady for yer hall.”

  Dinner soured in Simon’s belly. He leaned close to Walter’s ear. “Ye do, and I will cut off that big nose of yers and feed it to the swine.”

  Chapter Two

  Iseabal’s heart raced. A sour taste rose in the back of her mouth. Albert Maxwell and his son could force her to send Ewan away. Or have him killed.

  She wanted to defy the order, but knew her son would be ripped from her arms if she did not appear frightened and obedient. She was most definitely frightened. Obedience, however, had never been her best attribute.

  Aggie stepped hesitantly forward. “I will take him, m’lord.”

  Iseabal’s gaze met Aggie’s, and a bolt of understanding passed between them.

  “I know of a family who’d be happy for a lad such as him. Dinnae fash.” Aggie crossed the floor and knelt beside Ewan, her old knees creaking. “Come along, my wee nacket. Aggie will see to everything.”

  Ewan buried his face deeper into Iseabal’s skirts. Firmly, gently, Iseabal pried his fingers from the cloth. Holding his hands, she squatted before him.

  “Go with Aggie, dearling. She is in charge of ye now.” Certain her words had reached Albert, she leaned closer, inhaling the bairn’s subtle scent as she whispered in his ear. “Dinnae fash. I will be upstairs with ye soon.”

  Ewan’s body drooped in reluctance and she sent Aggie a fierce look. “Wait for me,” she hissed.

  Aggie gave a nearly imperceptible nod and gathered Ewan’s unresisting form to her ample breast. Ewan gave Iseabal a final look of longing that tore her heart from her chest, then buried his face against Aggie’s shoulder.

  Knowing she’d never see him again if her half-formed plan did not work, Iseabal watched Ewan’s golden head as Aggie climbed the stairs, child in her arms. She sank slowly into her chair. Numb. Unable to think.

  “’Tis how things are done,” Albert said, approval in his voice. “James simply doesnae wish an ill-gotten wean cluttering his hall when he has ye poppin’ out bairns for him.”

  Iseabal suppressed another shudder and swallowed the urge to vomit. She mentally counted, giving Aggie time to get Ewan safely to her bedroom. The racket in the room washed over her in a blur of sound.

  “Marcus may have been a bastard son, but he always knew where to find the best whisky!”

  James’s shout shook Iseabal from her focus as a cheer went up around the room. Wooden benches scraped along the floor as soldiers made way for two stout men who rolled a cask into the room. Two others followed. The sharp rap of a mallet rang as they opened the small barrels. Whisky was quickly ladled into mugs and passed about. The fumes, a heady blend of browned sugar, rum, and dried fruit, filled the room. With no small alarm, Iseabal hoped the stuff didn’t ignite.

  The whisky was quickly gone. Swilled by the swine in her hall. Her hall.

  “Eaglesmuir is now mine!” James roared drunkenly.

  Furious, Iseabal rose. James grabbed her arm, pulling himself to his feet. He stumbled forward and fell, shoving Iseabal to her back across the table, his belly atop hers. The odor of spilled whisky and cooling grease splashed over her. He sneered.

  “Marcus’s daughter is also mine.” He ground his pelvis into her, his cock mercifully flaccid after untold mugs of ale and whisky. A small bulge formed as he rocked back and forth.

  “Get off me!” Iseabal shouted, battling back panic as her skirts rode up her legs.

  James’s grin widened and he planted his palms on either side of her head, locking his elbows to steady himself.

  Stiffening her fingers, she drove them toward his eyes as hard as she could. James flinched his head, her strike landing on the bony rims rather than the globes themselves. She raked her nails down his cheeks, the leathery flesh tearing beneath the force. James screamed, his voice a high-pitched wail. He rolled to one side, his hands covering his face.

  Iseabal quickly slid to the floor. Dropping to her knees, she dove beneath the table.

  James came to his feet with a roar. A fist grasped her skirts, bruising her rear in the attempt to stop her. Iseabal rolled to her back and kicked her attacker. He released her and she scrambled backward on her elbows, the broken ends of rushes digging into her wrists and palms. The bench behind her skidded across the floor as it was wrenched away. Hands grabbed her shoulders and hauled her to her feet.

  Strands of hair straggling in her face, one sleeve ripped from its seams, she straightened, fury in every move. She met Albert’s enraged look. He flung one hand to his side, blocking James from reaching her. James roared something, but her ears rang with the racing beat of her heart.

  It couldn’t have been complimentary.

  She gulped a deep breath and her heart rate eased slightly.

  “She’s mine!” James tried to push past his da’s arm. Albert silenced him with a look.

  “Lock her in her room.” Albert glanced about the hall, wariness replacing the shock on the men’s faces. Some gripped the hilts of their swords, others braced a hand on a neighbor for stability.

  Albert stepped around the table until his chest was only inches from Iseabal. Fury rolled off him in palpable waves, hot and dangerous.

  “Ye will wed James in the morn. After yer vows, ye will belong to him.”

  Simon rolled from the bed, his feet meeting the cold boards of the lord’s bedroom.

  A rug or tapestry? Mayhap like those in bedrooms at Belwyck Castle? It had seemed a monumental waste of good weaving to toss the plush fabric onto the floor just to cushion one’s feet, but after years campaigning with The Saint, sometimes in frigid weather, in conditions best described as crude, he was coming to believe the comforts of home should be just that—comfortable.

  He glanced at the woman tangled in the blankets on the bed, her dark brown hair spilled in mysterious shadows across the white linen of the pillowcases. A memory flashed of silken hair of an even darker hue, so black it rippled with a blue sheen to her hips . . . .

  He shook his head. Rising at dawn seemed to make him maudlin lately. And restless. Even more so since he’d taken over North Hall and found himself settling in as it’s lord.

  I do not want a wife! He stepped to the ewer. Pouring water into a bowl, he then splashed cold droplets over his face. Bracing. Manly. Frigid water dripped onto his belly and he flinched.

  If this is what happens when one becomes lord of a holding, I prefer the stench of a battlefield and the awareness of being alive another day.

  Kaily moaned softly and rolled to her back, breasts mounding beneath the thin blanket. Simon noted their shape appreciatively, recalling how they overflowed his hands. His cock twitched in mild interest, shocking Simon who’d considered climbing back into bed for an early morning tumble.

  No more interest than that? Was he aging beyond the point of interest in women? The panicked thought skittered through his brain. How long before he grinned mindlessly at young women as they walked past without thought of bedding them?

  He inhaled slowly. No, he’d had no difficulty last night bringing himself and Kaily to delicious heights of passion. Several times. Now sated, she simply did not interest him further.

  Keeping that bit of information to himself, for he would surely welcome her back to his bed, if not this night, then another night soon, and did not wish to ruin her hopes of something more, he dressed and padded quietly out the door.

  Simon blinked as his first-in-command halted next to him. Settling his forearms across the wide stone parapet wall, Garin tilted his head inquiringly. Simon stared over the land surrounding the keep, the rolling moorland giving way to forests, and beyond the woods, Solway Firth.


  “Do ye recall the summer we brought Lord Maxwell’s bastard son to heel?”

  Simon clamped his mouth shut. Where did that come from? He’d meant to speak to Garin about the duty roster, not share his deepest thoughts.

  Garin shrugged. “’Twas just after The Saint was injured and sent to recover at the monastery. We’d been recalled to Belwyck Castle where his eldest brother was lord at the time.” He squinted as if stirring up the memory. “Ye were injured and we lost track of yer damn horse.”

  “I could not think straight after taking a blow to the head from that bearded Scot bastard,” Simon admitted, though they’d been over this before.

  “’Twas fortuitous, nae, a miracle ye discovered a place to hide until ye could manage to find yer way back across the Border.” Garin slid his gaze to Simon, inviting him to reveal the truth of the matter. Silence stretched. “Though it took ye long enough.”

  Simon flipped a hand. “Bah. A handful of days. The land is treacherous north of the Border.”

  “The Scots are treacherous, as well. ’Twould have been easier if ye’d had help.”

  Simon hesitated. He’d told only Walter the truth of his injury. Of the sweet Scottish lass who’d hidden him when he’d stumbled from the woods after being thrown from his horse—incurring a second bump to his already damaged head.

  Gentle fingers had stroked his stubbled cheek, pink lips murmured soothing words. Her skin glowed, the palest he’d ever seen, yet its rosy tint warmed him to his toes.

  So had the passion she’d shared with him almost a sennight later when he was in his right mind and he’d loved her beneath a summer moon.

  Mayhap he hadn’t been in his right mind. She’d been wise for her years, solemn. He’d wanted to tease a smile onto her lips, ease the fierce denial which had come over her when it was clearly time for him to leave. It had been madness to seduce the Scottish lass. Madness he only rarely allowed himself to remember. Yet her memory had risen more and more lately.

  She’d likely married long ago, with a passel of brats at her heels. A knot twisted in his gut to think of her in another’s arms, though he had no claim on her—other than the privilege of sharing her first encounter, willingly and passionately.