Chapter Ten

Thorstan moved to the doorway with Master Cedric, Angus, and the other lords on his heels, the borrowed sword still in his hand. He stepped out into cold darkness where torches flared amid a blizzard of driving snow. Like the mood inside, the congenial Christmas weather had turned.

Master Cedric called to his stable hands, who swiftly brought Lord Julian’s horse. “Do as he asks. Do not obstruct him!”

The stable hands stepped away; everyone else hung back. Thorstan heard Cedric say, low, to the men beside him, “Have our lads bring more horses. We will away after them as soon as he rides out.”

Thorstan, aching with rage, watched as Julian muscled himself and Edwina onto the back of his mount, every movement a threat. She must feel the bite of the blade, because she had gone still, only her gaze turning toward Thorstan.

Even as Lord Julian gathered the reins, Master Cedric seized Thorstan’s arm.

“Kenweth, can you catch them?” he pleaded.

“I am not Kenweth.” Thorstan tore off his mask and cap, and looked the older man full in the eyes.

Cedric stared. “I know you! You are the fool. But you—”

“Father!” Edwina cried, and then she and Lord Julian were away into the curtain of snow.

Thorstan could feel Cedric’s emotions through the grip on his arm. The man’s eyes burned with blue fire. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“An imposter in your hall—a small landholder and a former mercenary,” Thorstan said tersely. “I am also the man who loves your daughter, as she loves me, and who will catch her with the lend of your best horse.”

Cedric’s fingers tightened painfully. “Bring my lass back safe, young man, and I will hear your suit.”

The stable hands led out a stocky pony, deep in the chest. Thorstan ran forward and vaulted onto it, bareheaded to the night. The guests milled about in confusion; a number of them held Lord Julian’s father captive.

Thorstan’s last glimpse through the falling snow was of Edwina’s mother clinging to her husband, desperate hope in her eyes.

They would bring more horses and follow after, but he could travel far faster on his own. Indeed, he should be faster than a mount hampered by two riders—if only he could see his way through this storm.

He pounded off into the whirling snow, the torchlight soon lost, and heard Angus roar behind him. The cold bit deep as the wind assaulted him in icy gusts. He tried to think clearly, to separate his intent from his emotions as he used to do on campaign, but he found it difficult. Edwina would be cold, clad only in her thin, gold cape and blue gown. She would be frightened, no matter her courage. And he could not afford to fail her.

The irony of it did not escape him: a hall filled with lords, and a fool sent to rescue her. But this fool owned her heart. And he could almost feel her love drawing him on through the night.

If the filthy weather hindered him, it must hamper Lord Julian as much. Where did he mean to take Edwina? Where suppose to hold her until she was ruined in truth or just in reputation?

Thorstan’s anger burned anew at the thought. How did Lord Julian suppose he might bring her back and Cedric not slay him rather than grant him Edwina’s hand? A light went on in his mind. Ah, but Julian had mentioned a priest; he meant to see the deed done this very night.

And the nearest priest, Thorstan knew, resided not far off at Guisborough. As a mercenary, he had needed often to follow his instincts. Pray God that served him well now. He pressed his knees into his mount’s flanks and urged the sturdy beast on into the raging darkness.

Yet the pair ahead of him had been swallowed by the storm into which they rode. He might have been alone in this world of snow and gusting wind, the weather his only companion.

Only let me reach her, he prayed to the god of the darkness, and I swear I will ask nothing more.

Yet not so much as a few hoof prints guided him; the wind scoured them away as soon as they were made. He followed the old road that passed his own holding, southeastward in the direction of Scarborough and the sea. He told himself there would yet be time to catch them in town, when Julian paused to hunt out the priest. But if he missed a turning in this darkness…

On he pressed, with the snow driving into his face and the road a ribbon turning white, enticing him into the unknown. Many times these last years had he lived with uncertainty: would he survive a raid, a skirmish, or a combat in some lord’s pay? Would he ever have the home for which he longed, a place to settle where he could stop his roving? Not until he saw Edwina ride by with her father had he imagined he desired anything more.

Not until he looked into her eyes did he know he had found his one home.

His pony faltered abruptly. He caught the beast up, and tried to urge it on, but it slowed to a walk and Thorstan’s heart sank. If the pony fell lame, his pursuit failed here and now.

Then, through the gusts of wind, his ears caught what the pony must have heard before him, a disturbance in the darkness just ahead, a woman’s voice raised in fear or anger.

Edwina’s voice.

Thorstan dismounted and, sword in hand, pushed forward into the maelstrom.

****

Edwina did not know when she had been so enraged or, were she honest, so frightened. Displaying unexpected strength and ruthlessness, Lord Julian had forced her up onto the horse, every movement jostling the blade against her skin.

She felt the icy sting of its bite and knew she was cut, if only superficially.

Julian lowered the blade as soon as they were away out of her father’s yard, but his arms still imprisoned her like bands of iron.

Soon, given the cold, she could barely feel any of her extremities. They had ridden into the maw of a storm such as frequently swept this country at the end of the year, and the beautiful costume she wore proved insufficient to protect her from snow and wind. Only Julian’s hateful arms around her and his body at her back lent any warmth. Much as she detested him, she knew she needed that protection.

She must survive until Thorstan came. How she knew he would come she could not say, save they had exchanged that one look, and his promise lay in it. Her every heartbeat made her certain. He would follow after because she was his—now and forever.

Her practical side reminded her she barely knew him. A few kisses and a dance in the dark did not evoke eternity. He came to her father’s door in disguise—he might be anyone. But she had seen him fight, a doughty man with a sword. She had seen the way his eyes danced, and felt his strength.

Whoever he might be, he was the man for her.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked Julian through lips stiff with cold.

At first it seemed he would not answer. She spoke again, in demand. “Where—?”

“To the priest. I told you back in the hall. Silly wench, do you not listen?”

“My father will kill you,” she told him succinctly.

“Not if I disappear with you after. You will see. Once you are with child, what can he do? He will have the heir he seeks. And everything he owns will be mine.”

“You are mad.” But Edwina’s heart plummeted, and for the first time her bright certainty wavered.

Could such a thing happen? If they stood before a priest… But where? The nearest must be at Guisborough. Could he then drag her away and force her to the marriage bed?

Anger flared still brighter within her, lending welcome heat. No, for she would kill him first, with his own blade if necessary.

“You think my father will accept such a marriage, such a child?” she spat.

“I know he will. Beneath all his silly bluster, he is a practical man.”

“And me? You think I will accept this marriage, speak the words before the priest—that I will not find a way to slit your throat in the night? You may make me wife, but I swear to you I will be widow soon enough.”

“Shut up, stupid cow! What do you know of how the world works? I saw you, shaming yourself with that jester.” Julian’s voice gusted in Edwina’s ear, like the wind. “You think I will fail in my task because of some buffoon?”

“Your task?” Edwina repeated.

“My father forbade me to fail him. Master Cedric may have overindulged you to the point of ruin. But me, I strive always to live up to my sire’s expectations.”

“Why, you small, arrogant excuse for a man!” Edwina, insulted as well as outraged, straightened and jerked both elbows back into his midsection.

When he emitted a satisfying “Oof!” she reached with her stiff, half-frozen fingers and drew on the reins, tearing them from his hands.

She might well be spoiled and headstrong, she might not be the delicate flower Julian would prefer, but she was a horsewoman and knew ponies. Their mount liked pressing on into this foul weather no more than she, and did not fight the command to halt.

Julian swore and grappled with her, but when he tried to close his hands on her arms she threw back her head in a wild movement and crashed it into his chin.

While still he howled in agony, she slid from the horse, turned in the swirling darkness, and ran back down the road.