Page 3 of Anice’s Bargain

He cast a dark look at his father. “I dinna want the land like this.”

“Ach, aye.” Laird Graham nodded to himself. “Someone is just going to give it to ye then, provide ye with heaps of coin to start anew and we’ll all sprout rainbows from our arses.” He gave a wheezing laugh that bled into a wracking cough.

James looked away to afford his father privacy, while the old man gathered his breath once more. He was dying. They both knew it, but neither bothered to say it aloud.

“We have enough coin,” James ground out.

“For caring for the land.” His father cleared his throat in a great, rattling hum. “We dinna have enough for land and living. These people dinna need a farming tenant. Especially no’ when its frozen or been buried under rains like in the past. Nay, lad—our people need a laird. They are used to battle, to being led into war and winning, no’ tilling soil.”

“Better to till soil than to murder.” James met his father’s gaze. “To live a life they dinna have to regret.”

Laird Graham stared at James, his eyes glittering like flecks of onyx. “I liked ye better before that witless English bastard got to ye.”

This argument again. The one about the man who had saved James first from death, then from a life of lies and theft. He’d showed James there were other ways to live, ways Laird Graham might never agree with.

Somewhere in the distance came the shouts of several men, followed by the clatter of weapons striking. Another fight. Sieges led to bored men and bored men seldom possessed good intentions. They wanted a fight, something solid and ripe for their blades to split. They wanted war, a break from the tedium of endless waiting.

“Ye should settle into the life ye used to have.” His father’s tone was impatient. “Find yerself a wife, have a few bairns.”

It was a tender spot and James’s father knew it. There’d been no other woman since Morna. James scowled.

Laird Graham gave another winded laugh, this one shallow in his obvious attempt to prevent another coughing fit.

“Ye’re always on about having me change my ways.” The elder Graham smirked at his son. “Mayhap I’ll consider altering my set ways when ye decide to wed.”

It was no secret Laird Graham hoped to see grandsons prior to his death, to pass on his marauding influence, more likely. For James’s part, he wanted his father’s remaining time to be spent in peace, in a world built on hard work and honesty rather than theft and greed. As it was, the old man’s dark heart would send him straight to the flames of hell. Before that, as death was stretching a hand toward him, there would be the reminder of all the hurt he had caused.

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.”