Page 29 of Ena’s Surrender

The door to the cell was locked with a savage wrench of a key and a shower of spittle in his direction. Renault curled into his mind and recalled every moment with Ena, every curve of her face and husky note of her voice. And then he lowered his head and prayed. For forgiveness from a lord more just than the one he had served on Earth, for Ena’s heart which he would surely break, for her womb to remain empty after the intimacy they had shared, and that she be forever safe.

A knot tightened in his throat. He had erred greatly on too many levels and soon he would pay for them all.

The sun sank like a ball of fire into the breast of the hills beyond. Earlier that day, Ena’s primary concern had been bringing up the idea of her marriage to Bran. She’d worked up the courage on several occasions, venturing so far as to strike up a conversation with him.

But as soon as the words formed themselves in her mind, the truth that she had fallen for an Englishman and that she intended to marry him, caused her tongue to freeze in her mouth. Aye, Renault had planned to tell Bran with her, but she was Bran’s sister. She shouldn’t need support to have a simple talk with her brother.

As the day progressed into night, however, those concerns grew into a niggling fear.

Renault was not coming.

And Renault was armed with knowledge that could kill Bran and his men. Yet there was more; she didn’t know what had become of the Englishman at her door. Regardless, it would doubtless be deemed treasonous to his own people. No matter how she considered his absence, it did not bode well.

Bran had already gone to prepare his horse for the battle on the English border. She could sneak into the army of men who would be attacking. She could go to Renault herself.

And if the reivers were attacked by the English because of information she had delivered into their hands through Renault, then she would die with all of them. As she rightly deserved if she had indeed put them in such danger.

Mind made up, she dressed in Bran’s old clothes and rushed toward the old pele tower where the men met before battle. She tried to avoid eye contact with anyone as she made her way through the reivers and selected a horse to ride.

A familiar face caught her eye and her heart went cold in her chest.

Drake.

The soldier had been Bran’s most trusted reiver for the better part of three years. The young man was also a valiant defender of, well, everyone. Even though he was little more than a lad himself. He’d taken on the care of his mother and sisters after his father’s death, a burden many would not have accepted.

If Ena was always hungry, she could only imagine how poorly rations were split by the five of them. Drake was their only chance at survival. And he could die in this battle.

They could all die.

She slipped behind two soldiers and made her way around three more, intentionally putting a confusing line between her and Drake so he wouldn’t see her, for she knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he recognized her, he would tell Bran.

But no hand clapped on her shoulder. No one called her name. In fact, no one seemed to notice or care about her presence.

Someone gave a shout at the head of the small army. The men swung onto their horses and rode over the sodden ground toward England. Ena followed suit, but lingered at the rear, keeping pace enough to not be noticed, but not remaining near any one rider either.

Why had Renault not come? The unpleasant twist to her stomach told her no matter how many justifiable excuses she came up with, none were for anything good. Something was truly amiss.

The frenzy of the Scottish reivers intensified as they neared the English village. A current of excitement hummed in the air, thick with blood lust. There was no stealth on this raid, no attempt to be silent. Not when their goal was not to sneak and steal, but to attack and kill.

Of all raids, she should not be on this one. A shiver ran down her spine. In truth, she didn’t like that Bran had joined in it either, though he had not headed the group.

The galloping horses swept into the village like a wave of death. Screams filled the air; flames licked at roofs and people ran about in a frenzy of chaos. She tried not to look as she rode through. She didn’t want to see the carnage of unarmed men lying on the ground, their bodies slashed open.

Bile rose in her throat and fear raced over her nerves like forked lightning. Renault. She had to get to his cottage.

She navigated her way to it, dismounted from her horse and pushed at the door. It was not latched and swung inward to reveal a cold hearth and an empty, shadowed room. Her heart sank low in her stomach. He wasn’t there.

A woman’s shriek came from the hut next door and cut through the desolation of her discovery. That scream—it was one Ena was far too intimate with. It was a scream of terror, of impending death.

Suddenly, the terror fled Ena’s body and before she knew she’d made the decision to do so, she was rushing into the cottage, sword raised. As the man’s blade came down, hers rose up in front of the older woman, blocking the blow.

“Nay!” The word erupted from the depth of Ena’s soul along with a torrent of rage. She shoved the man back, a man she’d seen in the market before, but whose name she did not know. “Ye’ll no’ hurt women or bairns.”

The man spat at her feet, but he turned and left the hut. The energy drained from Ena’s body as suddenly as it had flooded her, and she sagged back against the wall.

The woman looked at her, wide blue eyes beneath a frizz of white hair. “You saved me,” she gasped in incredulous wonder. “And you’re a woman. A Scottish woman.”

Ena nodded her head. “I’m no’ here to kill.”