Ena had lost her dagger in England. The thought sat low in her belly like a weighted stone and mixed with the anxiety already roiling there. She rode at Bran’s side, trying not to look like a sullen bairn. But though she was the older of the two of them, she felt exactly like one. Chastened, ready for rebuke, knowing she’d done wrong.
It shouldn’t be wrong for a woman to want to help. Men took all the risks; they faced the possibility of death every day and cut their rations to share with the women and children who’d done nothing to earn it. That was wrong.
Bran cut a hard glare at her and despite her resolve, guilt pinched inside her chest. The lean months had hollowed out his cheeks, giving his face a fierce sharpness. She hated seeing him wasting away in front of her.
His large frame had once been imposing with the bulk of his muscles. But over these last months, that strong physique had whittled down so much that she’d had to cut his belt shorter lest the end hang toward his knees.
“We’re here.” Bran’s entirely unnecessary announcement was delivered in a terse voice.
She’d seen the pele tower in the distance, most likely before he had. She’d tracked their progress with impending doom swelling like a storm in her chest. She was dreading this.
She hopped from her horse but snatched the reins before Bran could have the opportunity to do so. His jaw tightened and she knew she’d added another log to the blaze of his ire.
The man who took their horses caught sight of her without her helm. His eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth to speak.
“Nay,” Bran said.
The man pressed his lips together and quietly led the horses away. The silence left in his wake followed Ena and Bran into the small single room hut they shared. It was not unlike the one they’d lived in when they were children, before the attack that killed their mother and Gregor. Unlike the flimsy door that had let the English soldiers in then, Bran had procured one of thick, hearty wood with a solid piece of metal to secure it to the wall.
The room inside was cold and gloomy with the fire pit at the center of their home long since extinguished. It was her job to ensure it remained lit, that the scant food they had was hot and ready for Bran’s return.
He said nothing as he knelt by the tinder and struck the flint rocks together to get a spark. Their small tabby cat, Moggy, emerged from one of the beds and trotted to his side, rubbing her head against his hand while he worked. He stroked her once and continued his task. Within seconds, the fire crackled to life once more, filling the room with heat and light. Still he did not speak.
The anxiety in Ena’s belly congealed and tightened until she could scarce draw breath. Why wouldn’t he just get it out?
Instead, he tugged off his gambeson, lifted the top off the clay pot used to keep vermin out and took a hunk of the stale bread from within. He split it between them, giving her the larger of the pieces. When she didn’t take it, he sank down in front of the fire, his stare lost in the flames writhing dance as he held the pieces of bread, uneaten. Moggy flopped at his feet and studied him with her amber eyes, as though she too were trying to gauge his unusual mood.
“I can’t stand this,” Ena said at last. “Watching ye starve, doing nothing about it, waiting helplessly when ye go on raids, wondering what injuries ye might have when ye return. If ye return.”
A muscle in his jaw tensed.
He’d always been so bloody stoic. Even when their mother and brother had died, even when Ena nearly perished alongside them. A year her junior and far too young to face the burden of caring for the dying, he had stayed by her side all those years ago. He’d risked himself to pilfer food from the surrounding homes; homes with their murdered neighbors rotting within.
He’d done it for her. To save her when he could have saved himself.
Ena snatched the pieces of bread from him and threw them back into the clay pot. “Say something,” she demanded.
He swallowed, the action visible in the flex of his neck muscles, and his expression became intense with a look of determined concentration.
She plopped onto the ground beside him, startling Moggy, who flicked her ears with irritation before sauntering off to sleep elsewhere.
The heat of fire tingled at Ena’s chilled toes and fingers. “Yell at me,” she said vehemently. “Do it and be done. Tell me how foolish it was for me to go into battle. How I could have been killed. Do anything to end this silence going sour between us.”
He looked at her finally then, his eyes alight with emotion. With…with tears.
Her heart contracted.
Her brother—who led scores of men into battle, who feared nothing, who stood against the greatest foes and came out victorious—studied her now, his eyes swimming with tears.
“I could have lost ye, Ena.” His voice broke and he hung his head, putting his fingers to his eyes and pinching away the tears. “I saw that bastard fighting ye and I thought…” He shifted his attention from her to somewhere across the room and was quiet for a long moment. “Ye’re all I have left.”
Whatever verbal lashing she had expected, dreaded, would have been far more welcome than this. The emotional onslaught cut her deeper than any retribution he could have exacted. She put her hand to her chest, but it did not stem the ache flowing within.
“Bran.” She reached for his shoulder.
He flinched from her, his eyes dry once more, his expression stern. This was the Bran she knew.
“What ye did was foolish, Ena. Ye undermined my authority in front of my men and ye put yerself at risk.”
A bit of blood seeped through his dingy linen sleeve.
“Bran, ye’ve been injured.” She reached for it, but he pulled away again.
“Aye, struck by an English bastard when I thought ye were going to be run through.” He stared sharply at her. “This is why I dinna want women going into battle with us. No’ because ye’re no’ strong, but because it keeps the men from focusing on their own fights out of fear for those they love.”
Bran had been injured because he was distracted. Because of her.
She curled her hand into a fist so her short nails bit into her palms. Even the man she’d fought against had let his weapon lower once she’d cried out in a voice that was distinctly feminine. He’d even taken care in disarming her with a move that had not left so much as a red mark upon her skin.
My dagger. Irritation nipped at the back of her mind. She’d lost her bloody dagger.
“I promised to keep ye safe,” Bran said, his tone softer. “I will always keep that promise.”
“Ye were a lad,” Ena said through the tension in her throat. “We were both bairns.” She reached for his injured side once more. “Come, let me see to that.”
He lifted his arm and held it aloft from her outstretched hand. “Dinna put yerself at risk again, aye?”
She sighed, the heavy exhalation a mix of resignation and disappointment and hurt. “Aye.”
But even as she said it, her heart was not behind the vow. Not while Bran was still at risk. How could she not do something to help?
Reiving was always a game of loss and recovery as much as it was about theft. Renault rode over the Scottish border under the cover of darkness with ten other Englishmen. It was likely all they’d need to reclaim some of their cattle as well as steal a few of the Scot’s livestock.
Renault, however, would not be joining the reivers. Instead, he would be spying on the Scots for the English Middle March Warden. The Earl of Bothbury had personally assigned him with reporting details of the land, the number of residents, the weapons they kept.
It was a task Renault had been handling for months with each border town in Scotland. He noted homes, castles, defenses, fortifications; whatever might be useful to Lord Bothbury.
While the earl had not specifically promised to do so, Renault knew if he pleased the warden, he might one day be offered a coveted position as castle guard. Such a position would afford him the opportunity to live high up in the Kershopefoot Castle and wear the bold red livery that would proclaim him as one of the earl’s men.
He recalled seeing those men when he’d been a lad—a scrap of a beggar on the street, a nobody so insignificant he was virtually invisible. Someone had commented on the soldiers when they passed, saying those men deserved respect for they were men of honor.
That phrase had stuck in Renault’s mind. Men of honor. He’d been an orphan with nothing, whose dreams didn’t exist beyond the next day.
Ever since that moment, he’d known he wanted to be one of the warden’s men. And now, for the first time in his life, he was so damn close.
The clouds cleared away from the moon, leaving its satiny white glow to highlight the terrain in front of Renault and the ten English reivers. It was challenging to travel thus. They could see well enough, aye, but with no shadows to blend into, they were left exposed and at risk of being caught.
Thus far, they had encountered no Scotsmen, which only confirmed Renault’s suspicion—the reivers were most likely on another raid in England. If they were fools enough to return to the same village, this time they would find an army waiting.
The homes in Castleton were more scattered than those in Renault’s village and the heavy smoky scent of burning peat lingered in the air. Several pele towers dotted the landscape; one of them doubtlessly held the stolen cattle.
The pele towers were admittedly a clever way of keeping livestock safe. A round stone building with small windows and only one barred entrance. A second floor with a removable ladder protected people from being slain in an attack. The pele towers could be breached, but not easily, and they were nearly impossible to burn. The fortifications were so ingenious that several villages in England had begun to copy the design. Renault had even gone so far as to suggest it to the Earl of Bothbury, who had taken it under careful consideration.
The men around Renault broke away at the first tower, while he rode on through the quiet village. It was dangerous being on his own, but the hour was late, and most people would be asleep. He’d finished gathering what was needed, preparing to return back to England, when the bleat of a goat caught his attention.
He stopped his horse and strained to listen. It came again, a lone warbling call. This time, he located the sound from behind the whitewashed wall of a stable.
Renault had the information he’d set out to find, or at least how the simple huts were laid out in the village with a ready count and an estimation to the number of people who resided within. Might as well bring a fat goat with him in addition to the information.
He followed the sound and found a heavy wooden door affixed to the stable. A swift push confirmed it was secured from within. Locks were too costly for these people. No doubt someone had latched it from inside.
No matter, even that was easily navigated.
He jumped up and caught his weight on the frame of the door. With one arm, he awkwardly patted the back of the door, found the latch and released it. The door swung open with him still attached.
“Stealing this goat might be the verra thing that gets ye killed.” A woman’s voice broke the silence.
He dropped from the door and spun around, dagger in hand.
“Is that my dagger?” the woman cried indignantly.
He looked up and found the dark-haired woman from the previous night standing in front of him. Ena. Only this time, she wasn’t draped in a shapeless gambeson and her hair wasn’t bound away from her face. Nay, it fell down her back like a cloak of black silk, sweet waves so glossy, it made his fingers long to skim over such lovely tresses.
Her eyes flashed at him, long lashed and passionate. She wore only a simple nightdress, a white shift that caught the moonlight behind her and limned the shape of her body in a sensual shadow. Narrow waist, slender thighs, flared hips, full breasts.
God’s teeth.
“Get yer eyes back in yer skull before I pluck them out.” She put her hands on her hips. “And give me back my bloody dagger.”
She stood before him with her vengeful beauty, a mischievous fairy who had blended the loveliness of a woman with the strength of a warrior for an intoxicating blend of temptation unlike anything Renault had ever before known.
“Tell me your name.” He already knew it. He’d heard the man call out to her. Her husband?
He hoped not.
“When I see ye in hell, I’ll share it with ye.” She held out her hand.
“Are you married?” he pressed.
She scoffed and extended her outstretched hand closer to him.
He eyed the saucy minx. “If I give this dagger to you, you’ll kill me.”
“If ye keep it, I’ll kill ye to get it back.” She shrugged. “Either way, it willna bode well for ye.”
He slipped it into his belt, securing the blade in a sheath, and reached for the lead on the goat. If he’d been hoping for a fat beast to deliver to his people, he was wrong. The scrawny thing would barely feed a child. He doubted it even gave milk anymore.
He pulled at the lead and the goat strode forward on spindly legs, revealing a tabby cat snoozing lazily in a corner of the small stable.
The unarmed woman in her underclothes took a step closer, casting her completely in the silvery glow of moonlight and revealing creamy skin and a generous, rosy mouth. “Leave Maribel be.”
Maribel?
“After all the cattle you helped to steal?” He tsked. “Looks as though you should have killed me when you had the chance.”
Her cheeks flushed with color. “I shouldna have hesitated. I should have killed ye the way ye murder the Scottish, without mercy, filled with blinding hatred.”
“And you think the Scots are different?” He chuckled and strode around her with the goat.
“I’m warning ye now to leave Maribel be.” Her voice was laced with the threat. One he would not be heeding.
Which was why the punch to his head should have been expected.