The Laird's Lady. Joanne RockЧитать онлайн книгу.
or bushes. He slapped his helm back into place over his eyes, but the shower of arrows halted as quickly as it had begun.
No doubt such desperate men sought to use their arrow supply judiciously. Even so, two of the Scots were struck in the most recent onslaught, and six other of his men had been either killed or seriously wounded in the battle at the outer walls. A needless waste of life. He lay the loss of his comrades at Will Beaumont’s feet.
The cursed fool. Apparently Lord Beaumont possessed enough bravery to order a hopeless battle against his conquerors, but lacked the grit to participate in the skirmish himself.
“What say ye now, Malcolm?” Jamie McNair shouted from his position behind a small stone well. “Shall we poison their water?”
Malcolm stifled a chuckle, mentally thanking Jamie for diverting his dark thoughts. “Still a bit out of sorts about yer fine garments, I see. Ye’re not usually so bloodthirsty.”
Jamie plucked at the sodden fur lining his leather houppelande, his dark eyes narrowing. “’Tis ruined, brother, and well ye know it. Damn foot-licking English.” He glanced up at the walls of Beaumont and then back to Malcolm. “How do ye plan to get inside their keep?”
“We’ll explore the outside.” This was the part of battle Malcolm enjoyed the most—the tactical preparation, the search for a chink in the defenses. Once he ruled his own lands, he would use the knowledge he’d gained at war to maintain peace. “I’ll meet ye around the back of the keep and we’ll see what we’ve found.”
Beaumont Keep was hardly a feat of fresh construction with its low towers laced with centuries-old Roman bricks. Yet the four-rectangular-tower layout had proven solidly defendable when well manned and Malcolm had no doubt that with a bit of effort the keep could be impenetrable.
Not today, however.
“Och. Ye would bring down more pox-bitten English arrows on yer flesh and blood?”
Malcolm grinned as he prepared to bolt to the next tree, more than twenty yards away. “Stay low.”
He could hear Jamie muttering even as he started to run, until the unmistakable hiss of an arrow whizzing through the sky reached Malcolm’s ears. Resisting the urge to raise his small wooden shield above his head, Malcolm put all of his effort into reaching the tree before him. The hissing grew louder, forcing him to dive headfirst for the shelter of the thick walnut.
Thwack!
The force of the arrow roared through him as it struck the shield still clutched in his hand. Bemused, he stared as the flaming arrowhead ignited the shield with lightning speed. The heat of the burning wood finally penetrated his dulled wits, and Malcolm withdrew his grip from the rapidly disintegrating armor. Although not an heirloom, the shield had been crafted by Laird McNair for his son. Malcolm was disappointed to see it ruined, but it had served its purpose today, protecting him from what would no doubt have been a mortal blow.
From the stout defense of the walnut tree, he peered up to the northern watchtower, from whence the missile had come. He blinked to clear his vision, knowing his eyes must deceive him.
Yet there she was.
A woman.
Standing defiantly on the crenellated parapet, she did not even bother to duck behind the safety of the wall now that she had discharged her deadly shot. She lowered her crossbow, her gaze never leaving her intended victim.
Briefly, Malcolm wondered why none of his men were firing upon such an exposed target, but a quick look around the bailey showed him those few who spotted her now gawked in disbelief.
The fey creature was no kitchen maid. She reeked of nobility. Her green-yellow gown shimmered with the precise hue of newly unfurled spring leaves, and even from Malcolm’s considerable distance, he could see the voluminous folds and rich color conveyed wealth. A golden girdle sparkled around her hips in the sinking sunlight.
And her hair…
The woman’s hair outshone her adornments. It floated in a halo about her head and shoulders, rippling clear down to her waist. Loose flaxen strands caught by the breeze gave the impression of gentle disarray. She looked like a pagan sacrifice to the ancient gods of spring. Her appearance bespoke purity, yet her stance remained insolent and proud, her eyes trained on her quarry with the instincts of a natural predator.
His blood surged hotly through him—part lust and part fury—as he watched the noble beauty turn away and descend from her post. Who the hell was she to be up on the keep walls, practicing her archery skills on his head?
Cursed she-demon.
Distancing himself from the undeniable temptation the woman presented, he turned to his task of surveying Beaumont Keep. The mystery of the green-gowned siren would wait until later.
“Malcolm McNair, ’tis mighty slow ye’re moving.” A familiar voice hissed at him from the cover of a few bushes nearby.
“Ye canna tell me ye made it all the way around the keep, Jamie.” But there was his younger brother, hidden behind a tall hedge, now on the other side of Malcolm.
“Aye. And what has taken ye so long? Could it be ye were beset by a fairy from above, to be still standing there, gaping upward?”
Malcolm made a mental note that he owed his brother a pounding. “Nay, ye quarrelsome wretch, merely a crossbow-wielding strumpet who wished to incinerate me with a flaming arrow.” No matter that she’d tried to torch his arse, Malcolm had to admit he admired her skills with a bow. “What did ye find?”
Jamie leaned close, heavy eyebrows waggling with good tidings. “I found a southern tower half in ruins and plenty of options to gain entry. But we best wait until night falls to cover our activities.”
The news negated the pounding he owed Jamie. Malcolm grinned at his brother, reminded of his good fortune to be a McNair.
“Well done.” He gestured toward the setting sun, mere inches above the horizon. “We willna have long to tarry. Come explain to us all at once.”
Stealthily, they moved back to the front of the keep to rejoin Ian and make their plans for wresting Beaumont from its unfortunate lord. And although Malcolm knew his thoughts should be fixed on his impending victory, he couldn’t stop an unwelcome surge of lust over the prospect of meeting the she-devil up close.
Rosalind had kept her gaze trained out the narrow slit in her solar for the past two hours, to no avail. All she had to show for her effort was a headache grown steadily worse. The sky loomed black as pitch under the new moon, and she perceived no movement of any kind in the outer bailey.
“Perhaps they have camped outside our walls for the night,” John suggested. He perched beside her, as nervous and restless as his liege lady.
“Perhaps.” But don’t rely upon it. Something was definitely afoot. Rosalind could sense it in the deep chill that had taken hold of her bones. Where could the invaders have disappeared?
The inner keep of Beaumont was secure enough….
Or was it?
A thought hit her with all the force of a Scots battering ram as Rosalind realized what had been niggling at her all day. “John, did we post men around the south tower?”
Color drained from the steward’s face. “I never thought—”
Rosalind pushed past him and tore through the keep, the foursquare plan of the fortification mirroring the design of the outer walls on a smaller scale. She raced down the stairs from her living chambers, across the great hall and through the southern chapel to the crumbling staircase that led to her parents’ former rooms. At first she thought his footsteps followed behind her, echoing her own. But by the time she reached the abandoned old tower, she realized he must have been waylaid for she was well and truly alone. Unease tickled her spine.
The narrow southern tower, built of timber and rock, had been completely destroyed in the fire. The wood had burned out from underneath