Claimed By a Scottish Lord Page 2

  Their father‘s death four months ago might have delivered Ruark the Roxburghe earldom, but Jamie‘s imprisonment had brought Ruark home.

  That and the fact that Ruark and the warden were hardly strangers.

  Lord Hereford was a former British naval captain who had retired a year ago to his borderland estate to take up the mantle of English warden. He and Ruark had a long history that included Ruark‘s father murdered and now his half brother arrested for cattle lifting, a hanging offense according to law. Ruark had only just been informed of his half brother‘s arrest when he landed in Workington a week ago. Hereford held the boy‘s life for ransom in an attempt to do more than impoverish the Kerr estate.

  In Ruark‘s thinking, a man who would use a boy‘s life to entrap Ruark was a man who did not value his own life. Ruark would find Hereford‘s Achilles‘ heel if it was the last thing he ever did. Vengeance controlled him.

  Indeed Ruark rarely left anything to fate.

  “They‘re gone, Miss Rose. They‘re all gone now.‖

  Jack had run back from the hill overlooking the river and now stood at the cart as Rose held the pony‘s reins.

  Thank heavens. She skimmed the open fields between her and the abbey. Sheer luck had caused her to see the riders in the distance or she would have been caught in the open when they crossed the bridge.

  She and Jack had taken the old drover trail out of town, which shortened the distance to the abbey from town by two miles. But while the trail took her to the backside of the abbey, almost directly to the stables, it also exposed her for a hundred yards to the riverbank.

  This was former reiver territory, after all. Exercising caution was always wise in a world where power was its own law, and Lord Roxburghe was more powerful than most. One did not earn the name Black Dragon without cause. ―Are you sure it was Lord Roxburghe and his men?‖

  ―Aye, mum,‖ Jack said, excitedly. ―They carried a standard all splashed in blood with a fire-breathing monster flappin‘ in the wind like the tail of a dragon. Is it true he be a pirate, Miss Rose? I heard he‘s sunk twenty ships but that the king won‘t hang him because he‘s made the crown rich.‖

  ― ‘Tis a crimson standard, Jack.‖ Her eyes caught a flash of lightning. ―Get back on the cart. We don‘t need to worry about being seen now.‖

  Bright hazel eyes aglow, the boy hopped nimbly into the cart and Rose clicked her tongue. The pony jerked forward.

  ―Coooee. The Black Dragon.‖ Squinting his eyes, Jack eagerly sought another glimpse of the riverbank, which was in full view as the cart emerged from the woods. ―Were we hiding because ye think his lordship would have trussed us like a boar to a spit and tossed us in the river?

  Ye have yer dirk. Ye wouldna have let anything happen.‖

  ―Nay, I would not have,‖ she said, attempting to put his twelve-year-old imagination to rest before he gave himself nightmares. No doubt his mind lingered on the more gruesome details of capture, and though he liked to think himself as Rose‘s protector, he was still only a boy, recovering from his mam‘s death last year.

  Jack had taken to Rose like a shadow since she‘d defended him from local riffraff some months ago. He followed her everywhere now. She was grateful that Friar Tucker allowed him to stay in the kitchens at the abbey or he‘d be sleeping on the ground outside her second-story window.

  ―Did you get the books ye wanted from Mrs. Simpson?‖ he asked.

  ―Yes, I did. And you aren‘t to tell anyone,‖ she reminded him again, having dragged the oath of secrecy from him before venturing into town. ―My visits to Mrs. Simpson are our secret.‖

  He bobbed his blond head in reassurance, the perfect co-conspirator. Jack loved secrets. Last week he had helped her clandestinely bake a strawberry pie for Sister Nessa‘s birthday, which had required sneaking into the henhouse and stealing two eggs.

  Wind gusts lifted her hair. They both looked up at the sky. ―Ye best be hurryin‘, Miss Rose,‖ he encouraged.

  She‘d wrapped her books in her plaid scarf, but the thin fabric would not protect the leather-bound tomes from rain. She was relieved when they‘d finally crossed the open space and entered the woods surrounding the abbey, until the first crack of lightning sounded. A moment later Jack hopped out of the cart. As was their routine, she would take the horse to the stable while Jack slipped through a narrow opening in the stone wall and unlocked the garden gate.

  The stable looming ahead of her, she leaped out of the cart and led the pony into the interior out of the storm. The heavy stone walls and thatched roof muffled the thunder, and she was at once met with the pungent smell of straw and aged leather. Her eyes shifted to the stall where Friar Tucker kept the Abbey‘s prize horse, an aged bay mare. The stall was empty. She still couldn‘t believe he would be away until the end of the month. He‘d said not to worry, but that was like telling the sky not to rain. He rarely left the abbey for more than a few days at a time. Now he would be gone three weeks.

  After she unhooked the lead and chains, she housed the pony in the stall beside the plow horse, then scooped grain from the bin and fed both horses. Only after she returned to the cart and removed her books did she realize both oil lanthorns hanging from posts at each end of the stable had been lit. For some reason she had failed to notice this detail when she first entered.

  Alarmed, Rose tightened her arms on the books and straightened. She peered up and down the narrow aisle, listening, but heard no one present. It was then she saw another horse, housed in the far stall. Not just any horse either.

  The magnificent Irish hunter was a beauty, at least seventeen hands tall, with long legs and a full chest. Though its coat was dusty, she imagined it would shine a glossy red when brushed. Suddenly she had a vague recollection that this stallion looked familiar. Heart pounding, she stepped back and bumped a wooden trestle.

  A leather bridle and saddle draped the rack. She traced her finger along the etching of a dragon. A chill coursed down her spine.

  Impossible!

  Jack had seen Roxburghe and his men cross the bridge.

  Rose spun on her heel, swirling straw with her movement, and slammed headlong into a wall.

  Or what could have been a wall. Her head smashed against a man‘s jaw with a blinding thunk. Her books flew from her hands, barely missing the water barrel, the impact propelling her backward. She would have fallen had two large hands not grabbed her arms and steadied her.

  Her lashes snapped upward as her chin tilted and she stared into a pair of eyes, not quite black but indigo. Sensation bolted down her spine. Then just that fast, as if he felt it too, the expression of annoyance on his face vanished and her own alarm melded with something more pliable than fear.

  Shock perhaps, for she would admit to nothing else.

  Close up, Lord Roxburghe was even taller and more solidly built than she‘d thought when she saw him atop his horse in the village. But his strength did not come from his appearance as much as it did from some unseen force inside him.

  One glance into his unshaven face told her why people called him the Black Dragon. Though it had been the name of his frigate, he wore the mark like a mantle of armor. Heat burned where his hands held her.

  ―Loose me,‖ she whispered on a caught breath, cleared her throat and said the words again with more authority. ―Now, if you will.‖

  His grip loosened. She stepped backward but not so quickly her actions signaled fear or retreat. Her foot bumped one of her precious books that lay scattered in the straw.

  ―Allow me,‖ he offered and stooped to gather up the books.

  She started to protest but he had already knelt at her feet. Instead she let her gaze trace the width of his shoulders beneath his jacket. His hair was nearly black in the shadows that seemed to steal the setting sun‘s light from the surrounding sky and clubbed back from his face with a leather thong. A small silver hoop pierced his left earlobe and gave him an irrepressibly wicked look. She stole another glance at his face as he rose and
had to suppress the urge to step back. She had never met a man taller than she was. Being this close to such a rarity stole her breath.

  ―You read,‖ he said, turning each leather-bound tome over in his gloved hands. Amusement laced his expression. ― Arthurian Legends? The Myth of Merlin? Metallurgy and Electricity?‖

  She removed each book from his hands and held them protectively to her chest, not about to trust this stranger with her secrets. She was conscious of a prickling warmth that spread where his fingers had brushed hers as if the books had become electricity themselves. ―Is it so strange that a woman should read? Or that I should be interested in science?‖

  His eyes filled with growing amusement brushed down her, taking in her simple dress and wrap. ―Both perhaps.‖ His mouth crooked and revealed white teeth. ―Those are very old tomes. Valuable.‖

  She did not dispute that fact. Nor did she explain how she had got her hands on such valuable antiquity. She balked at fearing him. ―You are not planning to steal them from me, are you, Lord Roxburghe?‖

  ―You know who I am?‖ His eyes narrowed perceptively on her hair, then her height. ―I would remember if we‘d met.‖

  Rose withheld a frown beneath his scrutiny. It was too true that she was memorable to people for all the wrong reasons. He would be no exception. ―I was one of your many minions lining the street when you passed through Castleton.‖ She graciously inclined her head in an act only the dimmest would construe as subservient. ―No doubt the speed with which you rode through the village, you missed us all standing along the streets cheering your return. ‘Tis understandable if you missed the village entirely, small as we are, my lord.‖

  Amusement lifted the corners of his mouth, though his eyes as they peered into hers remained more thoughtful. She wanted to turn away from the disturbing gaze. No one, not even the lowest field hand had ever eyed her thusly, in a way that caused a curious sensation in her stomach.

  ―A thousand pardons, m‘lady. Had I seen you standing there, I would have surely stopped—‖ His hand motioned to her hair, and she thought he might touch her. ―If only to discern the color of your curls. Like a radiant sunset burning against the ocean. The color of warm cinnamon.‖

  Her hair? A radiant sunset? Warm cinnamon indeed. She stared speechless and saw the laughter in his eyes. But before she could give him the rebuke he deserved, he humbled himself with a light bow. ―My horse has come up lame,‖ he said with seriousness. ―I am seeking shelter for my men and me tonight and a conversation with the prior of this keep.‖

  Rose looked beyond him. The abbey did not have enough food in its stores to feed his small army. Nor did she understand who Jack had seen crossing the bridge.

  ―There are only four of us,‖ he said, clearly reading her mind. ―I will compensate this abbey for its trouble, Miss—‖

  ―Friar Tucker is not yet returned.‖

  If she had not been so intently staring at his face, and noticing the perfect cleft on his chin, she would have missed seeing his lips tighten. ―Is there another with whom I can request lodging?‖

  ―You are asking permission to stay here?‖ she said, surprised that a man as powerful as Lord Roxburghe would seek consent.

  ―As a mere formality,‖ he said, leaving no doubt he was a man without convention, dangerous, and completely capable of doing as he pleased, yet, still possessed with the illusion of manners.

  But in the end, the storm decided for her and she had to get everyone inside. The abbey sat on the highest point in the area. The last lightning storm that struck had burned down the watermill. Friar Tucker already blamed her for that incident, an experiment on electricity gone awry. He would be even more displeased if she allowed similar harm to befall the new Roxburghe laird or his men. Unfortunately, his lordship‘s rank forbade her from putting him on a pallet in the kitchen or in the stable with his horse where he deserved.

  Rose sighed, knowing she would be giving up her much-coveted room to him tonight.

  Chapter 2

  Unable to sleep for more than a few hours, Rose had risen in the wee hours. At a small desk working in candlelight, she bent over an aged tome, meticulously studying each page.

  Sister Nessa slumbered in the bed across the room, her hearty snores vigorously competing with the storm that blew with savage gusts. Thunder fiercely rumbled. Rain battered the rooftop and whipped against the tiny room‘s dormer window. Rose hated the thought of the storm awakening the nun. With news that Friar Tucker would not be returning for weeks, poor Sister Nessa had taken on the burden, like a mantlet of iron about her shoulders, of caring for everyone at the abbey. His absence weighed heavily on them both, and Lord Roxburghe‘s presence at the abbey put them all on edge. Rose more than anyone.

  She disliked powerful men on principle, and she doubted a lame horse had brought Roxburghe to the abbey. He risked much coming here without his guard. Lord Hereford was not known for even-handed justice. And if the warden suspected Roxburgh of fomenting trouble among the Scots in an effort to rescue his brother, Hereford would have cause to arrest him. She had seen a man hanged once by the warden‘s order and she shivered instinctively at the thought.

  Next to the book Rose studied sat an intricately carved wooden puzzle box she had moved within the amber glow of a half-burnt candle. With reverent care, she turned the artifact over in her palm and traced a blunt-nailed finger over the carvings and symbols she was attempting to decipher.

  She had discovered the small ancient relic last month tucked in a larger wooden chest housed in the crypt with a hundred other mildew-encrusted crates. It seemed to be part of an Arthurian legend connected to Merlin and Excalibur. That much she had gleaned from the books Mrs. Simpson had given her. A glance at the eleventh-century author‘s depiction of Merlin holding the famed sword in one hand and a lightning bolt in the other told her the same markings depicted beneath the drawing were also carved on the box. Interlocking circles of light and darkness and two sideways triangles touching at the corners, marks found on the Bjarkan rune, together symbolizing phases of life and great change. But what did they mean?

  Rose had spent weeks cataloging the abbey‘s artifacts. Friar Tucker had handed the directive down to her to keep her out of trouble after last month‘s unfortunate experiment involving lightning and the new watermill had gone awry. The good Friar did not believe in idle hands and though he did blame her for the loss of their watermill, he had not truly punished her as harshly as he could have.

  The task he‘d assigned her had been a godsend, not a chore, for the crypt held the most wondrous treasures. Relic-filled chests overflowed with rat-eaten tapestries and old dust-covered manuscripts written in languages older than Latin. Rarely venturing beyond Castleton‘s borders, Rose lived vicariously through books, seeing the world through words and pictures, always protected behind the abbey‘s stone walls.

  She closed her eyes, tamping down the sudden surge of foreboding, her thoughts restless as they moved away from the puzzle of the sorcerer‘s box to the abbey‘s guest.

  A lightning flash startled Rose. Heart racing, she looked over at the bed to reassure herself Sister Nessa still slept, before blowing out the candle.

  Thunder drummed again, bringing her nervously to her feet. She shoved her arms into the sleeves of her worn woolen wrapper. Working a sash around her waist, she padded barefoot to the window and stared into the Stygian night. With the darkness and heavy rain, she saw nothing but rivulets sliding down the thick lead glass. Surely ‘twas near dawn.

  She retrieved her slippers from next to the clothes press and slipped them on. She checked the fire in the grate to make sure it would burn for a few hours longer. Then she gathered up the tome and dropped the puzzle box into a pocket she had sewn inside her wrapper. As she eased the door open, the hinges groaned. Sister Nessa‘s snores stopped abruptly and Rose‘s hand froze on the latch. She cautiously peered over her shoulder.

  A few seconds later, she stepped into the hallway and flinched at the snic
k of the door latch. Sister Nessa could sleep through a storm, but the slightest squeak of a floorboard had been known to bring the woman out of bed wide awake.

  At the stairway, Rose leaned over the banister and listened for noise from below. The last thing she wanted was run into the abbey‘s male guests. Hearing nothing, she flicked her thick braid over her shoulder and started down the stairs. A pair of lamps dimly lit the stairway and her long shadow wobbled like a specter against the wall. Her soft-soled slippers made no noise as she descended three floors.

  Just inside the arched doorway that opened into the main dining hall, she hesitated. Through the centuries, many of the abbey‘s medieval characteristics had been retained, down to the timber crack frame, waddle-and-daub walls, and gothic stained-glass windows that poured color into the main hall on a sunny day. Tonight lightning punctuated the darkness, casting unfamiliar shadows on the floors. A dying fire was all that remained in the hearth from last night.