Page 6

The fight for Edyington.

Chapter Five

Rory had been standing in the shadows for so long, none looked his way as the trestle tables were cleared and, one by one, the king’s men retreated. Servants eventually dispersed until Rory was nearly alone with his thoughts in the small space just outside the great hall that he’d procured earlier that eve.

It had not been easy.

Getting through the gates without issue, he’d instructed Isaac to wait until the tanner retired for the evening and then deliver the hides upon his back doorstep. He was to take the wagon behind the stables, where it would blend in with the others, and wait.

Trained first by his father and uncles, and later with William Wallace and his men, Rory knew well how to remain unseen, an easier feat in the thicket of Ettrick Forest, where Wallace trained, than in a keep such as Edyington. But he’d accomplished the feat and now the most dangerous part of the mission awaited him.

Finding the lady’s chamber and gaining entry.

He knew from Sir Walter there was at least one guard stationed abovestairs. Moving through the corridors, exposed longer than he wished, Rory climbed the spiral stairwell, making not a sound on the stone steps, and met his first real obstacle in the form of that guard just outside the door.

Slipping out a knife, he waited. The man did not move.

He tested the wooden door, cracking it while it made the lightest of creaks, as he suspected. It would be impossible to take the man unawares, which left Rory just one choice. Thankfully, he could be patient when warranted. After some time, he considered a new plan just as the guard paced outside the door. Which was precisely when Rory spied the king’s crest on his chest.

Bastard.

This was one of the men who had taken Edyington in Edward’s name, cowardly hanging Lord Hathawaye, making an orphan of the woman Rory made his way to now.

Men died in battle, aye. But the battle had been fought, and won. Those deaths had been needless. So when the moment came, Rory slammed the door into the man’s back, temporarily surprising him enough to gain Rory momentum, and he did what the king’s men had not.

Gave him an opportunity to defend himself.

The guard realized what was happening in the same moment that Rory grabbed his tunic to keep him upright. Drawing his own knife, he brought it toward Rory’s face, a glint of steel catching his eye just before Rory plunged his own blade into the man’s neck.

Covering his mouth, Rory worked quickly. He dragged the man into the stairwell and propped him against the landing just above the top step. Retrieving the guard’s knife, Rory placed it next to him and watched briefly as blood continued to seep down his tunic, covering the first of the three golden lions.

Ensuring the guard was indeed as dead as he deserved, Rory moved quickly. He had no time to clean the blood now staining the stone floor. According to her men, Lady Freya’s chamber should be the last door on the right. It was locked, of course, but he’d been prepared for that. Courtesy of his knife and a bit of knowledge that had served him well more than once before, it took little time to unlock and creak the door open. Then, closing it behind him, he moved quickly toward the bed.

Despite the fire and two candles still burning beside her, Rory could see only the back of Lady Freya’s head. But it was enough. As her men had described, her hair was a shade of auburn rarely seen. Not bright enough to rightly call it red, but not distinctly brown either. It was gathered in a long braid that lay atop the coverlet.

Taking a deep breath, he moved toward her and shot his hand out, covering her mouth. Immediately awake, she tried to spin her head toward him, but Rory held the lady in place. Leaning in to her ear, he whispered, “I am not here to harm you. Sir Walter sent me to rescue you.” At that the woman pushed even harder against his hand, beginning to struggle in truth. She was strong, this daughter of Lord Hathawaye. “I am friend, not foe,” he repeated. “Sir Rory Waryn, son of Sir Bryce Waryn of Bristol Manor. Your men sent for us.”

This time, he was certain she heard him as the lady stopped struggling long enough to listen. He was about to release his hand, hopeful now she would not scream, when the woman began struggling once again. Unable to hold her from his position next to her bed, Rory hopped atop it and positioned himself so that he could do so more easily.

In response, she twisted. Hard. And for the first time, Rory could see her face.

Bastards.

They had made no mention of the fact that Lady Freya of Edyington had eyes that could make a man temporarily forget his name. But now that he could see them, Rory did not consider letting off his hand any longer. Indeed, she continued to fight him, forcing Rory atop her to keep the woman still.

“Did you not hear me, Lady Freya? Sir Walter sent us. If you would but stop struggling, I will release my hand. ’Tis not my wish to be captured and killed attempting to rescue you.”

In response, she bit his hand. The woman actually bit him!

No longer amused, he cupped his hand so it was less vulnerable but still did not remove it. Straddling her, he ignored the ample bosom now free of its coverlet. Or tried to, at least. Leaning as far down as possible without covering the woman’s entire body with his own, he whispered, “Bite me again, my lady, and I will show you how to do it properly.”

She could not know that Rory would never do such a thing against her will. And so, finally, she stopped struggling. Her eyes, however, did not soften. They were brown. A deep, mesmerizing shade of brown that lulled him into momentarily forgetting what he had been about to say.

Since she had stopped fighting him, Rory tried once again. “I am going to remove my hand from your mouth. Please do not scream. I am not here to harm you. But we must be away as quickly as possible.”

When she remained still, Rory took a deep breath and removed his hand.

If he’d thought Lady Freya’s eyes her most striking feature, he’d been wrong. Surely God had designed those lips to be kissed, for why else would he make them so full? The thought that Sir Walter, the elderly knight and de facto leader of those who had fled Edyington, knew their plan, knew he would indeed meet Lady Freya in her bedchamber . . . the man must still be laughing now at the prospect of this ill-fated meeting.