The Laird's Lady. Joanne Rock

off the tower from the rest of the keep, and now no one ever cared to go there. The past was better left forgotten in that heap of stone.

      Until today.

      Why hadn’t she recalled the weaknesses of the southern end of the keep? It was the illness, she knew, that made her fuzzy-headed. She never would have overlooked such a thing if she had been well. The wall the serfs had built stood strong considering the unskilled workmanship that had fashioned it, but lacked the solidity of the rest of the structure. The makeshift barrier wasn’t as high as the watchtower bastions on the other three corners of the keep, nor was it as thick.

      Fear twisted her gut as she finally beheld the wall with her own eyes. But there were no savage Scotsmen in the southern tower. No sledgehammers chipping away at the stones.

      All was well.

      Weak with relief, Rosalind turned on her heel to fetch sentries for the southern wing, but was yanked back by two strong arms.

      A yelp of fear rose in her throat, squelched when a large palm covered her mouth. The arms around her were thick as tree trunks, crushing her against a heavily muscled chest.

      Rosalind’s heart pounded until the beating deafened her.

      “What a surprise.” Though her captor’s words were a hoarse whisper against her ear, Rosalind detected the lilt of Scotland in his speech.

      Her blood chilled in her veins.

      “The coldhearted siren is a living, breathing woman, after all. But I warn ye, dinna make a sound.” The huge palm edged away from her mouth.

      She remained pressed to the hard wall of his chest, and although she could not see her enemy, his chin hovering over her head attested to his intimidating height. Some barbaric fur that he wore tickled her neck, the scorched scent of the cloak intensifying her fears. He wouldn’t be pleased with her just now, after their resistance.

      Rosalind fought the terror that filled her by remembering the people of Beaumont who counted on her for protection. She must remain calm. Steady. Seeking her voice, she forced herself to edge words from her lips.

      “Are you the only one who has made it inside?” Perhaps if she screamed, her people would arrive before the rest of the Scottish slime oozed through the cracks.

      “Aye, but dinna doubt there will be others any moment.”

      At her sharp intake of breath, his hand clamped tightly over her mouth once again. “I warned ye, lass, ’twill go the worse for ye if ye call out.”

      True to his words, a soft thump sounded nearby in the darkened corridor. From the shadows, another Scots voice echoed over the stones.

      “’Tis the lass from the watchtower,” a blue-painted beast of a man observed as he dropped softly to the floor beside them. “She’s no phantom, but a wee fair maid.”

      “Aye, fair of face and a fair shot, too,” another Scots voice chimed as a third blue savage appeared, climbing down a rope she spied dangling along the wall. The third warrior was not quite so massive as the other two, but still a head taller than Rosalind. The newcomer wore a silver broach of a mythical griffin, the same device she had spotted on the warlord’s cloak earlier. “’Twas yer head she was aiming for, Malcolm. If ye were a damn sight slower she might have taken it.”

      Malcolm.

      She knew whose broad arms now held her fast—the dark-haired warrior who had drawn her eye earlier. The same Scots knight who had called up to her from the battlements.

      Her whole body trembled with fear, with memories of the Scots’ wrath the last time they had visited her borderlands keep. The hulking giant stood to one side of her, the more refined knight to the other. As a cold sweat broke over her brow, still more of the blue-painted knights materialized, dropping down one by one from the rope slung over the southern edifice.

      All Rosalind’s preparations for a siege were for naught because she had never given the crumbling tower a second thought. The people of Beaumont would suffer for her oversight.

      She had to find a way to warn them.

      “I am going to remove my hand from yer mouth and ye will direct me to the hall, wench.” Her captor’s voice, low and threatening, turned Rosalind’s skin to gooseflesh.

      Thinking she might be able to aid her captor to her own advantage, she nodded.

      “Out this door.” A plan took shape in her mind, a desperate measure for a desperate time.

      Replacing his hand on her trembling lips, the warrior headed the direction she pointed, while his men spread out behind him. Rosalind waited for her chance, leading the Scots closer to the main hall. There would be but one opportunity to scream. She must be heard.

      Her captor opened the chapel door and peered inside. The scents of pinewood and sweet incense reached her nose, the fragrances she’d long associated with comfort giving her little succor now. His hand slid from her mouth again, as if he expected her to instruct him. Rosalind saw her chance.

      Gripping the hilt of her father’s small dagger for whatever courage the weapon might lend, she let loose a scream to raise the rafters.

      The Scotsman’s cold blade pressed to her neck halted her cries. Her hand flexed around her own weapon in turn.

      “Demon wench, I warned—” The man’s words died in his throat as Rosalind’s jeweled dagger sank into his side.

      Horrified by the sticky warmth that covered her hand, she fought the roll of her belly. Her cause might be noble, but she did not mean to actually kill a man.

      A roar of fury erupted behind them, and Rosalind fled from the slackened grasp of the captor. She launched herself forward through the cover of darkness, leaving the stunned invaders in a turmoil of oaths and shouts behind her. Knees quaking, she shot through the door and into the hall, where her people scurried about in confused response to her shriek. A young maid dropped a heavy decanter on the stone floor, the clang of the silver urn echoing through the huge room as Rosalind struggled to speak.

      “Scots…within the walls.” She gasped for breath, still recoiling from the memory of her act.

      The people of Beaumont needed no further urging, for the pounding of the enemies’ footsteps in the corridor emphasized her words. A wave of shrieks greeted her ears, accompanying a mass exodus toward the far door.

      “Halt!”

      A deep voice boomed throughout the hall, amplified by the echoing stone walls.

      Even in their terror, many of the fleeing English turned at the commanding voice. An eerie silence grew as the residents of Beaumont fixed their gazes behind Rosalind, where she knew the blue-painted Scots must be arriving.

      “No one leaves this hall.”

      Rosalind froze at the familiar sound of the speaker’s voice behind her. It couldn’t be. Turning, she looked over her shoulder. It was him. The man she had just plunged her dagger clear through. Rosalind glanced down at her hands, as if to assure herself his blood still stained them.

      “Fear not, wench, yer blade dinna miss.” The warrior before her bled profusely down his side, staining the rushes red. Yet any pain from the wound remained absent from his livid visage.

      Do not let him take out his wrath on my people.

      Rosalind trembled as she faced him. He was enormous. She had known that before, when he’d held her from behind, yet in the darkness she had not fully realized his size. He was the most intimidating man she had ever seen, and right now his expression was nothing less than ferocious.

      “Ian, take ten men about the keep and round up whoever is missing. I would have all of Beaumont before me.” The Scot’s gaze never left her as he barked orders. “Jamie, head outside and see if anyone escaped. Angus, ferret out my squire to tend this damn bleeding gut of mine.”

      He stepped closer to Rosalind, and a collective gasp rose