The Laird's Lady. Joanne Rock

are ye?”

      Rosalind felt the anger radiate from him in waves, but fought to face him boldly. She could not allow her people to see her falter. Not when they counted on her to be strong. “Lord William left the keep hours ago to fetch the king and bring us aid. I am his sister, Rosalind.”

      “Yer lack-witted brother started a war with hostile invaders, then left his sister to fight his battle while he trots off to London to find yer hedonistic king?” One heavy black eyebrow lifted in disbelief.

      She gulped for air, as if the brute who cornered her had somehow robbed her of that, too. Glaring back at the Scots heathen, she merely tilted her chin in defiance.

      “Tell me, Lady Rosalind, does it not shame ye to have such a coward for a brother?” He glared down at her from his intimidating height. At such close range, Rosalind noticed patches of bronzed skin under his blue paint. Dark hair brushed his broad shoulders. Heavy black brows perched over angular features slashed in a fearsome scowl.

      She bristled under his criticism, but knew her lies did indeed make the man sound like a coward. “He did what he felt necessary, knowing we were outnumbered by barbarians.”

      “Ye call us barbarians, lass?” A sudden stillness came over the Scotsman. “We, who sought to shed no blood in the inevitable conquering of yer keep?”

      “You have no right to Beaumont,” Rosalind retorted, her loathing of the invaders pouring fresh through her veins. “We have previously experienced the Scots’ brutal notion of war and will not be misled by your claims of no killing. We have lost too much at your people’s hands to blindly give over our home to bloodthirsty marauders.”

      “I will address yer slander of my people at a later date. For now, I suggest ye keep yer venomous tongue in check lest ye find yerself cooling yer temper in the dungeon.”

      A soft exclamation echoed among the English that their lady would be threatened so cruelly.

      John Steward stepped forward. “We mean no offense, sir, but my lady has lost—”

      “Yer lady? And who might ye be to speak for her?” The Scot moved toward John.

      Rosalind stepped between the men, willing herself to remain calm. There was nothing she could do to change the past, but she could try to negotiate with the barbarian to guard against any more deaths.

      “Please, I will speak for myself and endeavor to do so in a more subdued manner.” She nodded to John, silently assuring him she would be more reasonable. When she turned to the Scotsman, smug satisfaction marked his stark features.

      But she could not afford to be proud at a time like this. Lives might depend on how humbly Rosalind could beg the warlord for mercy. “I would speak with you in private, sir.”

      His laugh boomed, dark and echoing to the high ceiling. “And give ye an opportunity to thrust yer dagger more deeply into my gut? I think nae, but ’tis an amusing suggestion.”

      “You have my word that I will do nothing of the sort.” Panic swirled through her. What if he killed them all in retribution for fighting? “I merely wish to discuss a peaceful shift of power from me to you.”

      “Yer word means naught to me, as ye have attempted to kill me twice already today.” In spite of his words, he did not look the least bit frightened for himself. In fact, he grinned down at her now, as if her words were a great jest.

      A Scots voice called out across the hall. “We found the stragglers, Malcolm.”

      Both Rosalind and the wounded warrior turned to see the remaining Beaumont folk being ushered in, along with the Scotsmen who had gathered them together.

      “Aye. And ye’ll have my thanks for it. Take some sort of count so we can keep track of them in the days ahead.” He turned back to Rosalind, good humor still playing about his lips despite the gaping hole in his side. “Ian, do ye see who has asked me for a private audience to discuss a peaceful shift of power?”

      “Ye dinna say?” The man called Ian eyed Rosalind carefully, his gaze detached. “’Tis the lass with the crossbow…the same one who raised her dagger to ye.”

      “Aye. Think ye I should grant her this boon?”

      They attempted to shame her by discussing her as if she were not present. She itched to rail at them all, but to do so would be but a selfish indulgence of her temper. Instead, she settled for hoping the warlord would collapse from blood loss as quickly as possible.

      “I think there are nae many men who would refuse such a fair maid a private audience.” Another man, younger and more mischievous looking than the others, spoke up.

      Embarrassment spread like wildfire through Rosalind’s veins. Her virtue meant naught to such men. If anything, her maidenly status could be one more thing for brutes like these to plunder. What would Gregory think to find his bride defiled by savage Scots?

      Surely her cheeks flamed with the heat of her discomfiture. Then again, her cheeks had been flaming all day with the bout of fever that had taken hold of her.

      The Scots leader laughed again. “Jamie lad, that is why I will live a good many years beyond ye. ’Tis not wise to think with yer manhood.” The jesting ended when he turned back to Rosalind, his face devoid of expression.

      She prayed his words meant her virtue was safe.

      “I will grant ye a meeting, lady, all in good time. For now, however, I must keep ye safe from harm and from interfering in my business. Understand, I do this because I can see ye would not allow me to take over Beaumont peacefully, yet that is what I want above all things.”

      His blue eyes glittered, icy and merciless. Rosalind shivered, both with fear and the chills of her illness, as she waited for his pronouncement. Vaguely, she wondered how a man so outwardly attractive could be so cruel inside.

      “Ye will stay in the dungeon until I have yer holding well in hand, and then I will give ye a private audience in which ye can defend yer actions today.”

      The English people gasped at the sentence.

      Rosalind’s head swam with images of what might happen while she was locked in her own dungeon. An outright massacre because of her foolish actions. Why had she bothered to put up a fight against such a strong invading force? All of Beaumont would pay for her rash decision.

      Every death would be on her hands.

      Her fears got the better of her as her knees went weak at the thought. Dizziness assailed her. And her hated enemy’s face became a blur as she sank heavily to the floor at his feet.

      Chapter Three

      Rosalind could not remember ever being so cold. Shivering under her quilt, she pulled it more tightly about her shoulders. Why wasn’t the fire lit? Just as she started to call out for Gerta or her maid, Josephine, she remembered what had happened.

      She was in her own dungeon.

      Rosalind groaned aloud as she recalled the damning words of the Scotsman responsible.

      Malcolm McNair. The formidable Scot had consigned her to the dungeon until things were “well in hand” at Beaumont.

      Blinking away the fog of sleep, she peered around her quarters. Food had been left for her, but the bread and cheese held no appeal. She even slept on a pallet instead of the cold floor, so her lot was not too bad. Yet all she could think of was the brutality the Scots could be inflicting on all the people who looked to her for protection.

      Steady streams of tears rolled unchecked down Rosalind’s cheeks. Reaching blindly in the dark for a chamber pot, she retched as terror knotted her belly.

      She envisioned the huge heathen setting fire to the keep, locking everyone she loved inside so they might burn with it. Just as they had before.

      Stomach empty, she collapsed in a heap, too weary to move. She fell into nightmarish sleep, with one breath cursing Malcolm McNair