The Penitent: De Wolfe Pack Connected World Page 9

  She’d remained the night in his arms, awakening each time he touched her, unable to resist him even when she ached with the afterglow of her arousal. Yet the morning came, and he was gone.

  Iseabal breathed deep, sending the memory back to its place deep within her heart, and hazarded a glance at Mary.

  The older woman’s eyes told her she did not have to explain what had occurred between her and Simon. Though Mary and Clyde had been married for nearly thirty years, Iseabal had thought it sweet to see the two of them side by side, fingers entwined as they relaxed after a hard day’s work. It wasn’t just sweet. It was love.

  “I cannae tell him,” Iseabal whispered. “I cannae risk losing Ewan to him.”

  “He isnae married, nor betrothed, if the gossip is true—and it usually is. He has a spot in his heart for ye. I saw how he looked at ye today.”

  “He may have fond memories, but ’tis not enough to get past the fact he is an English lord and I am the daughter of a bastard Scot.”

  “Ye dinnae think it difficult five years ago,” Mary pointed out.

  “He was a knight, not a landed lord.”

  “He would have been obliged to leave ye at whatever castle he called home for long periods of time among English ladies who would have spurned and made fun of ye. ’Tis possible he did ye a favor.”

  “I dinnae doubt he felt he did. That doesnae mean things would be different now.”

  “North Hall is his to hold for his liege. The land is his to safeguard as well. He may be called away to fight for his lord or king, but that is no longer his entire life. He has room now for a wife.”

  “A Scottish lass and an English lord? I pitied my sister when she was sent away to marry for the sake of peace on the Border. I must find her, though Hew gave me little hope of it.”

  Mary harrumphed. “Our Lady de Wylde is a lovely Scottish lass. Ye willnae find her suffering at Belwyck Castle. ’Tis rumored her husband is quite enamored of her.”

  Iseabal turned to Mary. “De Wylde? Is that not the man they call The Saint?”

  “One and the same. Once the terror of the Borders, now happily being led about the moors by a wee lass with flaming hair and a disposition to match. Not that she isnae kind and sweet, mind ye, but she can hold her own against the temperamental beast.”

  It would be too much of a coincidence. Or was Hew’s story inaccurate?

  Iseabal tapped a forefinger against her lips. “When will Hew and Wil return from seeing the ewes to summer grazing?”

  “Mayhap a sennight. Why?”

  “I need to ask Hew about my sister.”

  “Yer sister?”

  “Aye. He told me the last he saw of her, she had been speaking to two of The Saint’s men.” Her voice trailed off as realization struck. “I could ask Simon Lady de Wylde’s name.”

  Mary waved a hand languidly in the air. “Och, ’tis simple enough. Her name is Marsaili.”

  Simon glanced toward the shout from outside the gates. Expecting a handful of village workers, he set aside his tools at the sight that trailed the pair of men demanding entrance. A party of knights, mounted atop war horses, hooves pounding the packed earth, surged up the road. Banners flew from atop poles, announcing Lord de Wylde’s approach.

  Simon peered in shock at the two dozen or more mounted men. Had he somehow erred? What would convince The Saint to undertake a surprise visit to North Hall? Lord de Wylde was always welcome. It was the unexpectedness that worried Simon.

  He straightened his tunic and ran a palm over his hair. He reached for his short leather hauberk and pulled it over his head. Grabbing his sword and scabbard from the rock where he’d set them an hour earlier when they impeded his work, he buckled the belt about his waist then checked the placement of his daggers.

  “Let them in.”

  He strode across the second bailey, its outline taking shape with the massive stones awaiting placement in the deep trench being dug for the footing. Timing his approach, he and six men of his guard entered the main gate moments after the de Wylde procession.

  Simon glanced through the tight formation, searching for The Saint’s warhorse. Instead, he came nose-to-nose with Lady de Wylde.

  “My lady,” he managed, concealing his surprise behind honed manners. “’Tis an honor to receive ye at North Hall.” He glanced at the guards flanking her—stern-faced men in plate armor. “Might I ask the reason for your visit?”

  Marsaili, red hair flaming from beneath the white veil pinned to her riotous curls, dismounted and stalked the short distance to Simon. She fisted her hands on her hips.

  “I want to know what ye’ve done with my sister.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Kaily told me of the lass ye brought here.”

  “Kaily?” Simon didn’t seem to be following Lady de Wylde’s words properly. “She’s hardly had a chance . . . ye couldn’t . . . .”

  Lady de Wylde waved aside his protest. “She arrived last night and I left first thing this morn. ’Tis scarcely a morning’s ride away.”

  “Less, if my wife is in a tear about something.” Lord de Wylde stepped through the bristle of armed guards, his limp nearly gone despite the journey. But the same trip could only have been undertaken by wagon less than two months ago and Simon knew better than to mention resting the injury that had plagued the man for over a year.

  “’Tis good to see ye in the saddle again, m’lord.” Simon grinned. “About time to put that beastly horse of yours to doing something other than eating his head off and chasing the mares.”

  “Simon de Bretteby! I will have yer attention!” Marsaili’s Scottish brogue broadened alongside her obvious temper. “Tell me where ye’ve hidden my sister or I will tear apart this keep stone by stone.”

  Simon knew better than to brush off Lady de Wylde. She’d earned his admiration when The Saint, Walter de Ellerton, and he had encountered her in a village miles south of the Scottish Border, berating an innkeeper for withholding a replacement to her lame mount solely because she was a woman traveling with only a single servant for protection and propriety. And she’d earned his respect when she agreed to marry The Saint. He was well aware it took a special woman to win the heart of Geoffrey de Wylde, and he’d managed to tease Lord de Wylde rather unmercifully for falling for the woman who’d tormented him most of their journey through Northern England.

  “If ye would tell me your sister’s name, mayhap I could be of more help to ye, m’lady.”

  Lady de Wylde arched a brow. “Ye have a keep so full of unattached ladies ye cannae speak for her?”

  “My lady, there are mayhap a dozen ladies at North Hall. They are all spoken for, though none by me.”

  Marsaili stamped her foot. “I willnae be mocked. Bring her to me this instant.”

  “If I knew her, I would not hesitate,” Simon protested. “I swear there is not a woman here known to me as your sister. Ye are a striking woman, and though we’ve brunettes, blondes, and two silver-haired ladies in residence, there’s not a redhead among them.”

  “My sister’s hair is black,” Marsaili retorted, “and her name is Iseabal.”

  Iseabal glanced up the hill. Beyond lay North Hall. And information about her sister. She was impatient to speak to Simon, to demand—ask—he take her to Belwyck Castle. There could scarcely be two red-haired Scottish lasses named Marsaili along the Border. The coincidence was simply too great for Lady de Wylde not to be her sister.

  I am so happy ye found a man who loves ye, Marsaili. I’m sorry for the way we parted—that I dinnae understand how helpless ye were. I understand now what a sacrifice ye made, and how it kept Da satisfied for a time.

  It had taken quite a while, in fact, for her da to remember he had a second daughter. Iseabal had ensured she wasn’t in his presence very often once Marsaili and her brother were gone. By the time he sought to bring her to the attention of a neighboring laird’s son, her belly was round with child.

  Ewan.

  She couldn’t ima
gine loving anyone more. Simon was in the past, wasn’t he? He’d made no advances, given her no reason to think he wished more for her than safety in Friar’s Hill.

  He set men to watch over her.

  But he will rescind that order as soon as he determines James Maxwell is no longer a threat.

  He will marry an Englishwoman of excellent blood, above reproach. Capable of running his household. Raising his children. Sharing his bed.

  “Och!” Anger pricked tears behind her eyes. She wiped the back of one hand across her face before the drops could spill. “Quite a numpty ye are for pining over what ye cannae have. As soon as I’ve finished feeding the orphan lambs, I will march to North Hall, ask my question of his high lordship, then bid him good-day.”

  The sheep bleated as though in agreement, though it was much more likely they approved her decision to feed them than her declaration to walk to North Hall.

  “Ma!”

  Iseabal straightened, gently pushing away a lamb which grabbed a fold of her skirt and suckled heartily. Disappointed in the lack of nourishment found in the cloth, it bleated and wobbled to the ewe in the corner of the pen, likely in the hopes of managing a swallow or two before she realized he wasn’t her bairn.

  “Ma!” Ewan climbed up on the gate, a bannock in his hand. He waved the half-eaten oatcake. “Look! Horses!”

  His excited expression slid a bit toward fear and Iseabal hastened to reassure him.

  “Och, they will likely continue on to the village. Dinnae fash.”

  They watched as the horses ignored the rutted road to the town in favor of the rocky track to the croft.

  “They’re comin’ here!” Ewan slipped to the ground and ran across the yard. “Aggie! Mary!”

  Aggie stepped to the doorway, towel in her hands. She caught Ewan as he pelted past, slowing his headlong dash as he disappeared inside the house.

  Iseabal stared at the riders. Sunlight glinted off armor and bits of dangling harness. They moved purposefully, a slender pennant snapping in the breeze. Fear exploded in Iseabal’s breast. She set aside the small milk pot she’d used to feed the lambs, a wary eye on the soldiers.

  “Mary!” Iseabal took a quick step toward the house, then paused.

  A rider broke from the pack. The horse gathered speed and surged ahead of the others. Skirts billowed behind, a white veil rising from the rider’s head.

  A woman?

  The veil ripped away, revealing fiery red hair. Iseabal blinked.

  “Marci!”

  The shriek tore from her throat. Shoving the gate open, she raced down the road. Marsaili pulled her horse to a stop and leapt to the ground. Iseabal grabbed her sister, pulling her tight as tears fell. Marsaili’s arms wrapped about her.

  “Izzy, Izzy!” she chanted into Iseabal’s ear. Iseabal buried her face in her sister’s shoulder.

  Marsaili pulled back, sliding her hands down Iseabal’s arms to grasp her hands. “Why are ye here? Come back with me to Belwyck Castle. I want to hear what has happened.”

  Iseabal shook her head. “I cannae leave. Come, walk with me and tell me everything.”

  A dog barked and Iseabal glanced over her shoulder. Sheep trickled in a steady line through the pen’s open gate. Aggie ran from the house, waving her drying cloth in the air as she attempted to turn the sheep back.

  Iseabal exchanged a guilty look with her sister and they burst into giggles. Suddenly, the past didn’t matter, and Marsaili grabbed Iseabal’s hand as they picked up their skirts and ran to Aggie’s aid.

  “Tig! Put them up!”

  The young sheep, not as easily herded as the ewes would have been, kicked up their heels and scampered about the yard. Holding his injured leg against his body, Shep joined Tig, and the sheep were returned to the pen in short order. Iseabal and Marsaili collapsed onto a large boulder near the pen, breathless from their exertions.

  “Young sheep Mary promised to North Hall,” Iseabal gasped. “They arenae verra bright.”

  “No one is when they’re young, Izzy,” Marsaili noted with a somber note. “I’m sorry I was angry with ye when I left.”

  Iseabal shook her head, sobering instantly. “I dinnae stop to think what yer life would be like on the far side of the Border save for living among the English. I thought ye gave in to Da too easily. But he boasted of yer fine sacrifice for many months after, and I only knew how much I missed ye.”

  Marsaili patted her hand. “Especially after Ben died. I’m so sorry, Izzy. I know how close the two of ye were.”

  Iseabal sighed. “I dinnae know how much ye and Ben protected me until ye were both gone. But I learned to judge Da’s temper and kept busy and out of his way much of the time. I managed. Da died a sennight ago after a raid at Eaglesmuir, but we’ll leave that tale for later. What about ye?”

  Silence filled the moment between them. Marsaili seemed to understand what a blow their da’s death had dealt, even though he’d been a less than caring father. Iseabal could not bring herself to burden her sister with the harrowing assaults—on both the keep which led to Marcus’s death, and on herself which had forced her to flee in the night.

  Marsaili’s face smoothed. “As ye said, I managed. Andrew wasnae a terrible husband, but he died a few months ago and his brother was horrid.” She peered at the guards mounted nearby. “Flore had passed away a year earlier, so Hew and I escaped and headed north, intending to return to Eaglesmuir. That was a month ago, and during the worst blizzard ever! I left Hew at an inn and somewhat foolishly continued on my own. I was rescued a bit later by Geoffrey and his men, and, against my better judgement, fell in love with Geoffrey.”

  Her gaze moved to a large man keeping watch from atop a black war horse. “We wed nearly a month ago. I’m verra happy.”

  The smile on Marsaili’s face completely healed Iseabal’s heart. “I’m so excited for ye, Marci. Ye deserve better than Andrew.”

  Marsaili waved a hand airily. “Och, I daresay we both deserve to be loved, not merely used. But, why did Kaily say ye were at North Hall with Simon? Simon gave some garbled account of rescuing ye, and rain, and I dinnae stay to listen. I wanted to find ye.”

  Iseabal hesitated. How much should she tell her sister?

  “Ma?”

  Ewan halted at her side and placed a small hand on her skirt. Iseabal stared into his green eyes and smoothed a hand over his wind-blown curls. A smile curved her lips and she turned to Marsaili. Her sister stared at Ewan, eyes wide.

  “Oh, Iseabal. He looks like Simon!” Her look of surprise turned to Iseabal. “Ye arenae wed? Simon isnae wed.” Her jaw shut audibly and she shook her head. “I need to hear this, Izzy.”

  “’Twas foolishness. He dinnae . . . .” She sent Marsaili a pointed look, a nod to Ewan.

  Marsaili cupped Ewan’s chin in her palm. “Be a good laddie and run and tell Mary I’ll be stayin’ for a bit o’ bread and cider. The men can fend for themselves, so dinnae fash.”

  Ewan nodded. Marsaili held up a single finger. “Only one extra plate, remember. That’s a good lad.”

  Ewan darted back to the house.

  Marsaili perched on the boulder as if prepared to remain as long as it took to hear Iseabal’s confession.

  “Now. Tell me everything. When did ye meet Simon . . .?” Her eyes widened. “Och, he told me he’d been to Lockardebi. The radgie scoundrel! ’Twas ye he met there!”

  “Da and some of his billies got caught reiving and they were chased back across the Border by knights sent by Lord de Wylde. Simon was injured and I hid him in that old tumble-down croft until he healed.” Iseabal rolled a strip of her skirt beneath her fingers.

  “He was quite well when he left.”

  “He left a bairn in yer belly,” Marsaili noted. “Though I daresay he never knew. Young Ewan’s got the Maxwell brow and yer green eyes, but he has Simon’s golden curls.”

  Iseabal’s stomach dropped. “Mary noticed, as well. I worry what will happen if Simon finds out. I’ve no place else to go.”


  “What nonsense! Ye will stay with me at Belwyck Castle if necessary. Howbeit, if ye’ve a modicum of sense in yer head, ye will tell Simon straight away.”

  “Nae! He cannae know!”

  “He isnae daft. He will work out the truth soon enough. Better an accord between ye than anger. Besides, he is honorable and will take ye and his son in.”

  “I dinnae want him to take us in! I want to be left alone.”

  Marsaili snapped her fingers beneath Iseabal’s nose.

  “Ye’ll listen to me, Izzy Maxwell. Yer lad, as adorable as he is, is a bastard. Ye know how being known as such tormented Da. Is that what ye wish for Ewan? Decisions and chances taken from him because of his birth?”

  Iseabal stiffened. “It doesnae have to be that way. Everyone here believes I am widowed. None need know differently.”

  “So, ye’ll raise him on yer own? Here? To be a shepherd? When he could be a nobleman’s son?”

  “Stop! I dinnae wish to marry Simon.”

  “Ye have no family other than me. No one to protect ye, for I dinnae expect Lord de Wylde to side with ye in any decisions regarding Simon. Ye will wed one day. Do ye wish Ewan to be at the mercy of a man who may not accept raising another man’s son?”

  Iseabal gritted her teeth. “I willnae be forced to marry.”

  Marsaili laid a gentling hand on Iseabal’s forearm. “Dearest sister, think of Ewan. ’Tis not as if I’m recommending ye marry a total stranger, or a man who will cause ye harm. Simon is a good man.”

  “I know he wouldnae harm me intentionally. But I have changed. And Simon is now a stranger to me.”

  “Izzy, good marriages often begin with less. Please think on it. Howbeit, if ye cannae commend yerself to marriage, rest assured ye are always welcome at Belwyck with me.”

  “As yer companion?” Iseabal managed a wry grin.