The Knight's Broken Promise. Nicole Locke

      She took several steps closer to him. He continued to sit and was forced to look up at her. He should have looked diminished to her. But his eyes remained too steady and the tilt of his chin too proud.

      Who was he? An English solider—a nobleman, too, she suspected.

      His clothes were fine, rich, but he wore all black. Not a bit of ornamentation or colour. Except for a gold ring, he dressed plainly as if he had no money. But he travelled with a jewelled dagger, two swords and a pouch weighted with coins. Such costly items spoke of great wealth. She had never known a wealthy man to go without ornamentation on his clothing. Even her brothers wore a bit of this, a bit of that.

      ‘You think me gluttonous enough to risk our lives by releasing you?’ she retorted.

      ‘Your taking my weapons and tying my hands is but a false sense of security,’ he answered. ‘If I wanted to harm any of you, I would have.’

      ‘I haven’t given you the chance, Englishman.’ She pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘And I won’t. Ever.’

      ‘Aye?’ he answered, his voice gone softer. ‘And the times you closed your eyes last night? Those moments weren’t enough for me to strike?’

      Oh, aye, he was arrogant and just a bit too frightening. He was sitting, he was tied and yet he was still intimidating. Worse, she feared, he also spoke the truth. She had fallen asleep a time or two last night.

      She was these children’s only guardian and she was all too aware of how little protection she was. Even more so for bringing this man to their camp. He might not have slaughtered their kin, but she knew he’d killed others. There was no other reason an Englishman would be here. It was not safe to release him.

      ‘You need to eat, Gaira,’ he continued. ‘And so do the children.’

      The fight, if there was any, went out of her. They did need to eat. Desperately and in great quantity. Their traps did not work and the fires had scared most of the animals away.

      He seemed to sense the change in her and stood.

      ‘What promise do I have?’ she asked.

      ‘None that you’d believe,’ he said, his lips curling at the corners. ‘But I have to eat, too, and maybe that is enough.’

      She searched every nuance of his face. What she saw wasn’t quite a smile, but it wanted to be. ‘Maybe that is enough.’ She untied his knots. ‘But the moment you take your sword and dagger, leave this camp. I won’t let the children see a weapon in your hands.’

      She didn’t wait to see him go, but grabbed the kindling to rearrange the fire. She sensed his departure and she let out the breath she’d been holding.

      He was gone and there was no reason he should return. She trusted him, which made her all the more nervous because he had done nothing to deserve that trust.

      He was a nobleman that kept his hair like a peasant and hid the wealth from his clothes. He was an enigma, obscure, as if trying to hide something of himself and personify another.

      There was something he hid just under the surface like a river. She pushed her hair behind her ear again. And one she had no time to contemplate. Maisie would need feeding, changing, and the leather skein would need filling for water to boil.

      And she would have to explain to the children that they were on their own again.

      * * *

      Busby threw together the few supplies needed and walked down the narrow stone stairs of his keep.

      The rushes in his hall squished under him and even in the dim lighting the grease-splattered walls and thrown bones from previous meals were visible. He breathed in the smell of damp wood and rotting meat and couldn’t wait to get outside. But his three youngest were crawling on the ground and prodding the rushes with sticks.

      ‘What do you three do inside on a fine day as this? You should be outside.’

      Delight widened their eyes before they rushed to their feet and surrounded his arms and legs. Wiping away his impatience for the delay, he roared, ‘What do we have here?’ They giggled and gripped him even tighter.

      Familiar with this game, he crouched down and they immediately climbed on top of him. He lifted all three and clumsily walked outside, where he shook them off.

      ‘What were you doing on your hands and knees?’ he asked.

      The oldest of the three stepped forward eagerly. His heart swelled as he realised it was his daughter Fyfa. She was a brave lass.

      ‘Papa, we’re removing vermin, just like you wanted!’ she exclaimed.

      ‘Vermin?’

      ‘Aye, we heard you wanted to remove the vermin from Scotland, so we thought we’d help you.’

      Busby snorted and blinked his eyes. ‘You’re good children, you are, and do your papa proud, but I doona want you crawling. ’Tis not becoming of your station.’

      ‘But, Papa—’

      ‘I’ll be obeyed in this. Where is Lioslath? She is to be taking care of you.’

      Fyfa pulled a face. ‘She’s cleaning the stables.’

      ‘Hmmm,’ he growled. His wilful oldest daughter had run the keep since his second wife had died. But she never took care of the softer things, like clean rushes or good food. Always with the horses or in the fields, she was unfit for any marriage although she was of marriageable age.

      If only he had a wife!

      ‘Get along now. I doona want to see you cleaning again.’ He shoved them all towards the fields and waited until they were away before he headed to the stables.

      He kicked the rocks at his feet. Blast his betrothed for running! She acted as if she didn’t want to be wed. But wed her he must. He had made a deal with her no-good lying brothers and he would make sure she kept it.

      When he had received the invitation from the Colquhouns to meet their sister for a possible betrothal, he had thought they were joking. Everyone in the region knew his second wife had died years ago and had left him with children and a poor keep. No one had ever approached him as a suitor and he had long ago stopped his own fruitless pursuits.

      It all should have made him suspicious, but when he had seen their clean profitable castle, tasted well-spiced fare and had been offered twenty sheep, he was eager to get the deal done. Fool that he was.

      When his intended had finally been presented to him, her face was puffy and splotched red. Despite this, he assured himself he had made a fine deal and had packed her up along with her belongings.

      Now she had run away and before he could even show her the keep or his children!

      His keep needed order and a wife could do it. Aye, a wife could order clean rushes and have bread made without stones.

      And his children needed a mother. His children had good Scottish blood on the inside, but even to him their outsides needed some polishing. It was too late for his eldest daughter, Lioslath, to be made into a lady. Yet Fyfa, only seven, still had a chance.

      And what of his clan? They expected him to return with a rich bride and twenty sheep. He had the sheep, but without the bride, he’d have to return them.

      There were only two places she could be. She was only a woman, after all. Weak-hearted and a Colquhoun at that. She wouldn’t last on her own, which meant she was either on her way north and his snivelling messenger had missed her, or on her way south as her brothers had suggested.

      He was confident if she returned to her brothers, they would bring her to heel. In these turbulent times, they would not want a feud between their clans.

      But if she was south it would be he alone who would capture her. He allowed the pleasure of revenge to course through him.

      Aye, he would catch