Книга - The Stolen Bride

The Stolen Bride
Susan Spencer Paul


'Twas Midsummer Night–when magic held sway…and Sofia Ahlgren dreamed of a deliverer to safeguard her from a blackhearted lord. Then, through the bonfires appeared Kayne the Unknown, who vowed to protect her, even at the cost of his very soul…!Though the dark raged within him, Mistress Sofia was his light. She alone made Kayne feel something of grace and innocence, blurring memories of war and bloodshed that haunted the depths of his being. But the bliss found under a summer moon could ne'er last forever, for keeping his beloved safe would mean a return to the heart of darkness that lay within him.









“You are all unclothed, Kayne…you have not been out in this weather?”


“Aye,” he murmured.

“But why?”

“To find a measure of peace.”

Sorrow knifed through her, far more painful than what her body had just experienced. “Oh, Kayne,” she murmured sadly, stroking strands of wet hair from his face. “’Tis all my fault. I am so deeply ashamed and sorry.”

He shook his head. “You are not the one to blame, Sofia. It is my own sickness that makes me ill within. You are my only refuge from the misery of it. I need you, Sofia.” Whispering the words this time, he said again, “I need you. But if you tell me to leave, I will go at once. Indeed, I should go. I have no right to ask anything of you.”

Sofia swallowed heavily. “I want you to stay, Kayne. But I am afraid…!”


The Stolen Bride

Harlequin Historical #535

#536 SILK AND STEEL

Theresa Michaels

#537 THE LAW AND MISS HARDISSON

Lynna Banning

#538 MONTANA MAN

Jillian Hart


The Stolen Bride

Susan Spencer Paul






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Available from Harlequin Historicals and SUSAN SPENCER PAUL


* (#litres_trial_promo)The Bride’s Portion (as Susan Paul) #266

* (#litres_trial_promo)The Heiress Bride (as Susan Paul) #301

* (#litres_trial_promo)The Bride Thief #373

Beguiled #408

* (#litres_trial_promo)The Captive Bride #471

* (#litres_trial_promo)The Stolen Bride #535


To my beautiful daughter, Carolyn,

who came up with the title for this book,

and who fills each day of my life with joy.




Contents


Chapter One (#u469dd43c-7f9b-54ef-aea5-31f9f675348c)

Chapter Two (#u368f6d2e-b661-51ba-ae9b-1cde478ac0c0)

Chapter Three (#u8c9d7114-ec6e-5b58-ace0-fbbf033c968b)

Chapter Four (#u24571c55-e9d2-5963-83dc-c1e49c2871ae)

Chapter Five (#u58dfeeef-b441-5324-b5dd-e5629ea70c7d)

Chapter Six (#ufb54cd05-a133-568d-9f47-b75ce683a947)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


“Nay, Father, I tell you I will have none of him. And I’ll not see him. Sir Griel must suffer the disappointment, I fear.”

With this, Sofia returned her attention to the needlework in her lap. She was perfectly calm.

Her father, however, stood in his place near the door, sweating profusely and wringing his hands.

“Sofia, you must come and speak with him,” Sir Malcolm pleaded. “You know what it means to overset Sir Griel. I beg you, daughter, only speak to him, show him a measure of sweetness, such as you alone can do. That will be enough to sate him for a time.”

Sofia was unmoved by this.

“Sir Griel is a violent, evil, untoward man, Father, and I’ve no wish to sate him in any way. What I desire is that he leave us in peace, for I vow I shall never wed him.” The thought made her visibly shudder. “Nothing could induce me to it.”

“God’s mercy,” her father said, shaking his head. “He’s brought twelve men. Twelve, Sofia, and all fully armed. They’re standing with him now in the great room below, awaiting your arrival. If you don’t go to him, he’ll wreak havoc. I know he will.”

“He only means to intimidate you, Father,” she said soothingly. “If you refuse to be thus cowed, he’ll leave you be, in time.”

“Nay, he’ll not leave at all, until you’ve come to speak to him,” her father insisted. “He has said so, and I’ve no desire to put such a challenge to the test.”

Sofia sighed loudly.

“Sofia, please,” Sir Malcolm begged.

She set her needlework aside and stood.

“Very well.”

“There,” he said with relief. “That’s a good daughter you are, Sofia. A very good daughter. Make certain to tell Sir Griel that—”

“I shall bid him to the devil, my lord,” she stated, striding out of the room, “as I do every time I see him.”

Sir Griel Wallace was a dark, ominous man, short but muscular, with hair, beard and eyes as black as coal. He was standing near the large hearth in the great room as Sofia descended the stairs, and turned to watch with open appreciation as she approached. Just as her father had said, a dozen of Sir Griel’s fighting men were with him, standing on either side of the room, looking very much as if they had prepared for a battle.

Sofia could scarce blame her father for being so distressed at the sight of them. Sir Griel had clearly brought them with the intent of intimidating the entire household—herself included. The last time he’d come to visit her, she’d treated him to a rigidly polite manner of behavior which forced a certain formality from him in turn, but she’d found it impossible not to scoff at his few crude attempts at love-making. His pride had not withstood such a rebuff, no matter how intelligently or elegantly given, and he’d left Ahlgren Manor red with anger.

With this visit, he clearly meant to make himself better understood, if not through sweet speeches, then through a show of force.

As Sofia moved across the room, Sir Griel gave a signal, causing all his men to straighten to attention. Sofia lifted her chin and ignored them.

“Mistress Sofia,” Sir Griel said. “Your beauty, as always, is a welcome sight. I pray I have not come at an unseasonable time?”

He held a hairy, burly hand out, palm open, in what was obviously meant to be a grand gesture. Sofia set her teeth and strove to appear gracious as she laid her own in it. He was abnormally hairy, and was covered down to his fingertips with thick black hair which made him look far more like a heavily furred animal than a man. The idea of having to receive such a man’s intimate caresses made Sofia feel exceedingly ill. Just touching him now caused her stomach to churn nauseatingly.

“My lord, Sir Griel,” she said in proper reply, making a curtsey and deftly sliding her hand free all in one smooth movement, “I am sorry to say that you have. I am used to making my visit to the village at this time of day, and was nearly ready to depart.”

He made a bow. “Forgive me, mistress. I was not aware that you kept such steady habits. I would be greatly honored if you would allow me to accompany you throughout the village as you pursue your duties.”

“You are kind,” Sofia said with a thin smile, “but I require no such escort. I am very happy to go with but my maid and a few menservants to fetch and carry, and you are far too busy a lord to waste such time upon anything so foolish. And this could not be your purpose in honoring us with your presence, I think.”

“Nay, ’twas not,” he admitted, frowning. “I had thought to spend some time in your company, however, and so I told your father. I believe you realize my purpose.”

Sofia gazed at him, all innocence. “Do I, my lord?”

His already dark face darkened even more, and his brow furrowed. “If not, I shall tell you plainly. I mean to court you, Mistress Sofia, and to that purpose I have come and will continue to do so until you agree to be my wife.”

Sofia regarded him steadily, taking in his fine, rich manner of dress, his strong and muscular body, his intensity of expression and temper. She supposed that there were many women who would be grateful to become the wife of Sir Griel Wallace. He was titled and well favored by the king’s regents. His estate, Maltane, was among the finest in Sussex, and he was powerful both in the strength of the small army of knights and soldiers he kept at his castle and the enormity of his wealth.

But she could not rejoice at the idea of such a match. Sir Griel was a cruel man. There was not the least bit of sway or softness in him, and he must ever have his way or no way at all. She’d witnessed his implacable nature firsthand in his dealings with the merchants and craftsmen in the village, all of whom lived in dread of Sir Griel’s random visits. Once he’d whipped a villager simply because the man had walked in front of his horse, and Sofia had heard rumors of far worse beatings that were regularly dealt out to any of his castle servants who happened to displease him.

Standing firm against such a man was not so easy a matter as Sofia wished it might be. Everyone in and around the village of Wirth was afraid of Sir Griel, most especially her father. And she knew very well that if he’d determined to have her for his wife, he wouldn’t take her refusal easily. But Sofia would not be cowed by the man, though she found him both fearsome and physically repulsive.

“I believe I understand your meaning, my lord,” she said calmly. “You do me great honor. I am perfectly aware of how much so, and thank you for such kind consideration. However, I fear that you would do better to look elsewhere for a bride. I do not intend to marry.”

Sir Griel’s eyes widened. “Not marry?” he repeated. “Mistress Sofia Ahlgren not marry? ’Tis an impossibility, I vow. ’Twould be a grave sin to let such beauty as you possess go without its proper tribute, my lady. But, nay,” he said, laughing now, “you mean to tease me. I nearly took your word for truth. What a clever female you are, mistress. And how very much,” he added with a more meaningful look, “I shall enjoy taming you.”

Sofia drew herself up full height—almost as tall as he was—and looked at him directly.

“My lord,” she said clearly and distinctly, “pray let us have an understanding. I will not be your wife, and you would do well to look elsewhere. This is my final word on the matter, and now, I beg that you will take your men and leave. Good day to you.”

She turned to walk away from him, but felt his steely hand close over her shoulder, daring to fall where her skin was bare above the neckline of her surcoat, roughly pulling her back. His face, she saw as he jerked her about, was taut with anger.

“We will indeed have an understanding, Mistress Sofia, and one that you will accept. I will have you for my wife. You, and no other woman.”

Sofia was trembling horribly, and knew he could feel it, but with every bit of strength she possessed she held his deadly gaze. “You cannot force me to it, my lord, and you will not. My father will not accept your suit, and even if you should manage to terrify him to such cowardice, I would petition the crown to grant me the freedom of my own authority. In but four months I will attain the age of twenty, and inherit all that comes to me through my mother’s will.”

“Before that day comes,” he vowed, “you will be Lady Wallace, and all that you inherit dowered to whatever children you give me.”

Sofia struggled to be free, but Sir Griel cruelly dug his nails into her bare flesh to keep her captive, drawing long, deep gashes of blood along her skin as Sofia panicked and wrenched away.

Gasping, she reached up a hand to touch the raw, stinging wounds, and gaped at him in shock. Sir Griel looked at the blood he’d drawn with a satisfied smile, and nodded.

“My first mark upon you, Sofia. The first of many, if you continue to displease me.”

Blood seeped through Sofia’s fingers, trickling across the back of her hand and downward in streams to seep into the cloth of her surcoat. She was nearly too shocked to speak, but uttered, “Nay.”

He reached out again, this time to grasp her chin with tight, punishing fingers.

“Aye, mistress.” His voice was low and as dark as he was. “But you’ve time to learn. Four months’ time. Before the day that your twentieth year arrives, you’ll beg me to take you as wife. On your knees, yet. Aye, I shall have the satisfaction of seeing you there, to repay the insult you’ve given me not only on this day, but so many others.”

“No,” she murmured, shutting her eyes, striving to turn out of his grasp. “No.”

“And once you’re my wife,” he went on, “you will learn to please me very, very well. ’Tis a promise I give you, Sofia. A promise—and I do not make such as those lightly, as you will discover. Heed me well, mistress,” he warned, leaning very close. His strong finger squeezed the fine bones of her chin, bringing tears to Sofia’s eyes. “Heed me well,” he repeated more softly, then released her at last.

Sofia reeled back with relief.

Sir Griel held his hand out, his black eyes snapping with command.

“Give me your hand, Sofia.”

She was too frightened now to refuse, and instinctively held out the one that did not yet clutch at her bleeding wounds.

He shook his head once. “Nay, the other. Give it.”

She did as he said, and placed her bloodied hand in his own. He smiled down at it and then lifted it to his lips, seeming to relish kissing her trembling fingers through the blood that covered them. Afterward, he licked his lips of the droplets that remained. Sofia’s stomach lurched at the sight. Free of his touch, she backed away and stared at him with horror. She had thought him merely violent and cruel, but now she knew him for a madman.

Sir Griel made a slight bow.

“I will bid you good day, Mistress Sofia, and pray to visit with you again soon, with a far happier greeting.”

Sofia was painfully aware of the dozen men who had stood silently throughout their lord’s brutal attack. They must all of them be knights, and yet not a one of them had stepped forward to keep a lady from injury. Such was the measure of power that Sir Griel held over them.

Her shoulder burned as with fire, and her surcoat was bloodied. Sofia was ashamed to stand before such an assembly of strangers—with none of her own people, not even a servant to give her company—so completely vanquished. She strove to regain as much dignity as she could by drawing herself up, lifting her hand to cover her wounds once more, and saying, coldly, “Good day, my lord.”

He walked out of Ahlgren Manor with his men at his heels, and Sofia sank into a chair near the fire, yet holding her hand against her shoulder. Slowly, after the sound of Sir Griel’s many horses faded away, the servants began to come into the room. They showed an immediate concern for their lady’s bloody wounds, but she turned them away, and accepted no aid, not even from her father, who entered the great room last of all.

“You must accept him, Sofia,” he said, desperation in his tone. “He’ll kill us all—aye, even you—if he does not get his way. Here, daughter, let me send for the leech to bind your wounds. You cannot go about untended.”

Sofia shook her head and rose from her chair.

“Nay, Father. I’ll tend it myself, as I have tended many such small hurts before. Have no fear. None of the villagers will know what has happened here, if all remain loyal in their silence.” She cast her gaze over the servants, who nodded their agreement.

“But, Sofia,” Sir Malcolm protested, “you cannot go into the village today. You must rest and recover, and think of what you will say when Sir Griel visits us next, for you know it will be soon.”

“There is too much to tend,” Sofia told him stonily, weary and stunned by all that had occurred. “None of it can be put off. I will change my clothes and go, and rest after. As to Sir Griel,” she said as she moved slowly toward the stairs, “I believe he means to give me a measure of time to think upon the folly and danger of refusing him yet again—and you may be assured, Father, that I will use that time wisely, in finding the way to avoid him forevermore.”




Chapter Two


“There,” said Anne the baker’s wife to the women who were gathered near the warmth of her husband’s great ovens. “He’s coming, just as I said he would. Every day, he comes. At noon, and never later.”

The women, as one, leaned to peer out of the baker’s windows at the tall figure walking through the village, drawing ever nearer. Kayne the Unknown was indeed a man worth looking at, and so they all agreed, young and old alike. He was surely the handsomest man ever to set foot in the village of Wirth, as well as the strangest and quietest.

He’d arrived one afternoon a year ago, a stunning figure riding atop a large, black destrier such as only a knight of the realm might possess, tall and powerfully built with hair so blond it was almost white. All the people had come out of their doors to stare at him, wondering how such a man had come to visit their small village. He had gone straight to the abode of their only blacksmith and, upon learning that Old Reed wished to quit his work, bought his home and smithy for so great an amount of money that all who’d heard of it had been amazed. On such a fortune, Old Reed would be well able to spend the remainder of his days in the finest luxury.

But then Kayne the Unknown had done something even more surprising. He had given Old Reed his home and smithy back, freely, in exchange for the promise that the older man would remain in Wirth and help the newcomer set up his own shop, and on those occasions where his skill might prove lacking, impart whatever knowledge might be required.

He’d left Wirth for some few days following that, and those who had applied to Old Reed for every detail had been gravely disappointed. The old man smiled and nodded, but said nothing, save to say that the stranger’s name was Kayne, and that he’d refused to give any other. Shortly after he’d gone, rumors began to fly that the stranger had bought the finest piece of land to be had in Wirth, three full acres that Sir Malcolm Ahlgren had always refused to part with—until now, when enough money had been offered. But where would a mere blacksmith find such money? And why, having it, would he continue to labor at such a trade?

Long before his return the villagers had begun to call him Kayne the Unknown, and to whisper that he wasn’t quite right and therefore not to be trusted. Only a madman—or worse—would labor when he had no cause to, or spend his money in a village so poor and lacking as Wirth. Nay, something was far wrong with Kayne the Unknown. He’d assuredly bring evil and ill-doing to Wirth with his strange ways, and it was decided among the villagers that those of them who were true and Godly folk would stay far clear of such a man.

Kayne the Unknown had returned with several men—carpenters and masons—and built the finest dwelling that anyone in the village had ever seen, apart from Sir Ahlgren’s manor home. It had wooden floors instead of plain earth, and real glass windows like those to be had in the richest castles in England, and a stairway leading to the upper floor, rather than a ladder. Next to the dwelling a large barn had been built, part of it to stable horses, and part to hold a new, and very fine, smithy.

He lived with Old Reed while all was being built, but he made no attempt to introduce himself to the village, or anyone in it. When he went to buy his bread and eggs and other goods, he spoke quietly and briefly, giving but the least return to any greeting or question, and was on his way again before one could do more than attempt the simplest exchange of courtesies.

Two months after he’d first ridden into Wirth, Kayne the Unknown had opened his gate for custom, and on the very same day Old Reed shut his. But no one in the village took their smithing needs to the newcomer, not for many weeks, preferring instead to make the journey to nearby Wellsby to make use of the blacksmith there.

But one night, five months and more after Kayne the Unknown’s arrival, a fire had started in Harold Avendale’s dwelling, and become so quickly fierce that no one dared rush in to save the family—no one, save Kayne the Unknown. He’d burst the door wide with a mighty thrust of his powerful body and gone charging in past the smoke and heat to bring out not only Harold and his wife and children, but even a table and three chairs that had not yet caught fire. And he’d remained, after all this, his blond hair singed nearly black and his face and hands angrily red with many burns, and helped to douse the cottage with water from the village well.

When it had all been over, the damage great but enough left to rebuild, Harold had sought to give Kayne the Unknown his thanks—though it would be impossible to impart enough gratitude for such gifts as the lives of his family. But Kayne the Unknown had disappeared, and could not be found.

For many days afterward, the gate to his smithy had remained shut, and he’d made no visits to the village. Harold and his wife had taken him two loaves of bread and a pail of fresh milk one morn, not daring to enter his dwelling, but leaving the offerings of gratitude at his door. Otherwise, the only person who’d had the courage to visit Kayne the Unknown had been their own good lady, Sir Malcolm’s daughter, Mistress Sofia, who had been seen entering his dwelling each morning and evening following the fire, always with her maid and always with a basket of her medicinal treatments. She had looked very grave the first two days, both coming and going, but by the third day had regained her usual calm manner. By the fourth day, she had declared herself—when asked about Kayne the Unknown’s progress—well pleased.

One month later, Kayne the Unknown had opened his gate again, and the villagers had come, one by one, to seek his services. Before the noon hour there had been a line ten deep until Kayne the Unknown, his burnt hair cut short by Mistress Sofia and one of his hands yet bandaged, had at last asked those remaining to return the following week, for he had more than enough to keep him busy until then.

His bravery in the fire had not been enough to make Kayne the Unknown completely acceptable to the village, but it had been sufficient to make him acceptable as their blacksmith. And a grand blacksmith he was, at that, as able as Old Reed had been, if not moreso. If Kayne the Unknown was yet content to keep his own company and remain quiet and apart, no one complained of it so much anymore.

But they did continue to whisper. And with good reason, for he was a man possessed of strange habits, who went out riding late at night on his great destrier, its hooves making a loud, eerie sound as he rode through the village in the dark chill of both night and early morning.

No one in Wirth, save Mistress Sofia and her maid, had been allowed into Kayne the Unknown’s dwelling, but there were rumors that he had many rare and extraordinary possessions. A locked chest filled with a treasure of precious jewels, and books—which surely he must be able to read, if he had them—and many strange weapons which no mortal man had ever before seen or been known to use.

And some of the villagers vowed that they had seen Kayne the Unknown meeting with frightening strangers during his nighttime wanderings. Men dressed in armor, on horseback, like ghostly warriors come out of battle.

Aye, there was much that was odd and fearsome about Kayne the Unknown, and the villagers of Wirth spent a great deal of time trying to discover all there was to know of him. Especially the women, who could scarce understand why a man so handsome and moneyed should not also have a wife. There was many a pleasing maiden in the village, and the mother of each would have happily seen her daughter wed to Kayne the Unknown—aye, despite his strange and quiet ways.

“Now, watch,” Anne said, nodding out the window. “He’ll stop and buy eggs from Mistress Jenna. Only half a dozen or so. Always wants them fresh, he does, every day.”

“He needs laying hens, so he does,” one of the women said. “A wife would fetch him fresh eggs every morn, and see that his bread was baked.”

“Aye,” said another. “A man like that needs a good wife to care for him.”

“Ah, look. He’s coming,” Anne said. “Hush, all.”

Having carefully arranged his recently purchased eggs in the basket he carried, Kayne the Unknown was indeed at last approaching the bakery. His white-blond hair had regained it’s length after the fire, and though his face still bore some few faint scars from his burns, these only made his handsome, finely boned features more notable. He was a tall, muscular man, with a powerful stride and solemn manner. His blue eyes seldom sparked with emotion; his shapely mouth seldom smiled. His manner, though ever respectful and polite, was constantly reserved and cool. In all, it would have been hard to find a more attractive or less attainable man than Kayne the Unknown.

Anne hurried to greet him at the bakery’s long, open window, where he stood as the lone customer.

“Have you my bread ready, Mistress Anne?”

“Aye, Master Kayne.” She handed him the two fine loaves that she’d only just set aside. “Out of the oven but half an hour past, and still warm.” He took them, set them in his basket, and handed Mistress Anne two coins.

It was the same exchange as occurred each day, in the same manner, with the same words and actions. Giving a nod of his head, Kayne the Unknown turned and continued his course through the village, on his way back to his own dwelling, leaving the women in the bakery gazing out the window after him.

Kayne recognized at once the two servants who were standing outside his smithy gate, and his heart reacted accordingly, giving an almost painful thump. His step faltered, and he nearly came to a halt, but at the last moment he made his feet continue their steady course.

Mistress Sofia’s maid and one of the young menservants from Ahlgren Manor were far too interested in their private conversation to take much note of Kayne. He’d almost walked past them and into his smithy before the maid curtseyed and said, “Mistress Sofia is waiting inside for you, Master Kayne.”

“Very well,” he murmured, and pushed his gate wide to walk through, out of the heat of the summer sun.

It was blessedly cool and shaded inside the large building, save for the far corner where the forge glowed red with its constant fire. Mistress Sofia Ahlgren was sitting on a long bench at the opposite end, in the coolest, darkest area where the horses were stabled. She seemed not to have heard him either opening or closing the gate, for her head was lowered and she made no movement to raise it in greeting. Indeed, she made no movement at all, but sat very still, head bowed, hands clutched together in her lap, almost as if she were at prayer.

Kayne made no special attempt to be silent as he neared her, and his steed, Tristan, whinnied in loud welcome at his approach. She surely knew that he was there, yet she gave no sign of it. He set his basket aside on a worktable and stopped at Tristan’s stall to scratch the horse’s soft black nose, not far from where Mistress Sofia sat. He waited for her to look up and acknowledge him, but she remained silent and still, and Kayne stayed where he was, gazing down at her forlorn figure.

He remembered the first few times he’d seen the lady of Wirth, just after he’d come to the village, going about each afternoon in pursuit of her daily chores. He had readily admired her beauty—as surely any man would—but had given little thought to her, otherwise. He’d known many beautiful women in his day, and had long since learned that they were best kept at a distance. Apart from that, he knew too well the condition of his soul, and of his heart, that they could no longer be touched as when he’d been a youth. War and death had put them beyond reach.

And, yet, Sofia Ahlgren had touched him in a singular way. Kayne wasn’t quite certain just how it had come about, but the knowledge unsettled him no small measure. She had nursed him tenderly—and mercilessly—after he’d been wounded by the fire at Harold Avendale’s cottage. He had come awake in an agony of pain to find her beside him, insistent upon caring for him regardless how firmly he told her to go away and leave him in peace. She’d ignored him completely and done exactly as she pleased, bathing his wounds and covering them with a soothing balm that relieved him greatly, and then forcing a foul tasting potion down his throat which made him sleep.

It had been much the same on the following days, and Kayne had finally put aside both modesty and his intense desire for privacy to let her care for him. The fact that Mistress Sofia had been so forthright about being in such intimate confine with a half-naked man, lying upon his own bed, made it somewhat easier for Kayne to accept the same. There had certainly been nothing unseemly in her care of him. She’d hardly even spoken to him, save to ask how he felt and to warn him of what she was about to do.

He’d begun to look forward to her twice daily visits while he was so ill. She was so very pleasing to the senses—especially when a man was wretched with life, physically, mentally and in every other way. Just to look at her…a woman of such quiet beauty…was soothing.

When he spoke, Kayne made his voice calm and even.

“You are deep in thought, Mistress Sofia. Is aught amiss?”

She lifted her head, gazing at him fully. He was struck anew by her pure beauty. Her features were perfectly formed, delicate, yet as strong as she herself was, and framed by golden-brown hair that danced and sparkled beneath sunlight. Her lips were full and inviting—surely the most sensual part of her face, though perhaps those deep-blue eyes, wide and tilting slightly upward, might arguably be her most alluring feature.

But now, Kayne saw, her delicate face was marred by a troubled frown, and her lovely blue eyes, shadowed by the small light of his shop, were further darkened by some unknown cause. Seeing this, Kayne paused, checking the concern that rose up within and the stronger need to take on whatever it was that held her in such obvious misery.

“No,” she murmured. “I’m merely weary, I thank you, Master Kayne.” She glanced to where a large iron pot sat on the ground near her feet. “I’ve brought this for repair. There’s a crack near the bottom. I pray you’ll be able to mend it.”

Kayne moved forward and knelt to examine the great black pot, tilting it up on one side and running a callused finger along the crack she’d spoken of.

“Aye, it can be done.” He glanced up at her. “Tomorrow, by midday? Will that be soon enough?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She spoke so sadly, gazing at him with an equal sorrow, almost as if she might begin weeping any moment.

“You should not have come out in this heat,” he told her, rising to his feet. “I think you must be unwell, mistress.”

“Nay, I am quite well, Master Kayne.”

She set a hand to her shoulder, placing it carefully over the silk cloth loosely draped there, and slowly rose to her feet.

“I’ll take no more of your time,” she murmured.

“Allow me to convey you back to the manor house, milady,” Kayne said. “I like not the paleness of your skin.” He reached out to touch her arm. “’Tis easy to see that you are not well, even in this darkness.”

She flinched at his touch, making a sound of distress, and stepped back.

“My lady?”

“’Tis naught.” She pressed her hand against her shoulder as if to press a measure of pain away. “Forgive me, I must go.”

Head down, she tried to walk past him. Kayne stood in front of her to bar her way.

“Be still,” he commanded in a low tone.

He lifted a hand to pull away the delicate cloth draped over her shoulders, and she protested, “Nay, don’t!” and put her own hand up to grab his.

“Mistress Sofia,” Kayne said patiently, gently prying her fingers free. “I learned from you how to manage an unwilling patient.”

She looked away as he plucked the square of cloth aside.

Kayne was silent as he gazed at the brutal red scratches that marred her lovely skin, fighting hard against the fury that rose up at whoever had dared to do this vile thing.

“These are fresh wounds,” he said at last. “Perhaps made no more than an hour past. And you’ve not yet tended them.”

She would not look at him, almost as if she were ashamed. “I’ve had no time,” she whispered. He could hear the tears she’d refused to shed heavy in her voice.

“Nay, of course you have not,” Kayne said more gently. “You, who tends all the ill in Wirth almost before they’ve begun to sneeze. Come.”

He was careful to take hold of her other arm this time, but she resisted when he tried to pull her toward the nearby door that led from the smithy into his dwelling.

“I cannot,” she said. “My servants are waiting….”

Kayne refused to let her go, and firmly, though carefully, guided her toward the door. “They will continue to wait, pleased as they are with each other’s company. They’ll not worry over their mistress for a few spare moments—mistress, I beg you will not struggle so. I mean you no harm, and I’ve no intention of giving you insult, unless I must.”

She continued to struggle. Kayne bent and picked her up in his arms, easily carrying her past the door and into his home. He set her on the nearest chair he could find, next to a small table upon which an elegantly bound book of verses lay.

“If you run away,” he told her as he stood, his expression severe, “I will follow you to the manor house and demand of your father who it was visited this vile act upon you. And then I will go and deal with the man.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “I give you my word of honor upon it, mistress, and I have never given it without keeping it.”

She shut her mouth and glared at him. Kayne moved away to open a chest near his eating table. As he began to dig through it, Sofia said, “You’ve no right to keep me here.”

“Just as you had no right to force me to your ministrations, when I had no want of them.”

“Is this some manner of revenge, then?”

“Nay, not in the least.” He lifted a small pewter jar from the chest before closing the lid. “’Tis merely thankful repayment. Like for like.”

Rising to his feet, Kayne fetched a bowl and filled it with a small measure of water, then found a clean cloth and tossed it over his shoulder and returned to kneel before her.

“Sit still,” he commanded. He leaned closer to examine her wounds more carefully, then lightly fingered her sleeve. “Pull this down a little.”

“There’s no need,” she told him, frowning.

He gave a light shrug and began to wet the cloth in the basin. “As it pleases you, mistress. The wounds will seep for a time, and your surcoat will be bloodied.” Gently, he began to bathe the long, red marks. “You’ve already lost another surcoat to these grievous wounds, I would wager.”

“Aye,” she admitted unwillingly. “’Tis soaking now, to remove the stains.” She sighed and began to unlace her gown. “Wait,” she said. He obeyed, and she loosened the top of the garment enough to pull the sleeve partly down. Her cheeks heated with embarrassment as the cloth revealed her shoulder and arm.

Kayne took note of her distress and kept his gaze impersonal as he continued to press the cloth against her skin.

“’Tis worse along the back of your shoulder,” he said. “Whoever did this possesses strong fingers. He dug deeply, intending to draw blood.”

“How do you know?” she asked, searching his face. “Could it not have been accidentally done?”

He lifted the cloth away, looking her full in the eye. “Was it?”

She was silent, as if she would not answer, but at last replied, softly, “No.”

Kayne expelled a slow breath, mastering himself. It was on his tongue to demand who the culprit was, but he knew that Sofia Ahlgren would never reveal such information. She was far too proud to speak of her private troubles. But Kayne had an idea who had committed the crime. Sir Griel Wallace, the lord of Maltane, had made his intentions to wed Mistress Sofia so clear that even a man who never heard the village gossip, as Kayne did not, would know of it. Kayne had met such men as Sir Griel before, and had no doubt that he was capable of every manner of cruelty, even to the woman he desired for a wife.

He reached to open the pewter box that he’d dug from out of the chest, dipped two fingers inside, and withdrew a small amount of a pale, white ointment. It smelled lightly of mint and honey.

“What is that?” Sofia asked as he began to apply it to the first angry stripe on her shoulder.

“Do you not recognize your own healing potion? You used it often enough on my burns, when I suffered them.”

“Oh, of course. How foolish of me.”

“You are quick to take care of all others, mistress, but not yourself. ’Tis clear that you stopped the bleeding and changed your bloodied clothes, but nothing more.”

“I’ve already told you that I had no time. There was so much to take care of in the village. So many chores.”

“Aye,” Kayne agreed. “I understand very well. It is easier, in such times, to push every thought and remembrance aside. To be done with it and go on.”

She lowered her head once more. “Yes, that is the way of it. I want never to think of it again. ’Tis foolish, I know, but it is my prayer, all the same, to forget entirely.”

Kayne smoothed the ointment with a delicate touch over each separate wound, making certain to cover them well.

“You’ll not forget. ’Tis an impossibility. But, in time, you may come to know that the fault was none of your own, and this will ease the memory.”

“I do not know that I will ever be able to do so,” she said. “I was headstrong, as I ever am. A grave sin and weakness, just as the priest has so often told me. I brought this affliction upon myself. That is the truth of it, and it cannot be forgiven.”

At this, Kayne ceased what he was doing and set his other hand beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his own.

“It is hardest, often, to accept and forgive our own frailties. But harder still to claim ourselves as prey to another. You are indeed strong of will, Mistress Sofia, but sin or not, such as that does not give another just cause to inflict harm upon you. In this matter, you are fully innocent.”

He returned to his ministrations. Sofia remained silent.

When Kayne was done, he laid a thin, clean square of soft linen over the wounds, then carefully pulled Sofia’s sleeve back up. When she began to lace the top of her surcoat, he rose and busied himself with putting everything away.

“Thank you, Master Kayne,” she said, standing. “I cannot properly repay you for such kindness.”

Kayne closed the lid on the chest and stood full height, turning to look at her.

“There is no need. It was small service in exchange for all you did for me following the fire at Harold Avendale’s.”

“Nay, ’twas far more than that.” Lifting a hand, she gingerly touched the shoulder that he’d cared for, her beautiful face filling with indefinable emotion. He wondered if anyone had ever performed so simple a service for her before. Mistress Sofia was always the first one called upon when others were in need, always so strong and capable, even caring for matters that should have fallen upon her father’s shoulders. But perhaps no one ever thought that she might welcome help once in a great while, too.

“Thank you,” she said again, and abruptly turned and departed.

Kayne watched through the door that fell open upon her leaving as she made her way through the shadowed stable, her skirts swaying gently back and forth as she walked in her usual steadfast and upright way—the lady of Wirth again, and no one seeing her would ever notice that aught was amiss.




Chapter Three


A week passed before Sofia returned to the blacksmith’s shop, striding alone through the village in the late morning with a basket swinging on her arm.

She had dressed with particular care, glad to see the long, red streaks that Sir Griel had placed upon her finally beginning to fade. But she no longer looked at them with the same measure of fear and rage that had possessed her after Sir Griel’s unwelcome visit. Nay, not since that afternoon, when Kayne the Unknown had so kindly—and tenderly—cared for her, had Sofia looked upon the wounds in such a manner. Now, when she saw them, or ran her fingers across the healing scars, she did not even think of Sir Griel, but only of the blacksmith, his handsome face so close to her own as he bent over her shoulder, his warm breath caressing her skin, his white-blond hair falling forward over his brow…and, most of all, the sure, steady touch of his hands on her bare flesh.

Sofia knew herself too well to deny the truth of what she felt. She had begun to fall in love with Kayne the Unknown almost from the start, when she’d cared for him following the fire. She, who had seldom in her life even admired men—any of them—had found herself helplessly, and certainly unwillingly, drawn to the quiet, solemn, soft-spoken blacksmith. A man who was a mystery to one and all, who kept to himself and befriended no one, who was completely unsuitable in every way. Not that it mattered, for she knew that he felt nothing for her, nor for any of the village women who threw themselves so openly in his path. His kindness to her a week past had been only that—kindness, and perhaps a small measure of pity. He seemed to realize, when no one else did, how lonely and difficult her life in Wirth was.

It wasn’t that Sofia was unhappy with the lot that had fallen her way, but she did often wish that her father was possessed of a larger measure of courage, and a greater desire to care for his vassals and the people of the village. Sir Griel, being the most powerful lord for many miles, should have been the one to take a hand in caring for the local citizens, but he cared for no one save himself, least of all his own people or any of the villagers.

Since the age of ten and three, Sofia had been the only one to worry for the people of Wirth. She had gone to the nuns in the abbey and learned all that they knew of medicines and healing, she’d spent countless days beneath the instruction of her father’s steward, learning how the estate was managed, how the crops were grown, how the harvest was prepared and sent to market, and she’d relentlessly harried her tutors, all of whom she’d forced her father to hire, to teach her what a man must know in order to be a good lord. They’d not wanted to impart the knowledge to a mere female, thinking it far better that she should possess only those skills that a lady might require for the managing of a manor house, but Sofia had pressed until they’d all given way. She’d discovered, very quickly, what it was to fight and strive for every bit of knowledge she required.

But for all that she’d learned during the years that had passed between her thirteenth and nineteenth birthdays, Sofia had never known what it was to have soft, womanly feelings…until she’d met Kayne the Unknown.

They were strange and distressing, these emotions he wrought, making Sofia forget who she was and what her responsibilities were, and causing her to dream of things which could never be. She struggled to set such foolishness aside, to harden herself, but it was not so simple a task. Her mind obeyed, but her heart…ah, it was traitorous in every respect, and refused to believe that the impossible could not be overcome.

Still, Sofia was careful not to give it too much free rein, for love, she had found, could be far more painful than sweet. Seeing Kayne, being close to him, was painful indeed. He felt nothing for her beyond the quiet friendship that had grown between them during the weeks that she had cared for him, and even if he had, a woman of her birth and stature would never be allowed to wed a common tradesman, even one so skilled and unusual as Kayne the Unknown.

Sofia heard the sharp, distinct sound of metal striking metal as she neared the smithy, and stopped at the half gate to peer into the darkness toward that part of the building which housed Kayne’s working area. His tall, muscular figure was shadowed against the heat and light of the furnace as he bent over his anvil. Through the shadows, she could clearly see only his blond head moving up and down in rhythm with the hammer blows he dealt.

He was far too occupied to notice Sofia as she slowly and carefully opened the gate and stepped inside. Tristan, from his stall at the other end of the building, whinnied in greeting, and she cast a glance back at the magnificent black stallion. His presence was but the first of so many mysteries surrounding Kayne the Unknown. Only a knight or famous soldier would have need of such a horse, one trained in the ways of war or tournaments. Otherwise, such a beast was of little use—especially for a tradesman who would do far better to own a workhorse. Of course, Kayne the Unknown possessed other fine horses for different purposes, but a destrier like Tristan was expensive to feed and care for, and why a mere blacksmith should desire to spend good money on such an animal largely useless to him was beyond comprehension.

But that led to yet another mystery. Kayne was clearly possessed of greater wealth than he earned—or ever could have earned—at his trade. Sofia had seen for herself the manner of house he possessed, as fine as that of a minor nobleman with its wooden floors, Italian carpets and fireplaces with polished hearths. He had fine furniture, as well, which rivaled that of Ahlgren Manor. Hand-carved chairs and beautiful tables made of gleaming rosewood filled the dwelling’s lower room, and in his bedchamber abovestairs French clothing chests and a beautiful, tall bed with an expensive feather mattress graced the room.

Most intriguing of all, Kayne the Unknown possessed books. A book of common verse, a Book of Psalms, and a beautifully illustrated Book of Hours. They were the kinds of books that any wealthy person might have—Sofia’s own father possessed similar volumes. But far more amazing was what their presence revealed—that Kayne, a blacksmith, a mere tradesman, could read. And if he could read, then he had somehow been educated, and young men, even those learning a valuable trade, were seldom educated unless they came from a noble or wealthy family who could afford to hire tutors or buy their son a life in the Church. Boys apprenticed in a trade required only enough knowledge of reading and writing to sign their names. They would have little pleasure time for reading, and far less use for it. Kayne the Unknown, however, made great use of his rare skill. During the days while she’d cared for him, Sofia had often caught him reading, whiling away his confinement in bed.

She turned back to where Kayne yet labored over his anvil, his rhythm the same as it had been all the while since she’d first heard it, strong and steady. Hefting the basket she held a bit higher, Sofia made her way toward him.

Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness of the stable, she could see that he was naked from the waist up, save for the heavy leather apron which hung from his neck and was loosely tied about his hips. It was much hotter on this side of the building. Intense heat emanated from the forge, fanning over Sofia like a hot wind as she drew nearer. Kayne was covered in sweat, his muscular chest and shoulders glistening with it and long strands of his blond hair sticking to his face and neck because of it.

He was a magnificent sight, so handsome and strong and fully masculine; a creature of power and beauty, just as his steed Tristan was, and impossible not to admire. Sofia remembered the days she’d spent tending him after the fire, of touching him and feeling the strength in the muscles that lay beneath his flesh. She had wanted so badly to run her hands over him for the sheer pleasure of it, but had refused to give way to such wanton, sinful desires. Kayne would have been repulsed by anything more than the most impersonal touch, and Sofia had already had a difficult time as it was in simply being allowed to tend the stubborn man.

As if sensing her approach, Kayne glanced up when Sofia was but a few steps away. The rhythm of his hammering came to an abrupt halt, hand midair, and he stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then, with a brief nod that acknowledged her presence, he returned to his work.

It didn’t take long. A few more strokes with the great hammer and he was done. Straightening, Kayne lifted a partly formed ax-head from the anvil with a pair of tongs, examined it, then carefully placed it in a nearby tub of water. The water sizzled and steamed, and then fell still. Kayne put the tongs and his hammer aside and, without looking at Sofia, walked to a worktable nearby where another basin sat. Dipping his fingers in, he scooped up several handfuls of water and splashed his hair, face and neck, shaking his head until water flew in every direction and coursed in small rivers down his chest. He took up a towel and dried himself. Then, at last, he turned to Sofia.

“Mistress,” he greeted in his usual solemn manner.

“Master Kayne.” Sofia gave a slight nod in turn. “I hope I do not disturb you in too important a matter? I meant only to render my thanks for the kindness you showed me some days past.”

He glanced at the basket on her arm.

“There is no need, just as I told you.”

She smiled. “I realize you desire no measure of gratitude, but I wish to thank you even in this small way.” She walked to the table and set the basket upon it, pulling away the cloth that covered the goods inside. “You see? ’Tis only a few sweet cakes and some tarts with pears and apples that our cook made yesterday. Nothing more sinister, I vow.”

“And this?” He tapped one long finger against the lid of a small pewter jar. Another similarly lidded jar sat beside it.

“Almond cream,” she said, distracted by the sight of his hand. “And currant jelly.” Those same strong fingers had touched her bare flesh, and so carefully soothed her pain. But on that day she’d been too mired in her own misery to care that his wounds were not yet fully healed. Now, she could plainly see that the burn scars were cracked and reddened from such harsh work.

“Kayne,” she murmured, reaching out to take his hand when he would have pulled it away. “You shouldn’t be laboring in this harsh manner so soon. Look at your hands. Merciful God.” She bent to take his other hand and lifted it up to examine. “Oh, Kayne,” she said unhappily. “’Tis bleeding here.” She gently touched one of the severest scars. “’Twill never heal properly if you do not take greater care.” Still holding his hands, she looked up at him, but the rest of the tirade set upon her lips died away.

She hadn’t realized how closely they stood together. So close that their bodies were almost touching. His face was but inches from her own, and his blue eyes were gazing down at her in a manner that made her heart leap within her chest. She had seen that look before on the faces of other men, most especially on Sir Griel’s, but never before had it produced such an effect on her. Instead of disgust, Sofia felt something altogether different, and far more alarming. Flustered, she released his hands and stepped away.

“Forgive me,” she murmured, busying herself with covering the basket once more. “’Tis none of my concern, though I dislike seeing my handiwork gone to naught.”

“As do I,” he said. “You seem much improved today. Your wounds are healing?”

“Yes, thank you, Master Kayne. Very much so. But I have not continued to neglect my wounds as you have done. You chided me for such only a week past.”

Kayne looked at his hands, flexing and unflexing the fingers. Then he gave a shake of his head and moved back toward the tub where he’d left his work cooling. “I do not have the luxury of being able to coddle myself,” he told her, using his tongs to fish the ax-head from the water, “nor have I ever done so. The scars will be with me all of my life, and both they and I must learn to live with this manner of labor.”

“You have many scars,” she murmured, watching him thoughtfully. She had seen the number of the wounds he bore while she’d cared for him. “Were you ever a soldier, Master Kayne?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Aye, I was once. I fought in France for a time.”

Ah, Sofia thought with satisfaction. A small part of the mystery unfolded. He had been a soldier, and bore a soldier’s scars. But he must have seen many a battle indeed to be so heavily marked.

“Is that how you come to have Tristan?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t. He was a solitary man, and would not want to be plagued with such questions. Kayne the Unknown had made it clear since he’d come to Wirth that he valued his privacy above all else.

But he replied readily enough. “Tristan was given to me as a gift by a very great man…a knight of the realm.”

Sofia was astonished. “’Tis a fine gift, indeed. Did you save his life during battle?”

He was standing to the side, turned nearly away from her, but Sofia thought that she could see a slight smile on his lips.

“Nay, he saved mine.” He glanced at her again before lifting the ax-head higher into the firelight to examine it more closely. “The pot I mended for you has not cracked again?” He clearly wished to speak of himself no more.

“Your mending has held,” she said, “and will, I think, until the pot can no longer be used. ’Tis better than new, I vow.”

He uttered a laugh. “Nay, that it is not. I am not so skilled a blacksmith.”

“You are the finest blacksmith in all of Sussex,” she said chidingly, “and well you know it.”

Now he smiled—truly smiled—at her, looking so handsome and beguiling that Sofia found it necessary to draw in a deep breath.

“If you insist, Mistress Sofia,” he said. “’Twould be useless to argue with you o’er the matter, even at the risk of embracing false pride, for I’ve well learned that you will have your own way or none at all.”

Sofia smiled, too. “I have learned much the same of you, Master Kayne. But you’ve naught to fear in the matter of false pride. I have not overstated the matter of your excellence.”

He had returned to the working table and laid the ax-head upon it, beside an array of smithing tools. “You are very kind,” he said. “I shall pray to meet all your expectations.”

“Not mine, nay,” she replied at once. “You already labor far too long and hard.” She took a few steps about the large, airy building, admiring its cleanliness and purity of form. How different it was from what such places usually were—dark, foul-smelling and filthy. But both this building and Kayne the Unknown’s dwelling were open, spacious and inviting, always clean and in perfect order. “You are ever here in your smithy. Do you never have a day for rest and pleasure?”

“I need none.”

She turned to watch as he deftly prepared the ax-head for further work.

“You have lived in Wirth for fully a year now, yet you have never attended any of the fairs or celebrations. Tomorrow is Midsummer Day, and there will be much to do.” She took a step toward him, suddenly bold. “Come to the feast tomorrow and be merry for a few hours. Will you?”

Intent upon his work, he gave a shake of his head. “Nay, I’ve too much to do.”

“But you’ll have no custom brought to your door tomorrow,” she said persistently. “All the villagers will be there, dancing and feasting. ’Twill be a fine and pleasant day, I vow.”

“And you will dance around every bonfire once darkness falls, no doubt,” he said, still turned away.

The words—and what they implied—made Sofia blush hotly. A young woman seeking a husband would be married within a year if she but danced around seven bonfires on a Midsummer Night, or so it was believed. Sofia had ever scorned such tales, but Kayne’s speaking of it seemed to reveal some unspoken truth hidden away in her heart—one that she could not admit, even to herself.

“Nay,” she said firmly, pushing such foolishness aside. “I have no desire to wed.”

He put his work down and turned to look at her, surprise written on his handsome face.

“Never?”

She shook her head. “My father has too much need of me, as do the people of Wirth.”

His expression darkened. “You are unjustly burdened, Mistress Sofia. A woman such as you should wed and seek her own happiness.”

“It is not so easy a thing, Master Kayne,” she said with a weary smile. “But I am happy as I am. And content, in my own way.”

He was clearly dissatisfied by her answer. “What of Sir Griel?” he asked. “He has made it known to one and all that he will have you for a wife before the year has gone.”

Sofia tensed with anger. “I will never be wedded to such a man,” she vowed. “No matter what he may do to me, or how he may strive to terrify my father.”

Kayne drew nearer, searching her eyes.

“He’s the one who did this to you, is he not?” He lightly touched her shoulder, where her flesh had been scratched.

Sofia moved away, unable to tell him the truth of what had happened. No one outside of Ahlgren Manor knew the fullness of her shame, for her servants had remained loyal in saying little. But she knew that rumors were being whispered among the villagers, and feared that it would not be long before everyone knew Sir Griel had given her such grave insult. And once the truth was known, the citizens of Wirth would fear him even more than they already did. Sofia would have no one to turn to for help and protection.

“I have kept you from your work for too long, Master Kayne. Forgive me.”

“Sofia.” His hand curled around her arm, gently, holding her still. “I give you my word of honor that you can trust me, even if you can trust no one else. If Sir Griel has threatened you—”

“I’m not afraid of Sir Griel,” Sofia told him tautly, “or of any man.”

“You should be,” Kayne said. “He is a man of great cruelty, and therefore a man to fear. If he dares to set a hand to you again, come to me and I will deal with him, for your father will never do so.”

Sofia pulled free. “You are kind, Master Kayne, but I would not ask that of you. ’Tis too much, and you owe me naught.”

“For all you did for me after the fire,” he said, “I can never fully repay you. But it is not for that alone. I will not stand aside and watch any man bring harm to a woman. I have sworn before God that I would always defend—” He fell suddenly silent. “Only tell me if he should trouble you, mistress. Promise me that.”

Sofia touched her arm over the place where his fingers had curled, holding her in so careful a grasp. How strange he was! Had he sworn, as a knight did, to protect and defend women? But he had been a mere soldier. He’d just told her so.

“I will give you my promise,” she said slowly, “if you will promise to attend the Midsummer Day feast. And to dance with me.”

“I do not make merry,” he told her stonily.

Sofia gave a curt nod. “Then I will likewise make no promises. Good day to you, Master Kayne.”

“Good day,” he murmured, adding, before she could leave, “I will return the basket to you on the morrow.”

“I will be busy on the morrow. Dancing and feasting and having a fine day. And you will be here alone, as ever.”

He made a sound of aggravation. “Then I will return it the day following.”

“As it pleases you, Master Kayne,” she said, and turned to walk away.




Chapter Four


It was nearly midnight when Kayne rode out of Wirth, cloaked in a heavy black cape and riding atop Tristan. He knew that the destrier’s heavy hooves made a great deal of noise, but the pleasure he experienced at riding his magnificent steed far overtook his fear of unsettling the villagers.

A powerful mount, Tristan readily bore Kayne’s muscled weight, moving with a speed and grace that made it seem as if he carried nothing at all. Once clear of the village, he gave the horse full rein, bending low over the animal’s neck as it lengthened its strides, galloping for several long minutes with clear enjoyment.

When they neared the forest, Kayne at last reined the majestic beast in, slowing his pace by degrees. Just as he had been during their years together in France, Tristan was instantly obedient to his master’s will. Without such obedience, Kayne knew, he’d have been long dead. More times than he could recall it had been Tristan’s perfectly honed skills as a warhorse that had kept them both alive.

It was an easy matter to find the place where he needed to turn in, though it was not always so in the midst of those nights when he journeyed to the forest. Tonight, however, the moon was nearly full, giving plenty of light for such late wanderings. Tomorrow night, Kayne thought, glancing upward, ’twould be even brighter, and all those celebrating Midsummer Night would rejoice to have their dancing and feasting made that much more pleasant.

Sofia, especially, would enjoy herself. She had a gift for happiness; one that he envied greatly. He could almost envision her now, with her long golden hair unbound and flowing free, crowned with a circlet of flowers and swaying like the finest silk cloth as she danced about the bonfires. She’d have no lack of partners. Nay, she’d suffer quite a different trouble by having far too many vying for her hand, both young and old alike.

It wasn’t far to the clearing which was his destination. Senet and John were there before him, waiting.

“Where is Aric?” Kayne asked as he brought Tristan to a halt. He dismounted with ease as the other men approached, and held out a hand in greeting.

“His wife, Magan, is heavy with child,” Senet Gaillard, the lord of Lomas, replied, clasping Kayne’s arm in the manner of long friendship, “and he will not leave her for fear that the babe might come with him gone. ’Tis good to see you again, Kayne. You are well?”

“Most well, as you see,” he assured him before turning to greet the other man. “John, well met.”

John Baldwin, who had recently become the lord of Cap-well, shook his hand warmly.

“Aye, indeed, Kayne. I was sorry not to come when Senet and Aric last met you here, and so had to come this time. Clarise sends her warmest love.”

“Give her my thanks, and send my own affections in return. She is well and happy? But I think she must be, now that you are wed.”

John smiled and nodded. “Most happy, we are, the both of us. But what of you? Your burns are much healed from what I saw many months ago.”

“He has the lady of Wirth to thank for it,” Senet said, grinning at Kayne. “A very beautiful lady, from what is told of her, and most attentive to our Kayne. Mistress Sofia Ahlgren is her name, but to hear the words fall from his lips, you would think her named ‘Loveliest Angel,’ instead.”

Kayne scowled at him. “You are pleased to make jest, yet there is nothing more to Mistress Sofia’s kindness than mere Christian duty, and nothing more to my speaking of her than gratitude. But you did not ride so far in the dark of night to speak of such things. Something is amiss if you come to meet with me again, so soon after our last parting, and only a day before Midsummer Night. You’ll wish to be home with your wives on the morrow, and not here with me. Though I am not sorry to see you, of course.”

“Nay, of course not,” Senet replied with a raised eyebrow. “But it may seem so, as you refuse to let us come to your home, as friends might expect to do.”

“You know why it must be so,” Kayne said quietly, grieved in his heart to treat his dearest friends—men who were as his own brothers—in such a manner. They had been inseparable during the ten years they’d spent together fighting in France, and nothing save death could have parted them. But once they’d returned to England, Senet, Aric and John had taken wives and set up their own estates within miles of each other. They had begged Kayne to do likewise, and take the fortune he’d amassed during his years at war and become master of his own land and manor house. But his soul had been too darkened to carry on a life of planting fields and overseeing servants and vassals and pretending that all was well. Too much of him had died during the war to let him live in that manner.

He had craved solitude and peace, and above all, namelessness—to put his old self away forever and never embrace it again. But becoming unknown had required great sacrifice. He could leave Wirth to visit his friends, but he could not receive their visits in his home. If any of the villagers saw Senet or John or Aric, they would know at once who Kayne was, and what he had once been, and the small measure of peace he’d striven so hard to gain would be lost. He would have to leave Wirth…and Sofia…and begin all over in a new place. If he could find one.

It had taken months of hard searching to find Wirth, and he’d been especially glad of it for it kept him so close to his friends. Only twenty miles separated him from Senet and Aric, and another ten from John. He did not like to think of being farther away, in case they should ever need him, and because of this, he stood firmly in his determination to keep his friendship with such noblemen—famed warriors all—a secret.

“Aye, we know,” Senet said more kindly. “My prayer is yet that you will one day come to yourself again, and cease such solitude. If you had gone into a monastery and taken vows, you could be no less cloistered than you are now.”

It was true. Kayne had even considered taking such vows when he’d first begun to seek peace. He might have done so, if not for the vow of celibacy. He was not a man given to much dallying with women, but neither was he a man to forever deny himself the company of females. Even if he’d been able to conquer outright lust, desire was something he knew he would never vanquish.

“Kayne,” Senet said, the timbre of his voice changing, growing sober and serious, “there is indeed a certain task that causes us to come to you this night. I’ve had a missive from your father.”

Kayne looked sharply at his friend. “From my sire, you mean. I have no father, though I might name Sir Justin such, as he was a father to us all when we were boys.”

“Aye, Sir Justin was truly a father to the fatherless,” John agreed, “but you were more fortunate than the rest of us, Kayne. You knew your parents—both mother and father, even if your father never claimed you as he should have done.”

“Neither my mother, may God assoil her, or me,” Kayne said tightly, hot anger seeping through every pore. “I’ve tried not to hate the man, but the truth cannot be denied. He used her for his pleasure—a simple serving maid who knew no better than to love her lord—and when she found herself with child, he sent her away with naught but what she could carry.”

Senet stepped forward. “I know you’re full angered with the man, Kayne, but you must realize that he did the best he could for her. He could have turned her out and left the both of you to suffer, but he sent her to Briarstone, where both she and you could be safe, and he sent money every quarter….”

“Don’t speak of it!” Kayne shouted furiously, turning away from them. “Money to buy her silence. And to keep the truth of who my father was a secret from one and all.”

“Nay, that is not why. Even your mother never thought that was so,” John argued gently, speaking with great care. “And when she died, Lord Renfrow sent for you, to bring you back to live with him at Vellaux. He did not want you to be alone, once she was gone. ’Twas your own stubbornness that kept you from going.”

“I never would have put myself in his grasp,” Kayne muttered with a shake of his head. “By then he was only desperate for an heir. The wife he’d taken after sending my mother away never gave him a child—nor did any of his other women. I only became of import to him when he began to fear that he’d die without a child of his loins to inherit his grand titles and estates. If God had blessed him with other sons—legitimate sons—he would have forgotten me entirely.”

Senet gave a long, weary sigh. “You are one of the best men on God’s earth, Kayne,” he said. “It grieves me to hear you speak so bitterly, when I know that your heart is above all things gentle and kind—except for the man who gave you life.”

Kayne rounded on him. “He made my mother a whore, and then abandoned her. She spent her remaining days longing for him—for a man who cared nothing for either her or me.”

“None of us can claim perfection, Kayne,” John argued. “Has he not tried to make amends? He is ill. He may be dying.”

The argument on Kayne’s tongue fell away at this. He gazed first at John, then at Senet.

“Dying? Is this true?”

Senet nodded. “His physicians have given little hope that he’ll live another twelve months—and will be fortunate to survive but six. His one desire before he greets death is to see you, Kayne.”

Kayne closed his eyes briefly, staring at the ground when he opened them again. He shook his head. “I cannot.”

“You must,” Senet pressed, “else you face God’s punishment for letting sinful pride overtake righteous compassion. You’ve never even met the man to judge him so harshly.”

“And I’ll not meet him,” Kayne said stubbornly. “By the age of ten, I’d known enough of my mother’s tears to vow that I would never crawl to that bastard—for any reason.”

Senet held out a beseeching hand. “Kayne…”

“If he’d wanted a son by his side,” Kayne cried, cutting him off, “then he should never have sent my mother away in favor of another.”

“He may regret that he did so,” John said quietly. “Indeed, I think it must be the greatest regret of his life. But you’ll not know unless you go to him.” John hesitated, clearly considering what he was about to say. “I want to tell you something, Kayne—something I’ve wished to tell you for many years now.”

Kayne turned his gaze to the smaller man. When he’d been a boy, John had ever spoken first and thought last, the greatest chatterer among them. But as a man, he’d become quieter, more considering, and when he spoke, it was a good thing to attend him. Kayne did so now, asking, “What is it, John?”

“When we were boys at Briarstone,” John said, “before Sir Justin had taken us to Talwar to train in the ways of battle, I used to watch you with your mother—you and Aric and all the others. ’Tis true that they were all women who’d suffered a great deal, and almost all of them bearing children out of wedlock, but they were alive and loving—and I was tormented with a jealousy that you cannot begin to know. I had neither mother nor father nor any kin to claim me. To have had only a mother, such as you had, would have meant everything in the world. I would have gladly given my life to know but a week of such joy.”

“I know that, John,” Kayne said with heartfelt sorrow. John had been abandoned as a newborn babe, left to die in a filthy ditch on a dark London night. He’d been rescued by the owner of a nearby tavern, and spent his earliest days living on London’s streets more like an animal than a human. If Sir Justin hadn’t discovered him and brought him to Briarstone—a place of refuge for all the unwanted—he’d surely have died long before reaching his tenth year. “But you did have a family at Briarstone. All of us were kin to one another there.”

“Aye, and a blessed thing it was, too,” John agreed. “And, yet, for all that I knew of goodness there, I was jealous. Of you more than any other, for you had not only a mother, but also a father who was faithful to send money and goods and even gifts at Christmastide, and who made certain that you and your mother were comfortable and well-kept.” John moved nearer, holding Kayne’s gaze. “If there is a man on this earth who would step forward this very day to reveal himself as my father, and who was full sorrowed at having lost me and pleaded, as your father has done, that I come to him, I vow by God above that I would move mountains to see him just once. Just once. Kayne,” he said, setting a hand on Kayne’s arm, “you don’t know what you have—what someone like me has dreamt of all my life. Don’t throw it away as if it were naught.”

Kayne was stricken to his soul. He said nothing, but only continued to gaze into John’s set face.

“Go to see him,” John pressed. “Speak to him. Give him a chance, Kayne. I beg it of you not for his sake, but for mine, if you bear me any love at all.”

“You know I do,” Kayne said. “You are as my own brother. All of you.”

“Then I ask it of you as a brother,” John said somberly. “I cannot tell you how it will grieve me if you turn so precious a gift aside.”

Kayne’s resolve crumbled. John had never asked anything of him before, not even during the many years when they’d all been together, fighting in France.

“Aye,” he murmured, setting his fingers over the hand that John yet held on his arm. “For you, my brother, I will go. If it will ease your mind, you may come with me.”

“Surely you didn’t think we’d let you go alone?” Senet said from where he stood, leaning against a tree, his arms folded over his chest in a relaxed manner. “You’re a brave fool, Kayne, but even you will admit to dreading such a first encounter. We know you too well to think that it would be otherwise.”

Kayne smiled at his friend’s teasing tone. “Aye, you knave, I admit it. Any man would feel the same, I vow. ’Twill be much like going into battle. But I have done that many a time before, and can do so once more. You need not go with me, to coddle me as if I were a child.”

Senet sighed and pushed himself upright. “Nevertheless, we will. Why do you not come with us now, back to Lomas? We’ll spend Midsummer Day there and begin for Vellaux the following morn. I’ll send your father, Lord Renfrow, a missive telling him of our coming.”

“Nay, do not,” Kayne said with a shake of his head. “’Twould be easier to meet him without formality. He must take me as I am, when I come to him. Give me a week to prepare and close my shop. I will meet you at Lomas on the seventh day.”

“Are you certain?” John asked. “Can you not come with us now?”

“Nay,” Kayne said. “There is something of import that I must do tomorrow—on Midsummer Day. Someone I must meet.”

Both Senet and John looked at him with open interest.

“Someone?” Senet repeated with a grin.

“Aye, someone,” Kayne said testily, “and you may keep your thoughts to yourself, my lord. You’ve no need to fear that I will be delayed in coming to Lomas. I’ll meet you there at the end of next week, and we can begin for Vellaux. On my word of honor, we will.”




Chapter Five


The dancing began at midday, even before the feasting had taken place. Sofia refused the first few requests to join in the merriment when the music filled the air, hoping yet that Kayne would change his stubborn mind and arrive. She knew that he would be reserved—if he came—and would feel an outsider to the other villagers. It was her intention to stay by his side every moment, bearing him company to make his time as pleasing as possible. If he could but see that there was naught to fear from knowing and communing with his neighbors, mayhap ’twould be easier to lure him to such festivities in future.

It was a perfect day. The sun was bright overhead, but not too hot, and a cool breeze carried the many delicious scents of the faire across the fields where the festivities were taking place, down to the banks of the river, where children were already making small boats out of leaves and twigs, and even into the forest, where young couples sought the shelter of the trees to share stolen kisses or begin searching for the fern blossoms which became imbued with great power in the coming darkness of this most magical of nights.

Sellers had set out their wares—jewelry, flowers, toys, herbs, medicines, crafts of every kind and a variety of foods. Great mounds of wood were being set out for the bonfires that would later be lit, and many smaller fires were already being used to roast whole pigs and haunches of venison and beef.

All the village maidens, Sofia included, had twined ribbons in their hair and adorned themselves with circlets of flowers, and were brazenly teasing and dallying with the young men. The young men, apart from admiring the maidens, were waiting for the contests to begin in order to prove their strength and prowess in such skills as archery, running and wrestling. There were prizes for the winners of each contest, all to be awarded with great ceremony by Sofia’s father, Sir Malcolm, who was already strolling amongst the feasters, merrily jesting and laughing and drinking far too much ale and wine. When the dancing began, Sofia noted, her father was one of the first to take a pretty maiden by the hand and draw her in among the other dancers.

“Will you not dance, Mistress Sofia?” Olvan, the cobbler’s handsome eldest son, cried out as three maidens laughingly pulled him toward the music.

Sofia smiled and shook her head—then laughed along with the maidens as Olvan stumbled at their urgent tugging and quickly righted himself, flushed with pleasure at being so sought after by the fairer sex. Everyone, it seemed, was smiling and laughing, and Sofia suddenly twirled about with her arms wide, uncaring of who saw. She felt gladsome and free and happy beyond measure. Could anything be better—or rarer—than a day of ease and pleasure?

She stopped spinning and closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun upon her upturned face, thinking of what was to come. The feasting and games and contests, the sailing of wishes, and then, as night fell, the bonfires and music and merriment throughout. Oh, how she wished Kayne would put his stubbornness aside and come. He would enjoy himself so very much—

“Sofia.”

A cruel hand closed over her arm, pulling her about. Sofia’s eyes flew open to see the man who’s voice she’d already recognized.

Sir Griel.

He was dressed, as he always was, in black, and surrounded by a half-dozen of his fighting men. They were the only men present who were fully armed, as if for battle, and silence began to fall over the assembly as their daunting presence was noted.

Sofia drew herself up full height, refusing to let anyone see the fear that welled up at the memory of her last meeting with Sir Griel. His fingers gripped her in the same steely manner as he had done then. Sofia made one effort to wrench herself free, saw his amused smile, and fell still.

“My lord,” she greeted coldly.

“Mistress,” he replied, still smiling. “You are very beautiful this afternoon. But this, to my partial view, is as you ever are.”

Sofia gave no answer to this, sickened by the way his gaze moved over her in so brazen and lecherous a manner.

“You have come to make merry for St. John’s Day?” she asked, calling the day by its church-given name, rather than what it had been known by since time began. “You have not honored us with your presence on such occasions before. I’m certain the people of Wirth are most pleased to have you attend their festivities.”

“But not you, Sofia?”

She lifted her chin.

“I have come,” he said, “but only to celebrate the day with my lovely betrothed. To bear you company both the day and night long, as Midsummer is surely among the most romantic times of the year. A day for maids to discover who their husbands might be. But you’ve no need of such as that, Sofia—” his tone grew softer “—for you already know who that man is. Do you wish to dance?” His grip tightened and he moved as if to draw her toward that place where the other dancers had fallen still, watching them.

“Nay, the music has stopped,” she told him, struggling in vain as he dragged her along. “There is no more dancing.”

“There will be music, presently,” he promised. “Where is your father? We will make him useful—though he is seldom so.”

The crowds melted away at Sir Griel’s approach, and Sofia could see her father, standing in the midst of the now still dancers, clutching his partner’s hand and gaping at Sir Griel in open fear.

Suddenly their way was blocked by a tall, muscular figure. Sir Griel actually ran into the man, so sudden and unexpected was his appearance, pulling Sofia into the same collision.

“Mistress Sofia.”

She looked up at the sound of Kayne’s voice, almost afraid to believe that it was truly him. But it was, and he stood before Sir Griel like a strong, immovable mountain, completely unafraid.

“Master Kayne,” she whispered. She was so glad to see him.

He held out his hand, holding her gaze, not even looking at Sir Griel.

“I’m sorry to be so late. We had arranged to meet much earlier. Come and teach me to dance, as you promised.”

She gratefully set her free hand in his, smiling up at him.

“Yes,” she began, just as Sir Griel, yet holding her other hand, tugged so hard that she slipped free of Kayne’s reassuring grasp and fell against her captor.

“You overstep, blacksmith, to address Mistress Sofia in so forward a manner,” Sir Griel warned in a low voice. “Move out of our way.”

Kayne stood where he was, still ignoring Sir Griel. He reached out to take Sofia’s hand once more, and, with a violent motion, Sir Griel shoved at him, unsuccessfully trying to push him aside.

“Move now!” Sir Griel shouted furiously. His men, as one, drew their swords and stepped nearer. Except for the sound of the river running nearby and the wind rustling in the trees, the silence from those attending the festival was complete.

Kayne gazed into Sofia’s eyes with what seemed to her an ineffable sadness, then he sighed and, at last, looked at Sir Griel.

“I do not wish to make trouble, neither do I desire a fight,” he stated calmly. “I carry neither sword nor dagger.” He held his arms out from his sides to prove the truth of the words. “But I will not move until you have released Mistress Sofia and let her make a free choice of who she will go with.”

Sir Griel looked at Kayne as if were a madman seeking certain death.

“Mistress Sofia is my betrothed,” he said with ill-concealed fury. “She has no free choice in any matter, and will do my bidding.”

Kayne was clearly unperturbed by this.

“No banns have been read to proclaim your coming union,” he said, “and Mistress Sofia wears no betrothal ring marking your possession of her. She herself has openly denied any such betrothal, to which many who are present can readily bear witness. By what right or law, my lord, do you make such a claim?”

Sir Griel’s face had turned red. “By my own law and none other!” he shouted. “Fool! I’ll see you dead for such insult!”

The biggest of Sir Griel’s fighting men lifted his sword and moved as if to strike Kayne. Sofia cried out with dismay, but Kayne moved so quickly that the other man never had a chance to so much as touch him. With an easy, fluid movement, Kayne bent, avoiding the blow of the gleaming sword, and picked the big man up. Just as easily he tossed him in a wide arc to the ground, where he landed with a loud thump.

Before Sir Griel’s other soldiers could fall upon him, Kayne had snatched up the fallen man’s sword and turned to face them. The first two were dispatched as quickly as the first, without an exchange of swordplay, and the other three stood back, holding their swords aloft and staring at Kayne warily, clearly unnerved by his calm and confident manner.

“Why do you wait?” Sir Griel shouted. “He is but a village blacksmith! Take him!”

One of the remaining men made the attempt, running at Kayne in a furious charge. Kayne didn’t move until his opponent’s sword was nearly at his chest, then with a flick of his own sword pushed the sharp blade aside and, using his fist, struck the man soundly on the head so that he crumpled to the ground beside his groaning comrades.

The remaining two men stood their ground. One was shaking his head and staring at Kayne with disbelief.

“He is no common blacksmith, my lord,” he told Sir Griel.

“Nay,” Sir Griel muttered, eyeing Kayne with a thoughtful frown. “That he is not. But we will see what he is.” He shoved Sofia away so abruptly that she stumbled and nearly fell to the ground. Keeping his sword at the ready and his eyes on his opponents, Kayne reached out a hand to pull her near, and Sofia gladly went. The warmth and strength of his body were a comfort beyond measure.

She was as shocked as everyone else present at the deftness Kayne the Unknown had displayed in dealing with Sir Griel’s seasoned fighters. It had been almost too simple a matter, as if they’d offered him not the least cause for trouble or worry. And the way in which he held the heavy sword in his hand—as if it weighed less than a feather—was even more amazing. She knew that Kayne had been a soldier once, but he fought like a much greater man.

Sir Griel rubbed a heavily gloved hand over his dark beard and considered Kayne thoughtfully. At last, with a nod of satisfaction, he spoke.

“It was once the custom on Midsummer Day for two men to take up the separate halves of the Sun King—his dark and light sides—and battle for the favor of a lady. I challenge you to such a battle.”

“That is a pagan custom,” Kayne replied, “and not countenanced by the Church. I will not fight you without just cause.”

Sir Griel’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “You fought my men.” He swept a hand at the pile of groggy men who, with the help of their two unwounded friends, were finally beginning to come back to their senses.

“Nay,” Kayne replied, shaking his head. “I defended myself, as well as Mistress Sofia. I will fight no man for game or pleasure. It is a vow I have taken.”

Sir Griel’s eyes widened with amazement, and then, after a short silence, he began to laugh, loud and lustily, as if he’d never heard anything so amusing in his life.

“A vow?” Sir Griel repeated after some minutes, still chuckling. “N-not to fight? But you jest, blacksmith. Surely you do.”

“I do not,” Kayne stated. “I will not fight you.”

Sir Griel’s black eyes still glittered with amusement. “I did not intend to attempt the task myself. There is one whose fealty I own—a knight of great renown—who I meant for the contest.”

“You would send another to take your place?” Kayne tilted his head to one side as if this amazed him. “But surely you, being also of the knighthood, are not afeared?”

Anger possessed Sir Griel’s features once again, and he replied tightly, “I’m afeared of no man, blacksmith, and far less of you. But I’ll not make a contest of what is already mine, as Mistress Sofia is.” He cast a threatening glance at Sofia that made her tremble. Kayne’s strong hand steadied her. “And I’d never lower myself to fight a knave such as you are. I was knighted by the hand of the king’s own regent, and have fought more battles than you could ever begin to dream upon, blacksmith.”

Kayne smiled at this, though very grimly. Standing so close beside him, Sofia could feel his body tensing at Sir Griel’s words.

“Mistress Sofia is her own,” he said in a low voice, “and no one else’s, until she decides otherwise. Take your sword and go in peace.” He held the weapon out to one of Sir Griel’s men, all of whom were now standing once more.

“I will go,” Sir Griel said, “but I will return with my warrior. And then we shall see whether you will fight.”

Kayne held his gaze. “If your man attacks me, even though I am unarmed, I will defend myself. If you should threaten harm to Mistress Sofia or any innocent person, I will stop you. And any man who will accost or bring harm to a woman, be she child, maid, mother or grandmother, him I will justly punish and not know a moment’s sorrow. These are promises I give you, my lord. You would do well to heed them.”

Sir Griel’s expression was as hard as stone. “I heed no man save the king, and such insolence as you possess invites challenging. I begin to think my man is right. You are no common blacksmith.” He stepped closer. “Why do they call you Kayne the Unknown?”

“That is for you to decide,” Kayne said. “I will bid you good day, my lord, and wish you a pleasant Midsummer Day.”

“Wish it to me later—if you are still alive to do so.” With one last glare at Sofia, Sir Griel turned and strode away, his men fast on his heels.

Slowly the crowd began to murmur, but once Sir Griel and his men had ridden away the murmuring turned into a loud chorus of voices, most of them filled with awe. Kayne turned to Sofia and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a single word he was surrounded by dozens of onlookers, slapping him on the shoulder and heartily congratulating him.

Sofia watched with a measure of amusement as Kayne nodded and thanked his sudden admirers. He tried to maintain his usual stoic, somber manner in the wake of such much good cheer, but his cheeks were pinkened and he looked fully discomfited by so much attention.

When the well-wishers moved away, he looked down at Sofia and asked, “Are you well?” He released the hand he’d yet been holding and gingerly touched her arm where Sir Griel had gripped it. “Sir Griel gave you no harm?”

“Nay, I am fine,” she assured him, “though only because of your great bravery. I am in your debt again. Thank you.”

His clear blue eyes regarded her steadily, as if he didn’t quite believe her. “You’re still shaking. Come and sit in the shade.” He lightly grasped her elbow and led her toward the river. As they walked, he looked about and said, somewhat grimly, “Your father disappeared almost as soon as Sir Griel and his men arrived.”

“He’s not very brave,” Sofia admitted.

“Nay, he is not,” Kayne agreed. “Not even for the sake of his own daughter—his only child.”

Large oak trees grew along the riverbank, and their shade was much sought after by the feasters. But as Kayne and Sofia approached, all those near the river stood aside, making way for them with broad smiles and knowing winks. Kayne scowled and ignored them, choosing a private place to sit a bit farther from the water, beneath a tree where a small patch of grass made a more comfortable place to sit.

Sofia gave a sigh of relief as she tucked the skirt of her surcoat about her legs. “It began as such a wonderful day,” she said. She looked up to where Kayne was standing, leaning against the tree with his arms folded across his chest. “You came,” she said, as if she’d only just realized it.

“I came,” he replied, “and now that I am here, you will do as you said and make me your promise.”

Sofia didn’t know what he meant at first, but finally she remembered. “You are good to have helped me today—and also before, but I cannot ask you to rescue me every time Sir Griel behaves in such a manner. I am already afraid that he will do what he can to kill you for what you have done this day alone.”

“Sir Griel is a knave to be wary of, just as I told you,” he said, “but I am a careful man.”

Sofia gave a slight shake of her head. “You have just told him that you will not fight, save to defend yourself and others. ’Tis a powerful advantage you’ve given him.”

“Mayhap,” he said with a slight shrug. “But mayhap I have taken an advantage, as well.”

“I do not understand you, Kayne the Unknown. I dislike sharing any belief with Sir Griel, but he spoke aright when he said that you are not a common man. And not a common soldier. You fight like no other I have seen.”

“And you have seen many battles, then?” he asked, a smile tilting his lips.

“Nay,” she said, frowning, “but I have attended tournaments in plenty. Not even the most seasoned knights had such skill as you showed this afternoon.”

“Then they never served in France. Even common soldiers learn how to fight well—very well—when enough battle makes it necessary. If they do not, they die.”

Two young women approached them, one carrying two tankards of ale and the other a basket brimming with choice bits of roasted meats, chunks of bread and cheese, and a variety of the many sweets being offered at the faire. They were gifts from many of the sellers, in gratitude for what Kayne had done in keeping Sir Griel from ruining the day.

“Thank you,” Sofia said, accepting the basket and setting it on the ground. The young women blushed and smiled at Kayne as he held out his hands to receive the tankards. When he murmured his own thanks, they giggled behind their hands and then curtseyed and hurried away. Kayne gave a shake of his head, watching them depart, and Sofia laughed.

“You will have every maid in Wirth in love with you,” she told him, “and every man jealous of you.”

Kayne sat beside her, handing her one of the tankards. “I will pray it is not so. Women destroy a man’s peace more easily than swords and arrows. Especially women in love.”

Sofia smiled to cover the pain the words wrought in her, and said, a little too merrily, “Are you hungry, Master Kayne?”

“Aye. It is one of the reasons I came. To eat and dance and…and to make merry.” He sounded as if he were embarrassed by the words. Before she could reply he added, in a firmer tone, “You have not yet given me your promise, Sofia.”

“Please, let us not speak of Sir Griel now,” she said, handing him a linen napkin filled with the choicest bits of meat. “Let us eat and dance and prepare our boats for making wishes.”

He looked stubborn, as if he would press the matter, but Sofia touched his hand and murmured, “Please, Kayne. Only let us enjoy the day. I will give you my promise when ’tis done, I vow.”

“Very well,” he agreed reluctantly, “I will wait. But only ’til dark falls. Then I will have your promise regarding Sir Griel.”

“Aye,” Sofia agreed demurely, “you will have it then.”




Chapter Six


Sofia found reason upon reason long after dark had fallen to put off making her promise—there was dancing to be taught, more feasting to be done, and they most certainly had to watch all of the contests and games—until Kayne began to wonder why so simple a matter troubled her so. But those moments that he did think of it were fleeting. Sofia had a talent for making him forget everything…save her.

He had dallied with pretty maids before, especially at Briarstone and while he was in France. He knew the pleasure of a woman’s smile, of holding a soft, feminine body close to his own as they twirled about in a dance—despite his great clumsiness and lack of skill. But what he had experienced before was as nothing compared to receiving Sofia’s smiles, or of holding her as closely as he dared before so many watchful and interested eyes.

He had never seen her like this before. Today, she wasn’t the lady of Wirth, ever concerned with the welfare of those beneath her care. Today she was all laughter and gaiety, so carefree and open and free of spirit that he couldn’t think of words to describe it, and so beautiful—God’s mercy, she was so very beautiful. He could look at her forever and never grow weary, regardless of what time would do to age her. Sofia’s beauty was far beyond the physical, though heaven knew that she was passing all pleasure to gaze upon. It was something that shone out from within, from her beguiling blue eyes and that bewitching smile. And that was just what he felt she had done—cast some spell to captivate him so entirely. It was a feeling Kayne didn’t like in the least, but knew himself as being helpless against.

Teaching him to dance properly was the first task Sofia set herself to once they’d finished their afternoon repast. Kayne was terrible at such a fine skill, and knew it. More times than he could remember he’d made the attempt to learn the simplest steps, but it had ever proved impossible. In the end, he’d merely moved about as best he could and tried not to knock anyone over. He had noticed, with a measure of relief, that he wasn’t alone in his clumsy attempts, and that others dancing near him had seldom taken offense at his lack of grace.

It was much the same in the waning afternoon of Midsummer Day as Sofia tried to teach him to dance, but a far greater pleasure than any previous attempt Kayne had made. She held his hands and made him watch her movements—this he did willingly and with much interest—and physically turned him about in time to the music. To be so exposed to the curious eyes of the villagers would have been a torment to him before, but Sofia’s joy-filled smiles and bright laughter held him too enchanted to think of how badly he might be humiliating himself. Indeed, after but a few moments she had him laughing, too, most especially at his many missteps and mistakes. Being clumsy had never been so great a pleasure.

They danced for what seemed like hours, laughing, twirling, gasping for breath until Kayne had to cry for mercy. Sofia shook her head and called him a very poor creature, but took his hand and led him to a nearby booth where ale was being sold. Bearing their tankards in their hands, Sofia next drew him to the shade of a tree where they sat and watched the contest of archery. At first, Kayne’s years of warring came back to him and he began to think of the hundreds of archers who’d fought beside him in the king’s army, but the contest soon became so close between two of the men that he forgot the war altogether, and watched intensely as each of the archers strove to best the other.

“Do you know how to shoot?” Sofia asked.

“Aye,” Kayne answered absently, fixed upon the archers.

“Did you shoot often during the war?”

“Not often. I was not so exact as others were. The sword is where my skill lies.”

“That I well believe, Master Kayne,” she said, gazing at him with a teasing smile, “having seen the proof with my own eyes. Will you like to see the wrestling contest that follows this? Or perhaps one of the races?”

“Whichever pleases you best,” he replied, though he hoped she’d choose the wrestling. She did.

As darkness began to fall the bonfires were lit with great ceremony, and there was a great deal more feasting. Sir Malcolm had finally returned and greeted Kayne in his cheerful, lordly manner. He gave Sofia permission to bring Kayne to eat at the manorial table, where Sir Malcolm and several of his favorite ladies sat, and there they enjoyed the choicest victuals to be had at the faire.

Sir Malcolm toasted Kayne’s earlier valor as if he’d actually been present to see it, in such a loud, boisterous manner that Kayne began to wish he could find a way to escape. When Sofia suggested that they join many of the other festival goers in search of St. John’s fern in the forest, he happily agreed.

Kayne had never believed the rumors that told of St. John’s fern being graced with magical powers on Midsummer Night, but Sofia clearly did. She pulled Kayne into the darkest part of the forest in an effort to leave the other searchers behind. With only the light of the moon to guide them, it was very dark, indeed.

“’Twill be impossible to find any of the fern without a lantern,” Kayne told her, to be hushed by Sofia.

“Shhh, else the others hear us and know where we search. Look for the fern’s yellow blossom. It should be easy enough to see, for tonight it will shine like gold.”

Kayne uttered a sigh, but dutifully began to peer through the darkness at the bases of trees and shrubs in search of a golden blossom. He tried to keep his thoughts on his task, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from glancing time to time at where Sofia was searching, her long, unbound hair falling forward as she bent over, inspecting promising spots. The light-blue surcoat she wore was luminous in the dark, turning her elegant form into that of a ghostly spirit.

He felt again the strength of the pull she held for him, and was unsettled by it. ’Twas well enough to dally with a lady such as Sofia on a night like this—aye, and even expected, for dallying was a large part of merrymaking days—but this one indulgence was all that he could allow. On the morrow, he must put aside every thought of Mistress Sofia Ahlgren save that which was most noble—to protect her from the cruelties of Sir Griel. Apart from that, there could be nothing else between them.

A loud cheering in another part of the forest revealed that someone else had found the first blossom of Saint John’s fern and, hearing it, Sofia straightened and made a sound of great unhappiness.

“By the Rood!” she muttered. “They’ve won the greatest measure of magic, but there will still be plenty for the rest of us. Hurry, Kayne! We must find one before ’tis time to set our wishes to sail in the river!”

“Before that time comes,” he said, setting his fingers about her arm to gently pull her to face him, “there is another matter you must tend to. You have not yet given me your promise regarding Sir Griel.”

Sofia was silent, her face turned up to him, and then she sighed and pulled free. She leaned against the nearest tree, still looking at him.

“’Tis hard for me to put myself in the care of a man. Any man,” she said in a soft tone. “I have never done so since I passed my childhood, and the thought of it…makes me afeared. I have seen how other women suffered, even my own mother.”

“Oh, Sofia,” Kayne murmured, drawing near. “You have naught to fear from me.”

“You do not know what it is like to have to depend upon the whims of a man. To be beneath his hand just as his vassals and hounds and cattle are. I have taken care of myself and those people within my father’s boundaries, and have been blessed to do so. I know that you mean only good for me, to protect me from Sir Griel, but if I do not face him myself and find the way to turn him aside, then I lose part of what is most dear to me. My very freedom.”

“It would not be so,” Kayne vowed. “I know more than you think of what a woman’s life may be like when the man whom she has put her trust in betrays her. Upon my honor, I will take naught from you. None will ever know of it if I should be called upon to take Sir Griel to task for his misdeeds. But you must give me your promise, Sofia, for if he should harm you—when you have no champion to turn to—what good will your freedom do you? If he should force you to become his wife, you may be certain he will keep you well beneath his hand, and that hand will be heavy and harsh.”

She shuddered at the words and looked away. When she spoke again, her voice was filled with unshed tears.

“It is not only for myself that I fear, Kayne. If I give you this promise, mayhap you will kill Sir Griel, for now that you have humiliated him he will relentlessly push at you with all his power and might, and you know what would happen if you, a common man, should so much as raise a hand to a knight of the realm. You would be hanged without question…and I could never let that happen.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “I would rather suffer the torment of becoming his wife than to ever see you harmed.”

The words made Kayne’s heart beat more rapidly. He felt strange and warm—and deeply stirred. Something within him responded to her sweet declaration with the same strong emotion, like for like.

Gliding his fingers along the silken skin of her cheek, he whispered her name and lifted her face, meeting her mouth with his own. Gently, tenderly he kissed her, sliding his fingers into her unbound hair, enticing her to draw closer. She did, and met his kiss with an ardent murmur. He felt her slender fingers, trembling, come to rest upon his shoulder, and somehow she turned so that she pressed up against him fully. Kayne’s other hand found the curve of her waist, and the feeling of her, so feminine and soft, nearly undid him. He pulled away before he lost control altogether and did something that would surely shock and offend her.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, pressing her away with the hand at her waist, dropping the other hand free of her hair. “I should not have done that.”

“Not?” she whispered. “Why? ’Tis Midsummer Night, and a man may kiss any maid who is willing.”

“This is so, but you are not any village maid.” He swept a few stray strands of hair from her forehead with a careful finger. “You are a born lady, and I naught but a commoner—far more than you can begin to know. Your father would rightly have my head did he learn that I’d taken such liberty with his daughter.” With the same finger, he lifted her chin up a bit higher. “Give me your promise, Sofia, regarding Sir Griel.”

“Kiss me again first,” she said, going up on her toes to find his lips.

Kayne firmly pushed her back down. “Nay, I have told you that I should not have done so. And I cannot trust myself to kiss you again. ’Tis because you are so innocent that you do not understand what follows such embraces. But each man has his boundaries, and I’ve nearly reached mine.”

This, rather than alarming her, as he had meant it to, only seemed to awaken her interest.

“In truth?” she asked, all amazement. “I have never been kissed before in such a way—so that it was a pleasure and not a torment. But even beyond that, ’twas very different for me than what you describe. I felt as if there was so much more to know…so much more to discover. ’Twas most exciting, Kayne, and I did not want it to end.”

He tried to push her even farther away. “Do not speak in such a manner,” he begged. “I am no saint to resist such words. Nay, I will not kiss you again, Sofia—cease—oh, very well.” He gave way as she continually strove to press nearer, and leaned down to press a firm, brief kiss upon her lips. “Now, cease climbing all about me and give me your promise, else we leave the forest this very moment.”

She subsided, and gave a wistful sigh. “Aye, Kayne, I give you my promise. If Sir Griel should offend me in any manner, I will come to you, and let you be my champion. Will you promise me, likewise, that you’ll not harm him?”

“Nay,” he replied truthfully. “I cannot do so, for I have no assurance that he will not dare his worst, for that is the manner of man he is. But I will bring him no fatal harm if it can be at all costs avoided. This I do promise, upon my honor.”

“Thank you,” she said, relief evident in her tone. She suddenly grasped his hands. “The fern blossoms! We’ve not yet found one, and soon ’twill be time to set our wishes upon the river. Hurry!”

Ten minutes of searching followed before Sofia at last cried out that she’d found one of the precious blossoms. By the time Kayne caught up to her, she had already kneeled upon the ground and spread out a delicate white linen cloth to catch the small golden flower as she pinched it from the stem.

“Now I’ve captured some of the night’s magic,” she said with satisfaction as she carefully folded the napkin and tucked it into the neckline of her surcoat. She accepted Kayne’s hand as he helped her rise to her feet.

“You will put it beneath your pillow, doubtless,” he said, then wished he hadn’t. Young maids used the supposed magic of such blossoms to bring forth dreams of the man they would one day wed—a thought Kayne didn’t enjoy thinking of when Sofia was involved.

She smiled up at him through the darkness. “Indeed, I will, Master Kayne. The magic will fade away too quickly, otherwise. But come!” She took his hand and began to tug him toward the open fields, in the direction of the river. “We must hurry to make our boats!”

A crowd had already formed along the riverbanks, and the feverish construction of small vessels made out of leaves and twigs was underway. Tiny candles were fixed in the middle of each, then lit by its owner, wished upon, and set adrift in the river. If the boat floated across the river with the candle yet burning, that particular wish would come true. If the candle went out, the sender must wait until the following year to float another wish across the water.

Some of the village children came running up as Kayne and Sofia approached, pressing crudely crafted boats into their hands and then running away. Kayne gazed at his with some dismay, wondering if it wouldn’t sink the moment it touched water, but Sofia exclaimed with delight, “’Tis perfect! Now we needn’t build our own, and can set our wishes afloat at once.”

They knelt beside the river and waited to make use of one of the many candles being passed among the festival goers. Kayne watched as Sofia lit her candle, then, holding her little boat high, closed her eyes and made her wish. When she was done she smiled, opened her eyes, and carefully set the vessel adrift. Then she offered the candle to Kayne.

“What did you wish for, that it makes you smile so?” he asked, lighting his own candle.

“I cannot tell you, and you must not speak aloud your wish, either. ’Twill not come true, else.”

Kayne didn’t believe in floating wishes any more than he believed in magic flower blossoms, but he very much wanted his wish to come true. So he didn’t tell Sofia that his wish was for the strong attraction he felt for her to fade, and silently lit his candle and set his leafy boat into the water.

Sofia’s candle floated safely to the other side of the riverbank. Kayne’s sank before it reached midway. When he dared to look at her, it was to find that she was still smiling.

They sat for a few silent moments, gazing out over the water at the small lighted boats as they floated away, turning the river into a beautiful spectacle of shimmering light.

“Hey, come to the bonfires!” someone shouted. “Tom the miller’s son has already jumped over three of them!”

The crowd moved almost as one back toward the bonfires, where the young men of the village were challenging one another’s mettle by seeing who could leap over the most bonfires unscorched, and where the young maidens were performing the yearly ritual of dancing about seven bonfires in the hope of gaining a husband. It was the most jovial part of the entire festival, which would come to an end at midnight. The musicians played loudly and merrily, and other feasters drank more ale and cheered the leapers and dancers onward. Kayne thought Sofia might leave him to join the maidens in their dancing, but she was content to remain by his side, laughing and shouting encouragement as the young people followed their different pursuits.

“You do not want to jump the bonfires?” she shouted up at him through the loud din.

He shook his head. “Nay, I’ve had enough of fire for many years to come.”

“Oh, indeed,” she replied with feeling. “You need no more scars to prove that it is so, Master Kayne.”

The noise of the festivities began to grow quiet by slow degrees, just as it had done earlier in the day, beginning at the edges of the crowd and working its way forward. Kayne, hearing it, sensed that Sir Griel had returned, as he had promised. He had hoped that it would not be so, but knew that a man like Sir Griel did not make such vows lightly—most especially not when he’d been so openly humiliated. Since he and his men had left, Kayne had been waiting for the promised return, and could only wonder that Sir Griel had chosen this late moment to make it.

It took a long time for the musicians to halt their playing, and for the young men and maidens to cease their amusements. By the time all had grown quiet, Sir Griel was standing in the midst of them, surrounded by his men. He searched the crowd slowly for Kayne, who was standing with Sofia in the shadow of a tall tree, away from the light of the bonfires.

“Kayne,” Sofia murmured, gripping his arm with both hands, “slip away now, before he finds you.”

Kayne set one of his own hands over hers and pressed reassuringly. He didn’t cherish the idea of the coming conflict, but if he did not make Sir Griel know that Sofia had a champion who would stand for her against every combatant, then the man would not leave either of them in peace.

“Wait for me here, Sofia,” he told her. “I will escort you home when this is done.”

He stepped forward, the light of the bonfires behind him, so that his face was yet in shadows.

“I am here, Sir Griel.”

The short, dark man’s gaze fell upon Kayne, and his heavily bearded lips drew into an unpleasant smile.

“You did not turn craven and run, despite my warnings,” he said. “I told you that I would return, and my promises are as honorable as your own.”

“You choose the dark of night to fight your battles—or to have others fight them for you.” Kayne’s gaze flickered past Sir Griel to the men standing behind him. “These are the marks of a coward, and I say it plainly to your face and before all those assembled, Sir Griel.”

It was difficult to tell in the dim firelight what Sir Griel’s reaction to this was. The crowds surrounding them murmured in some amazement at Kayne’s boldness.

“You mistake the matter, blacksmith,” Sir Griel replied. “I returned at the end of the festivities so as not to disturb the people of Wirth in their pleasure. But now, ’tis time for the merriment to be at an end. This is my man, who has come to play his part in our Midsummer Night battle.” At the lifting of one of Sir Griel’s fingers, a tall man dressed in full armor stepped forward. He was swathed in the black-and-red tunic that all of Sir Griel’s men wore, and appeared the more ominous for it. Kayne could see at once by the way the man held his sword that he was a skilled fighter, and that there was strength in both his hand and arm—all of which would make him a difficult opponent to best. “Do you still say that you will not fight?” Sir Griel asked.

Slowly, Kayne shook his head. “I will only defend myself, if I am made to do so.”

“Then you will be made to do so,” Sir Griel told him. “I would offer you my sword, if you will take it.”

“I will not.”

“So be it.”

Sir Griel stepped back, and the surrounding crowds did the same. Kayne stayed where he was, wanting to keep the flames behind him to both aid his sight and force his opponent to fight with the brightness burning in his eyes, distracting and blinding him. Each moment in such a fight was precious. Kayne’s life now depended upon making every one count in his favor.

His armored opponent began to approach Kayne at once, though slowly, his sword at the ready, clearly taking Kayne’s measure. He moved with care, not rushing into his attack as Sir Griel’s soldiers had done earlier, and Kayne could but admire and approve the tactic. Whoever had trained the man had done well.

His opponent circled to one side, trying to force Kayne to circle as well so that their positions would be reversed and Kayne would be the one to suffer the fire’s blinding glare, but Kayne merely continued to step before him, foiling the plan. Next the well-armored knight attempted to push Kayne back into the fire by making his approach more direct, but to this Kayne merely held his ground, inviting a charge that could be easily sidestepped.

After a few minutes of this, Sir Griel’s man clearly began to realize the difficulty of trying to engage an opponent who would not fight. The only option left to him, just as Kayne meant it to be, was to charge, and this he finally did. Sword held aloft, he ran toward Kayne at an angle—a wise decision, Kayne thought, as he had no choice but to leap forward, away from the fire, to avoid being cut in half. He whirled about at once in an attempt to regain the advantage, but his opponent had already divined his purpose and charged again, driving Kayne farther from the fire and into the shadows.





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