Submit To The Warrior. Tatiana March
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the locks of sandy hair flapping about his shoulders.
Morag’s heart clenched. She had found him hiding in the stables like a frightened animal when she first arrived after her marriage to the laird three years ago. She had tried to build a place of safety for the boy, had sacrificed her pride, sometimes her dignity, to earn him opportunities that would let him flourish.
And now, all her efforts would be wasted. Another tear coursed down her cheek. A gust of freezing wind blew in through the open chapel doors, chilling the wet trail on her face, and she knew that the castle keep had been breached.
‘He is dead, milady.’ William blurted out the words, his voice frantic. ‘I saw him fall. An arrow pierced through the visor on his helm. He roared out with pain, and then he tumbled down from the castle wall.’ The boy stopped to draw a breath. ‘The laird is dead and on his way to hell.’
‘Dead?’ Morag whispered. Her mind was too numb for any other reaction but a quick glance at Brother Thomas, to discourage the chaplain from disciplining the boy for the blasphemy.
The monk’s throat moved as he swallowed, and then he said, ‘Let us pray.’
The three of them knelt side by side—a man of cloth, a wife, and a boy training to be a knight—and gave thanks to the Lord that their laird was dead.
* * *
Her head bent in prayer, Lady Morag listened to the shouts and the thunder of footsteps that echoed through the castle. She knew she ought to leave the chapel. The duty fell upon her to reassure the servants, and plead with the invaders to spare the lives of those under her protection. And she would see to the task, once she’d enjoyed her first moments of peace since she became the wife of the Laird of Stenholm three years ago.
‘Milady!’ her maid, Alice, called from the door, ignoring the need for silence in the chapel. ‘He is waiting in the great hall to speak to you.’
Morag rose and crossed herself, the gesture offering the solace it always did. Her faith was like a coat of armor to a knight, a shield to provide protection against enemies. ‘I’m ready,’ she said, and turned on her soft leather shoes.
Then she caught sight of Alice and halted. ‘What is it?’
Tall and fair, the girl descended from Viking settlers, and possessed the reckless courage of her ancestors. Despite her brave nature, she wrung her hands now, her blue eyes darting wildly. ‘It’s him, milady. We’re doomed. He eats babies for breakfast and kills women for no other reason but the fun of it.’
‘Calm down.’ Morag hurried the rest of the distance and laid her arm around the maid’s shaking shoulders. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘The warrior who conquered the castle.’ Alice paused, as if reluctant to force out the words. ‘We’ve been taken by the King’s Arrow.’
‘Dear God.’ Every drop of blood in Morag’s veins turned to ice. How could fate be so cruel? Their lives depended on the mercy of the invaders, and based on the reputation of Stefan Navarro, there would be none.
As Morag descended the narrow stone staircase, fear coiled inside her on each step. The King’s Arrow. Hated by all and trusted by no one. The English and Spanish rejected his Scottish heritage, and the Scots and French distrusted his Spanish blood. The fearsome knight answered to the king alone, and left a trail of death and destruction in his path.
She would face him with courage. Morag raised her head and stepped into the great hall. It had always been her favorite room in the castle. Wainscoting in golden oak covered the lower half of the walls, and tapestries lined the upper sections. The massive fireplace generated enough heat for the occupants to live in comfort through the winter months.
Now, battle scenes unfolded beneath the vaulted ceiling. Three men with raised swords kept the male servants penned into a corner. The rest of the knights were shedding their layers of steel, the discarded sections of armor hitting the stone floor with hollow clunks.
A few wounded warriors lay on the benches that circled the inside of the room. The female servants tended to their injuries under the watchful eye of the invaders. Acrid smoke rose from the fireplace that someone had overloaded with logs to get the neglected flames leaping.
Morag’s attention fell on a huge knight who stood aloof, silently observing her approach. He had removed his helm but not his armor, and the pair of crossed arrows that decorated the broad breastplate made terror rise in her throat. The only thought she found in the turmoil of her mind was relief that she was dressed to befit her station as the lady of the castle. Anticipating the need to flee, she had selected her warmest clothing, a thick gown in dark green velvet, finished only a few days before the battle broke out. Fur edged the wide sleeves, and the golden embroidery at the bodice matched her amber eyes.
Morag managed to cross the floor without fainting. She came to a halt in front of the King’s Arrow, her eyes downcast. ‘I beg you to spare the lives of those who fought against you by their laird’s command. If you release them, they’ll go and swear not to return.’
‘And if I wish for them to stay?’
Her gaze flew up, startled by the deep voice, with a vibrant richness that one would expect from a troubadour singing ballads of everlasting love instead of a soldier bringing death. She found the knight regarding her with an odd intensity. His bold scrutiny pierced the shield of serenity she’d been hiding behind.
She had seen men appraising horses like that.
And gold and jewels. And castles. And armor. And women.
Anything they intended to possess.
Physical awareness rippled through her, stirring feminine longings she’d almost forgotten and didn’t want to remember. She’d grown up a scholar’s daughter, knowing little about knights, even less about men, and now that she was widowed, she wished to learn nothing more. She hoped she’d been mistaken about the flare of masculine interest that wrapped around her like a snare might trap an animal.
On the benches, one of the injured warriors groaned in agony. Turning to speak to the man, the King’s Arrow released Morag from his burning gaze. She used the moment to take inventory of his features.
Stubble shadowed his square jaw. His nose was straight and his mouth full, bracketed by vertical creases that spoke of exhaustion. The sharp blades of his cheekbones added to the craggy, slightly foreign appearance. The solid gray of his eyes beneath the thick dark brows matched the steel of his armor, hard and impenetrable but with a sense of heat smoldering beneath. Long lashes framed his eyes like a sooty fan, and black hair fell in a sweaty tangle to his shoulders.
Why had creation wasted such eyelashes on a man? Morag thought fleetingly. Then Navarro turned to face her again, and she jerked her straying mind to attention. She made a gesture to indicate the castle servants huddled in the corner. ‘If you invite the men to stay, they’ll serve you with loyalty and obedience, as long as you remain their master.’
‘And you? Will you serve me with loyalty and obedience?’ the knight asked in a low murmur that could not be heard by others.
‘No,’ Morag replied. Beneath his assessing gaze, an odd sense of tightness flared in her abdomen and spread through her, leaving her breasts tingling and her lungs straining to draw a breath. ‘I shall be cloistered,’ she told him. ‘I may need to beg you for some of my jewels to provide a dowry to an abbey. Beyond that, I wish to make no claim on my late husband’s estates.’
‘Then you know that your husband is dead?’
‘Aye.’ Morag kept her tone bland. ‘He was seen falling to his end.’
Navarro pointed to the dull midday light that shone through the small windows. ‘You may send your servants out to bury the dead. When they’re done, I expect them to return to their duties. As long as they accept their new master, there’ll be no punishments.’
‘And the Stenholm knights?’ she asked. ‘Are they free to go?’
‘None