Anice's Bargain Page 2

  James knew all too well how horrific those final moments truly could be. “Dinna ye see I’m doing this for yer own good, old man?”

  Laird Graham scoffed. “As do I, lad. As do I.”

  James pushed up from the roughhewn bench and stepped away, desperate to let the cool night air smooth the ragged edges of his irritation. His father’s wheezing laugh followed him, until it became distant enough to fade into the backdrop of the camp. James drew a deep breath to calm his racing pulse and appreciated his ability to do so without the lancing pain in his chest he’d experienced so many months ago.

  The scar stung at times in a sharp, internal way; nothing he could soothe, but for the most part, he had recovered from the thrust of a sword into his chest. He’d used the idle time at camp to strengthen his body once more and was grateful to have recovered so fully.

  He knelt at the edge of the small creek, cupped water into his palms and splashed it over his face. It was cold against his hot skin. Refreshing. He sighed and leaned his head back. It was then he realized he was not alone.

  He put his hand to the hilt of his dirk, his muscles tensed to spring from his crouched position as he slowly glanced to his left. He went still.

  It was no warrior standing several paces away, but a woman. Nay—a goddess of the old ways—for truly no mortal woman could possess such an ethereal presence. Moonlight glowed off her in a radiant sheen, from the purity of her white gown, to the perfection of her fair skin and the brilliance of her golden hair. She was a moniker of peace, a symbol for everything pleasing and right in a world that had gone so damn wrong.

  A massive dog, the size of a small pony, came from behind her and stood in front of her like a sentry.

  The woman beheld James with long-lashed pale eyes, her gaze beseeching. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, gentle, far too appealing. And completely English. “I need your help.”

  2

  Anice’s pounding heart had been unexpected, as had the rush of memories of her mother. The days after their mother’s attack by a Graham, the despondency of the child she’d been left with, and their own dear Leila whose birth had been so violent, it had taken their mother’s life.

  All because of the Grahams.

  At once, rage, horror and disgust flooded Anice. Her stomach roiled with nausea and her muscles went tight.

  Piquette bristled at her side, protective, as though sensing his mistress’s discomfort.

  “Are ye injured?” The man rose.

  Anice followed his ascent, watching the tallest, largest man she’d ever seen rise to standing. Her skin prickled, acknowledging her fear. These men had attacked Werrick Castle fourteen years prior. They had killed Anice’s people, plundered fine goods and raped her mother. Her idea to come was truly foolish.

  “Are ye well, lass?” He stepped toward her.

  She flinched and then berated herself for having done so. These men were beasts. Showing them weakness would be like giving a hound the scent of a fox during a hunt. She notched her chin upward in what she hoped would appear as a show of strength. “I have come to speak to the man in charge of the Graham reivers.”

  “Who are ye?” he asked.

  “Lady Werrick, Countess of Werrick,” she lied. She had put much thought into this answer prior to leaving the safety of her home. Name and position held great weight. As simply the daughter of an earl, she was an easy target, one whose innocence was as tempting as the opportunity to besmirch the Barrington name. But a countess carried clout, far more than a mere daughter.

  Though her mother had been dead for well over a decade, it was entirely plausible that Anice’s father would remarry. In fact, it would be expected, especially with five daughters and no sons.

  Anice hoped this warrior would assume her to be a new wife rather than a daughter. She needed every advantage she could get. The man stood with his back to the bright moon, his face cast in shadows. He observed her for a moment, then walked away. His large hand beckoned, and she followed with Piquette at her side.

  Her heart danced in her stomach, her body alight with trepidation and wariness. Ahead of them was a sea of tents, the little triangular tops of white welling in the night like capping waves.

  Several men stopped, gaping as she strode proudly by. She did not look at them, but she could feel their stares on her like something greasy and slick, as if they groped her with their eyes. In that instant, she regretted the kirtle with its low-cut bodice and its fitted waist, and the belt that hung tightly around her hips. Piquette issued a low, menacing growl.

  “Have ye no’ ever seen a lass?” The reiver leading her spun around to glare at the eyes feasting on her.

  As suddenly as the men had surrounded her path, they now disappeared. This time when the man faced her, the full glow of the moon shone on him, revealing a straight mouth beneath a cropped brown beard and pale eyes. Not a handsome man, but nor was he ugly. Not like she’d expected of the Grahams. She’d remembered them with pockmarked faces and gaps of missing teeth, a child’s memory of terror.

  The man folded his arms over his chest. “Go on.” He nodded her forward, and Anice had the sudden suspicion she might be more prisoner than guest.

  Of course, she had anticipated such a possibility when she decided to go through with her scheme. It was a risk she was willing to take to aid her family.

  There were a lot of things she’d considered. They might try to kill her, or threaten her at the gates of Werrick as Marin’s husband had done with their younger sister, Catriona, years ago. For those reasons and countless others, Anice had taken care to strap a dagger to her thigh and cut the bottom from her dress pocket, ensuring she could reach the blade at a moment’s notice. Whether to defend herself and Piquette or, if she were to be used as bait to lure the castle gates open, to end her own life.

  The deeper they wound into the camp, the more pungent was the scent of roasting meat. It had been so long since she’d had more than simple grain or a bit of vegetables from the garden. Meat. Poultry. Fish. Venison. Beef.

  Her heart drummed faster and spots of white blossomed in her vision. Fat hissed on flames, skins charring with tender meat roasting within. She desperately longed for the tear of it against her teeth and her mouth filled repeatedly with saliva.

  She kept her head held high, but she could not stop her lingering gaze at a bit of beef slung over the fire. Piquette’s head bobbed upward with each inhale, his stare fixed on the meat they passed. Still, as hungry as she knew he was, he stayed with her.

  She strode toward the large tent standing out among the myriad smaller ones and conceded once more that perhaps this decision would cost her life.

  The large man pushed at the tent flap, lifting it from her path in an unexpected show of chivalry. Anice gathered closer her courage, nodded her thanks and passed through it. The air inside was thick with the heavy, smoky odor of tallow dips on several tables around the large tent. Oily black smoke curled up from the bit of cloth set in the saucers of pooled fat.

  The man inside, Laird Graham presumably, rose from a chair as she entered. While larger than her, he did not stand nearly as tall as the man who guided her into the tent.

  Thin strands of white hair hovered like fine threads of cotton over his otherwise glossy pate. There was a gauntness to his sharp featured face, lending him a skeletal appearance. He narrowed his glittering eyes at her and then turned to the tall man.

  “Who the hell is this?” He demanded.

  Piquette sat forcefully in front of Anice as though he meant to shield her from this man. “I am Lady Werrick, Countess of Werrick,” she replied for herself. “I intend to treat you with civility and would expect likewise from you.”

  “Why would ye do that?” His lip lifted in a partial snarl.

  “Because I feel as though everyone deserves the opportunity to disprove rumors spread about them.”

  He barked out a harsh laugh and his dark eyes bore down on her like a beast about to devour its prey. “And what
have ye heard?”

  A shiver slithered down her spine. She was grateful for Piquette and his strength. She gently ran her fingers over the thick reddish-brown fur of Piquette’s neck for comfort. The dog did not move, but kept his stare fixed with lethal intensity on the laird of the Grahams.

  Her gaze slid unintentionally to the man who brought her to the tent, the one who had acted with chivalry. His glare was fixed on the laird she spoke with, his body tensed as though he intended a fight, as though he was not her jailor, but her protector.

  James could kill his father. The old man leered at the young countess, letting his gaze slide over her breasts and the sensual flare of her hips beneath the fitted dress. James’s stomach roiled in disgust. How had he gone so many years without ever questioning his father’s judgments, his tactics?

  Lady Werrick regarded his father with scrutiny. “I’ve heard more of you than you’ve heard of me, I assure you,” she replied levelly. “The Grahams have quite the reputation.”

  “What part of that reputation is it ye’re here for?” The laird stepped closer and stared pointedly at the swell of her bosom rising above the fine silk gown. The massive brown dog in front of her issued a low, rumbling growl from deep within its chest and readjusted its stance.

  James’s own body tensed at his father’s obvious attempts at intimidation. True, he had never seen his father strike a woman, or take one by force, but with the countess’s slender arms and the narrowness of her waist, it was obvious she was a slight woman, as delicate as she was beautiful. And she was beautiful.

  The room swam with her delicate jasmine scent, and the glow from the various tallow dips played over her curls. While she seemed fragile, her strength lay in her appearance. And a woman like her knew how best to wield her only weapon. In fact, she most likely had spent considerable time preparing herself for this meeting with his father in the hopes to disarm him with her loveliness.

  The thought allowed him to pull his gaze from where she stared up at his father with wide blue eyes, her full mouth carefully parted in a way meant to be becoming.

  “I want to plan a meeting, a negotiation.” She licked her lips. “For peace.”

  Aye, she played her game well.

  “What do ye have that I want?” Implication was ripe in Laird Graham’s tone and gleamed in his eyes.

  James stepped forward and glowered at his father. The old man was going too far.

  The countess narrowed her eyes. “I think you’d be surprised what can be offered.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” Laird Graham smirked. “And why is it yer husband sent his wife to do his speaking for him?”

  “Will you meet with us or not?” Her fast reply gave way to what James was beginning to suspect. She had come alone, and without her husband’s blessing.

  “And how do we know ye willna kill us if we agree?” the laird demanded.

  “You would have to trust me.”

  “What do ye think, lad?” James’s father cast a pointed look in his direction.

  “The Earl of Werrick has great wealth,” James replied slowly. What was the old man playing at? He knew James’s position. “It would be worth the attempt.”

  “I dinna trust well, especially regarding the English.” The laird nodded to the massive brown beast. “Leave yer dog with us.”

  The countess put a hand to the dog’s shoulders. “Nay.”

  James’s father shrugged. “Then we willna meet with ye.”

  She glanced back at James, as though she expected he might intervene on her behalf. For the first time, the defiant strength in her eyes dimmed. Indecision warred on her face. Surely, they were nearly out of food in the castle at this point. Her people would be starving. Most likely that had forced the countess beyond the protective curtain wall of Werrick Castle.

  For his part, James could not help the rise of pity in his chest for the woman. Mayhap it was that concern for her that made him step forward. “If ye leave the dog here, I’ll mind him myself.”

  She knelt and curled her arm around the dog’s chest, hugging him closer. A ruby ring glinted on her right hand.

  “I’ll guard him with my life.” James held out his hand to the dog. When it did not growl at him, he moved his hand closer and gently scratched the underside of the brown chin. While it did not crane into his hand with affection, nor did it bite him. Instead, the dog fixed large amber eyes on him, as though conveying its lack of trust.

  “I’d rather you keep me instead,” the countess said with finality.

  “Aye, but yer beast canna relay the message to yer husband.” James’s father said. “The dog stays, and we will meet ye tomorrow when the sun goes down.”

  She was silent so long, James thought she might refuse. Her head bowed toward the great beast and the soft breathy notes of indiscernible whispers rose from her whispered words to her dog. When she lifted her head, her eyes held a glossy sheen. She drew in a deep breath and rose. “Not when the sun goes down. You will meet us at noon.”

  James almost laughed at her brazen demand.

  “If we can come to agreeable terms,” she continued, “then your men can begin leaving the castle grounds. And my dog will be returned to me.” She lifted her chin with the authority of her esteemed position.

  “Noon,” the laird declared. “And the beast stays, or ye’ll all die in those walls.”

  The countess’ eyes met James’s. “If you harm him, I will kill you.” For all her prettiness, there was an edge to her tone that told him she would make good on her threat or die trying.

  The laird scoffed and nodded to the tent flap. “Take this wench back to her husband.”

  “Piquette walks with us,” she said.

  James’s father waved his hand dismissively, decidedly done with the whole mess.

  The countess regarded James with her long-lashed blue eyes before turning on her heel toward the tent flap. There had been something in the way she’d looked at him—a fearlessness, almost a challenge. This was no woman to easily tamp down. Piquette trotted after his mistress, the beast’s shoulders jutting up like bony sticks from his haunches.

  James followed after her and put himself at her unoccupied side. “Yer dog could use a good meal.”

  When she did not answer, he glanced down at her. The moonlight hit her just so and shadowed the hollows in her collarbones and cheeks. She was nearly starving herself. No doubt she tried to feed Piquette as well as was possible, given their limited means.

  Disgust coiled low in James’s belly. He hated being part of this life, scraping people’s misery for their own gain.

  “I’ll see he is fed well,” James offered.

  The countess stopped and she regarded him with a large-eyed hope that bore into his soul. It gave him a glimpse of the hurt she’d suffered during this siege, of the desperation leading her to make this great sacrifice of leaving behind a beloved pet. She looked away abruptly and strode onward, severing the connection.

  “That would be good of you.” She spoke softly, the charged defiance in her tone softened by evident gratitude.

  The shift in her demeanor was that of a woman made hard only through circumstance, a woman who might be entirely different under another situation. And though he had thoroughly learned his lesson when it came to alluring women, he could not help the stir of sympathy.

  He leaned slightly closer to speak, to ensure they could not be heard by the tents falling away behind them. “I could get food for ye as well if ye like.”

  Her breath caught. But she swallowed and shook her head. “Nay but thank you. I ask only that you care for Piquette. He is dear to me.”

  James put up a hand to still their forward progress. Several arrows jutted from the ground a few feet in front of them, marking where the range of arrows could not strike them. He waved his hands and shouted out to the English soldiers along the castle wall to get their attention. “Yer countess wishes to return to the castle,” he called. “Dinna shoot.”

  Atop the battle
ments of Werrick, the archers lowered their bows. The countess knelt beside her dog and wrapped her arms around the great beast. Piquette’s high-pitched whines rose to James, as though he understood the transaction.

  “I promise ye I’ll give him the greatest care.” James spoke as the countess rose, before she could issue any more of her ready threats.

  Except there were no threats on her tongue. But there were tears in her eyes, gleaming and unabashed in her regret at leaving her beloved beast.

  “I anticipate his safe return.” She turned away with great hesitation and made her way to the castle. While she strode forward, she glanced over her shoulders several times like an anxious mother leaving a child.

  Piquette whimpered again and shifted his position, restless with unease. On several occasions, he tried to follow, but each time Anice put up a hand to still him and he settled beside James once more.

  “Dinna worry.” James reached out to the dog and rubbed his hand over the large brown head.

  The dog eyed him with a wariness a few strips of venison would doubtless ease. Ahead, the countess waited at the great gates as they opened to her.

  For her sake, and for that of her people, he hoped an agreement could be reached between the Earl of Werrick and Laird Graham.

  Especially as James’s father’s negotiations did not come cheap.

  3

  The following day, a few minutes prior to noon, Anice trailed after her father as he swept from the solar. Her clipped pace matched his, as did her determination.

  “I told you not to come,” he muttered. His mood had been sour since her return from the Graham camp the prior evening, going first from shock to outrage. Initially he’d declined any meeting with the Grahams, until Anice pleaded for Piquette’s safe return.