Книга - Surrender To The Knight

Surrender To The Knight
Tatiana March


Scotland, 1541.Having lost his claim to his family estate, Olaf Stenholm has no choice but to accept the bride and lands chosen for him by King James. He knows Brenna Kilgarren will be reluctant, but he doesn’t expect the fiery beauty to greet him at the point of her sword. Yet her passion only makes him more determined to take her to the marriage bed…Brenna has sworn never to submit to any man, but from the moment she sees her latest suitor, her resolve begins to crumble. Perhaps here at last is a warrior who will fight by her side by day—and show her the true meaning of desire by night…







Scotland, 1541

Having lost his claim to his family estate, Olaf Stenholm has no choice but to accept the bride and lands chosen for him by King James. He knows Brenna Kilgarren will be reluctant, but he doesn’t expect the fiery beauty to greet him at the point of her sword. Yet her passion only makes him more determined to take her to the marriage bed...

Brenna has sworn never to submit to any man, but from the moment she sees her latest suitor, her resolve begins to crumble. Perhaps here at last is a warrior who will fight by her side by day—and show her the true meaning of desire by night...


Surrender to the Knight

Tatiana March




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


Dear Reader,

Surrender to the Knight is the third book in my miniseries Hot Scottish Knights. I expect it to complete the series but you never know—Ian and Alistair, the tall Viking brothers who make a brief appearance, might demand a story of their own.

Olaf Stenholm is introduced in the closing chapters of Submit to the Warrior. He attempts to strip his brother’s widow of the fortune she has inherited, not accepting that she has earned it through suffering in the hands of a cruel husband.

This portrays Olaf as a villain, when in truth he is only fighting for what by law should be his. In telling his story I wanted to reveal his true nature, his deep sense of honour and loyalty, and the longing to be loved hiding beneath his anger.

Olaf’s father hated him for the death of his mother in childbirth. His only brother was a violent man whose evil deeds drove a wedge between them. While still in his teens, Olaf left his home in Scotland to forge a career as a knight for hire in foreign lands.

Now he is back, a grown man hardened by a decade on the battlefield. His claim to his birthright fails, but as consolation King James offers him a bride with lands.

Lady Brenna Kilgarren believes that love brings nothing but heartbreak. A wise woman relies on her own wits and strength, and certainly makes no pledge of obedience to a man. When forced to marry, she is determined to keep her distance—not easy when her husband has the face of an angel, the body of a warrior, and gentle hands that awaken her passions.

Olaf and Brenna’s story is one of redemption, of learning to overcome loss and bitterness, of gaining trust and allowing the trust to grow into love. It is also about a woman’s quest for equality, even on the battlefield, about leadership and loyalty, and about taking a chance—both in love and war.

I enjoyed writing about Olaf and Brenna, how they find each other and defeat their enemies. I hope you’ll enjoy reading this final story in the Hot Scottish Knights miniseries.

Tatiana March


Contents

Chapter One (#uac4fafa0-c115-5006-b19f-cc1da4c40ceb)

Chapter Two (#u5a22cb46-64bf-566f-81b3-f33aa5ea8882)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

November winds howled across the Highlands, whipping the falling snow through the air. Olaf Stenholm blinked against the icy flakes that penetrated the visor on his helm. Beneath him, the big bay stallion whinnied with fatigue. The load Thor carried—a rider in steel armor and bundles of possessions in two sacks hanging down his flanks—was an insult to a destrier trained for the battlefield.

Just like the ride to the remote northwest was an insult to a knight.

Olaf flexed his fingers inside the leather gauntlets to keep his hands from going numb. His entire life seemed one endless humiliation. First, he’d been cast out of Stenholm Castle for challenging the right of his elder brother to inherit. Then, after his brother died, he’d lost his claim to the estate against the widow. Now, King James had offered him a bride with lands.

A bride with lands.

Olaf’s dismissive snort echoed inside the steel helm. The Kilgarren estate might stretch miles inland from the rocky coastline, but it was an expanse of barren moor. And the bride, Brenna Kilgarren, was rumored to have gained the lairdship by poisoning her only brother. According to the whispered accusations, she wanted to rule the godforsaken wilderness alone and had sworn to kill any man who tried to force her into submission. But King James wanted the coast protected against an attack from the sea.

And the king would never trust a woman for the task.

In the distance, the outline of a castellated tower peeked like a ghost amidst the flurries of snow. The single structure formed the only fixed point in the endless landscape of rolling hills covered in coarse grass. Olaf picked up his speed, forgetting all thoughts except the temptation of a roaring fire and a jug of hot whisky.

Closer, he noticed several mounds of earth that looked like dugouts where people and domestic animals could huddle through the winter months. Still closer, flapping sounds filled his ears. In the lee of the primitive castle, two canvas tents strained in the wind. From their pointed peaks, brightly colored banners rippled against the laden winter sky.

His competition.

To pacify Brenna Kilgarren’s protestations, the king had sent the lady three suitors to choose from. Outside one of the tents, a pair of men-at-arms stood guard, the pointed ends of their lances resting on the ground. Neither wore steel armor, but their leather jerkins were new, and the horses grazing on the frozen grass behind them looked strong and fit.

Olaf sighed with regret. His wealth would fail to measure up.

Before setting out on the long ride, he’d sold the possessions he’d collected in his years as a knight for hire. He’d released from his service the lad who’d followed him from the lands of Livonia, letting the young man keep the cart and carthorse. Now he wished he’d held on to it all, goods and cart and servant. Not only for a show of force against his competition, but to enjoy a few added comforts if the lady chose him for a husband.

“Go no further!”

The sharp cry almost startled Olaf into falling from the saddle. He surveyed his surroundings, his narrow gaze sweeping the barren moorland in the fading afternoon light. A ragged figure stood to his left, feet firmly planted in the thin layer of snow, a broadsword raised between two gauntleted hands.

The blade cut through the air with a sharp whoosh. “Get down and fight!”

Intrigued, Olaf studied his challenger. No armor, only an ancient shirt of chain mail, clearly made for someone much taller. Everything looked too big, the great helm resting like a bucket on the challenger’s shoulders, the hem of the hauberk flapping about her knees. On the downward swing, the tip of the sword almost sliced into the ground.

With a sigh, Olaf dismounted. It seemed that his prospective bride was wasting no time in her campaign to kill him. Briefly, he wondered how his rivals had fared, assuming their welcome had taken the same form. Dismissing the thought, he pulled his sword from the scabbard by his side and faced his adversary.

The lady raised her weapon with both hands and aimed a low blow. Olaf grinned inside his helm. Not bad. She was using her mind. His knees were a weak point, since he’d chosen not to wear full armor for the journey, only the larger pieces. Even those had caused him discomfort during the long ride, but without a packhorse the easiest means of transporting plate armor was wearing it.

Easily, he deflected the attack. With light swings of his sword, he forced the female warrior into retreat, testing her skill and strength. She fought well for a woman. The long sword hampered her speed, and the huge boots weighed like anchors on her feet. As she twisted and turned, the hauberk clung to her contours, revealing a slender body with feminine curves beneath.

Heat that had nothing to do with the physical exertion surged inside Olaf. Although he needed to carefully control each blow to make sure he didn’t hurt her, he couldn’t recall a fight that had given him a greater thrill. With each swing of the blade, his dark mood lifted.

Picking a spot where a mound of earth would soften her fall, he drove his opponent into a backward flight, until she tripped over a clump of grass and landed on her backside with a resounding thud and the rattle of chain mail. He pressed the tip of his sword against her throat at the base of her helm. “Don’t move,” he warned her.

Through the twin slits in her visor, he could see her eyes widen, but the light was too faint for him to see the color. Something dark. His own eyes were pale green, like the first leaves of spring. He resisted the urge to lean in for a closer look, brushing away the question that had crept unbidden into his mind. What did it matter to him what color her eyes were? His journey to the ends of the earth was not about finding a woman to stand by his side, or even just to lie next to him at night. It was about gaining lands and serving his king.

“Stay down,” he ordered.

Olaf withdrew his sword, replaced it in its scabbard and strode back to his horse. As he reached for the leather parcel tied behind Thor’s saddle, an image flooded his mind: a woman with serene beauty, golden hair and pale green eyes. He’d never known his mother—his memories came from a painting—but he clung to them nonetheless.

For a second, Olaf hesitated. Then he gave in to the impulse. He pulled down the long parcel and unwrapped the sword hidden inside. For as long as he remembered, he’d cherished the finely crafted weapon. Holding it by the blade, he turned to face his prospective bride.

The lady hadn’t stayed down.

She was on her feet, charging up at him, getting ready to skewer his entrails. Olaf would have sidestepped the attack but he feared she might pierce the flank of his bay stallion, so he stood his ground, hoping that Lady Brenna lacked the mettle to slice up a man who hadn’t drawn his weapon.

With a clang, her blade connected with his breastplate. The impact of his solid, unyielding stance made her bounce back and stumble on her feet. The sword slipped from her grasp and clattered to the frozen ground. Olaf stole a glance at his aching chest. The force of the blow had made a dent in his breastplate. Without the protection of the steel armor, his blood would be staining his boots right now. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the foolishness of setting himself up for slaughter and increasing the likelihood of being injured by giving the attacker a better weapon, just as he was about to do.

He offered his treasured sword to her. “Try this.”

The small figure in chain mail had crouched down to retrieve the fallen blade. When she heard him, she turned to look up at him, her movements awkward as she controlled the weight of the big helm on her shoulders. Slowly, she rose, leaving her weapon lying on the ground.

Olaf held out the shiny length of steel. “It’s a single-handed arming sword for a lady,” he told her. “A female lacks the strength for two-handed combat and needs to rely on speed and agility instead.”

“You knew?” Dark, shining eyes met his through the slits in her visor. Brown. Her eyes were dark brown, with golden glints in them.

“Of course I knew.” Olaf threw the comment back at her, his voice full of scorn at the suggestion that she might have deceived him. “A woman moves differently. Fights differently.” Makes a man’s loins ache and his blood run hotter than the flames of hell, he could have added.

In silence, he held her gaze. He could see only a thin sliver of skin around her eyes, and yet his gut tightened, adding to the restlessness that had seized him while they were parrying. She looked away first. Then she took the sword from him, stepped back a few paces and tested the weapon, slicing and stabbing at the empty air, lunging forward, attacking an invisible enemy and retreating again.

In the Nordic lands, Olaf had seen women fighting beside their men. He’d always found female warriors in battle a glorious sight. Brenna Kilgarren moved with grace, her body slender beneath the chain mail that swamped her. Unlike the tall women of the north, Lady Brenna was small. The kind of woman who ought to be seeking a man’s protection instead of rejecting it, the thought flashed through Olaf’s mind.

She ceased her prancing and turned to him. “Why did you bring me a sword?”

“I didn’t,” Olaf replied. “I just let you try it out.” He wondered if the lady might be amenable to bribery. Such a sword was worth a fortune, certainly more than the other suitors’ tents, perhaps even their horses. “It used to belong to my mother,” he added.

“Why did she give it to you instead of a daughter?”

“She had no daughters.” Olaf paused. He disliked talking about himself, but despite his reluctance, the words tumbled out. “She died birthing me. My father thought it fitting that I should inherit her sword. It’s the only thing I have from my family. The rest went to my brother, who lost it all.” He gestured toward Thor. “This is all I possess.”

“I see.” Before handing the sword back to Olaf with obvious regret, Lady Brenna glanced at the sacks hanging on the flanks of the bay destrier. “As you have no tent, where do you propose to sleep while I evaluate my suitors?”

Taking his time over the task, Olaf wrapped the lady’s sword in the protective piece of sheepskin and stowed it behind Thor’s saddle. “When do you plan to make your choice?” he asked, returning his attention to the female warrior.

“I don’t know.” Her brown eyes flashed in defiance. “Perhaps in a sennight.”

Olaf gave in to the bitterness that brewed inside him. “I’ll give you until suppertime to make up your mind. Either I’ll sleep in your bed, or I’ll be on my way riding out.”

Her surprised gasp made his mouth tighten with satisfaction. He was done with politeness, done with seeking to please. He wanted to settle down, or get back to some bloody battlefield where a swing from an enemy sword would give him eternal peace.

“I’ll take orders from no man.” Lady Brenna’s voice rasped with anger.

“You might defy a husband, but you’ll take orders from your king.” Olaf turned to stroke Thor’s sleek neck. “What about shelter for my horse?”

For a long moment, Lady Brenna stood in silence. Then she lifted one mail-clad arm and pointed toward the simple stone tower. “Animals are on the ground floor, the servants on the next, and the top floor is for the laird and his family. You can settle in the guest solar.” Without another word, she spun on her huge leather boots and plodded along the path to the massive iron-studded front door.

Olaf set off after her and gave a sign for Thor to follow.

By tonight he’d know if his future lay in this barren land.

* * *

Brenna flung open the heavy oak door and banged her feet against the earth floor to shake off the snow. In her mind, doubt and fear fought with gratitude so deep that she was tempted to sink down to her knees and thank the Lord.

She’d prayed for a man who would let her fight, who would treat her as his equal. A husband brought her one benefit and nothing more: he would strengthen her hold on the Kilgarren lands. After their union had been sealed, King James couldn’t strip away her heritage, claiming that a woman lacked the military skills to defend the borders of Scotland.

The newcomer would help her secure her future.

Then he could leave.

And he would leave.

Those not born on the remote edges of the land could never tolerate the loneliness, the shrill winds that blew in from the sea and the lack of daylight during the winter months, or the monotony of the meager meals the harsh climate could produce.

Behind her, the knight led his big stallion inside and slammed the door, shutting out the remains of the dull winter daylight. She turned to study him in the glow of the fire from the massive central chimney. He was broad-shouldered and lean at the hip, and no more than medium height. From the way the armor fit his body, she could tell it had been made for him.

She’d already seen that his eyes were pale green. Now, he pulled off the heavy gauntlets and raised his hands to lift away the steel helm that covered his head. Tingles raced along Brenna’s skin at the sight that met her. Straight nose, square jaw, smooth, pale skin. The firm set of his finely curved mouth hinted at a determined nature. She could not have imagined such features. Elegant yet masculine, strikingly male despite their beauty.

The horse butted at the knight’s side, and he turned to soothe the animal. When he bent his head, the golden locks that skimmed his shoulders fell forward. The light from the chimney set the strands alive with fiery glints. As a child, Brenna had once traveled to Edinburgh, where she’d seen paintings of saints, some of them with a halo just like that.

Don’t be a fool, she told herself. He’s not a saint, just a man greedy for lands.

“Where do you keep the oats and hay?” the knight asked, his hands busy on the flanks of the bay destrier, stripping the load from the animal’s back.

“This is all we have.” She pointed at the dwindling stores in the corner. The knight followed her direction, his expression searching, until he accepted that there was nothing more than a single barrel of grain and a half dozen bundles of hay.

Brenna hurried past the central stone chimney, enjoying the wave of heat from the flames. She scooped oats from the barrel into a wooden bowl and returned to give it to the knight.

“Thank you.” He took the bowl from her and said nothing more.

A fence made of birch saplings penned the animals into one end of the room. Ramsey, the workhorse, stood like an emperor in the middle, flanked by the pair of milk cows, Trudy and Sally. The dozen sheep had no names. Brenna didn’t like naming creatures she might have to eat.

The knight had opened the gate to the enclosure and guided his horse inside. The sounds of the animals filled the silence. The horse drank with blustery slurps from the bucket on the floor. The others tried to push in for a share of the oats, erupting into a noisy protest when the knight ushered them back.

Unsettled by his quiet presence, Brenna edged toward the ladder that rose in the corner of the shadowed room. She ought to change out of her father’s old armor, put on a gown and kirtle to honor the occasion of her betrothal. Hesitating, she lifted the foot she’d already set on the bottom rung of the ladder back down to the floor and stole another glance at the knight attending to his horse.

Why bother wearing a gown? Why not start the way she meant to go on, without feminine trappings, without any pretense that she was entering their union with anything but reluctance? She’d dressed like a boy most of her life and didn’t plan to change her ways just because a husband was forced upon her—even if the husband might look like the golden prince of a fairy tale.

Bending forward at the waist, Brenna pulled off the helm that sat like an upturned bucket on her shoulders. She lowered it to the earth floor, straightened and wriggled out of the chain mail hauberk. Beneath the armor, she wore a pair of thick woolen hose and a doublet long enough to protect her modesty.

She brushed off a streak of mud from her bodice, then loosened her hair and arched her back, raking her fingers through the curls to untangle them. She possessed no mirror, but those who remembered her mother had told her she’d inherited her mother’s Norman looks—hair as black as midnight, brown eyes that could shine with merriment or glisten with tears, and a slender body that despite its air of fragility could outlast many men on a ride across the moors.

An inarticulate, rough sound startled her. Brenna whipped around. In the flickering firelight, she could see the knight staring at her. His gaze roamed her body, gliding up the length of her legs, past her waist, settling on the swell of her breasts.

An odd sensation curled in her belly, a bit like when she crept up to the bottomless gulley near the sea and looked down into its depths. Her nipples tightened, the way they sometimes did when the cloth of her chemise chafed against them.

The knight continued his scrutiny, now studying her face. Heat swamped her skin beneath the wool and linen. Her breathing grew shallow, her heartbeat rapid and uneven. Instinct seized her to flee, to seek solitude, so that she could regain her mental balance.

“Come,” Brenna said, turning away. “I’ll show you to the guest chamber upstairs.”

She climbed up the ladder, moving fast and not looking back at him.


Chapter Two

Olaf surveyed the small stone chamber that housed nothing but a pallet of straw, a large oak chest, and a bundle of blankets so worn that his horse would have complained. The narrow window let in the last glimmer of fading daylight.

“I’ll get you some candles.” Lady Brenna retreated through the door.

The pair of sacks containing his possessions weighed on Olaf’s shoulders, and he bent to lower them to the floor with a clunk. Before he had a chance to make a closer inspection of his surroundings, Lady Brenna returned with a burning candle. She was walking slowly, her hand protecting the flame. She set the candle in a wall sconce, then used the flame to light a second candle and placed it in another sconce farther along the rough stone wall.

“Could I have something to drink?” Olaf asked. “Ale or whisky?”

She thought a moment, her head tilted to one side. “I’ll get you mead.”

He nodded. “Mead will do.”

Olaf sank down on the pallet. His tired hands barely mastered the straps and buckles as he removed his plate armor and stacked the pieces beside the pallet. Then he waited. If he planned to stay the night, he ought to unpack and change. Sweat from the endless riding stained the linen shirt and braies he wore beneath his travel-worn hose and doublet. He doubted he could tolerate the soiled garments much longer, but quenching his thirst came before everything else.

Minutes later, the timber door creaked open on its iron hinges and Lady Brenna returned, carrying a pewter mug by its handle. A sense of wonder filled Olaf anew. Down in the stables, when he’d watched her shed the bulky helm and the chain mail tunic, her beauty had stunned him into an uneasy silence.

He’d seen her emerge, like a butterfly emerges from its drab cocoon, and an impulse had swelled inside him to stride across the room and tangle his hands in her ebony curls. He was one of three suitors, he reminded himself. The right to touch her might never be his.

Lady Brenna moved forward and came to a halt a few paces from him, leaning down to hold the tankard out to him. Glossy dark curls tumbled past her shoulders, glinting in the candlelight. As she bent toward him, her breasts strained against the thick wool of her doublet. Olaf shifted on the pallet, pretending to settle more comfortably against the wall, when in truth the discomfort throbbed beneath his leather codpiece.

“I’ve heated the mead and put some spices in it,” she told him. “It will help you rest.”

In silence, Olaf watched her. Her features held not only beauty but strength. Bold, straight nose, dark arch of eyebrows, high crest of cheekbones. The full mouth and the sweep of long lashes added a hint of softness, making her appearance an alluring mix of a female warrior dressed in a man’s clothing and a woman with her feminine curves on display. He doubted Lady Brenna was aware of the subtle invitation her figure-hugging attire sent to any man old enough to lust after a woman and young enough to do something about it.

As he continued his survey of her, a trace of color rose to her cheeks, and she spoke in a nervous prattle. “We had the chimney in the center of the tower built five years ago. Before then, we had to suffer the smoke rising from the fire pit in the middle of the floor downstairs.”

Fire pit? Olaf shook his head in disbelief. It might be 1541, but it appeared that in this remote corner of Scotland time had stood still for centuries.

“It’s too early for bed,” he pointed out. “And I don’t plan to sleep here.”

A flash of rebellion skimmed across Lady Brenna’s features. Olaf knew that she’d caught his meaning, understood he was reminding her of his threat to ride out if she hadn’t made her choice of husband by nightfall.

She held the tankard out to him. “Drink and sleep now,” she told him. Her mouth puckered, as if she disliked the flavor of the words on her tongue. “You might not have the chance later,” she added, and Olaf couldn’t decide if she was warning him that he might have to depart soon or hinting at the wedding night to come.

“Drink,” she said again. “It’ll do you good.”

He caught it then—a flicker of cunning that drifted across her features as she proffered the tankard at him. She lowered her eyes, refusing to meet his searching gaze. A frown of guilty conscience pleated her brow, alerting him to danger as clearly as a painted warning sign might have done.

He expelled a tired sigh. It didn’t matter. Death by poisoning, death on a battlefield. If Lady Brenna chose him, at least he wouldn’t have to ride back through those godforsaken moors and, in any case, he didn’t need to start worrying about every mouthful he ate until they were husband and wife, united by law. It wouldn’t make sense for her to kill him unless she could become his widow.

Olaf took the pewter vessel from her and lifted it to his lips. As he downed the first mouthful of the sweet mead, a wave of exhaustion swept over him. He tilted his head back and swallowed, time and again, the liquid burning a hot path down his throat.

When he was finished, he passed the empty tankard back to Lady Brenna. She didn’t leave the room, merely moved a few paces away from him and remained standing there, swaying gently, shifting from foot to foot. One slender hand rose, tangling in her hair, the nervous fingers toying with the ebony curls as she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Olaf ceased fighting the fatigue that washed over him. His limbs grew heavy, his thoughts hazy. Drowsy warmth enveloped him, pulling him into its peaceful embrace. Just before the darkness of sleep claimed him, his thoughts sprang loose, his control crumbling away.

“I want you to be mine...mine to kiss, mine to wed, mine to bed...” He heard his slurred words but couldn’t stop their flow. “Lands...I want lands...forget lands...I want to taste you...put my hands on you...uncover your naked beauty...”

With the last grain of his awareness, Olaf registered Lady Brenna’s shocked gasp. She took a hasty backward step, retreating deeper into the shadows, but not before he saw a crimson flush surge up to her face.

“I want to be inside you and feel you tighten around me...until my seed spurts out and fills you with my babe....” His voice fell to a raspy whisper. “I want to curl asleep beside you...night after night after night....”

Overcoming her initial reaction, Lady Brenna moved closer, hovering in front of him, straining to hear his words. Olaf tried to reach out for her. An urge soared inside him to haul her against him and press his mouth against her rosy lips, and yet his body refused to move. With a groan of frustration, he slumped down on the straw pallet. Then a black void claimed him, and with it the images of his hopes and dreams.

* * *

Lady Brenna fled the guest solar, her trembling legs barely carrying her. The room opened to a corridor outside the laird’s chamber, and as soon as she’d crossed the threshold, she halted and barred the door. Then she turned around and propped her back against the smooth timber surface, her chest rising and falling with urgent breaths.

Her third suitor had a warm, rich voice, and now echoes of it filled her ears. She tried to forget his lustful ramblings, but her body throbbed and tingled with the sensations his daring comments had stirred inside her. Images of the arrogant, masculine beauty of the golden knight filled her mind, refusing to fade.

What would it be like, to be in love?

What would it be like, to dream of a man’s touch?

What would it be like, to eagerly wait for the night to fall?

A shiver of warning ran through Brenna, shaking her like a winter chill. Romantic love ruined lives. She’d enjoyed the best of it, the safe and undemanding love of her family, and she wouldn’t tempt the Fates by opening her heart to a stranger. Painful memories whispered through her mind. Her mother’s tears when the isolation at Kilgarren got too much for her and she chose to return to France. Her father’s grief, how he’d stormed out to the moors, roaring out his longing for her into the winds after she was gone and his loneliness grew too deep to bear, eventually fracturing his sanity.

Such a fate would not ruin her future.

She refused to let herself fall in love and then have her heart shrivel and die, the way her father’s heart had died when her mother found it impossible to stay. She would do her duty, seal the marriage and then count the months until her husband grew tired of the primitive existence in the north and left.

* * *

Dull, steady thuds pounded like drumbeats against his temples. Olaf cracked his eyes open, coming awake in stages, trying to figure out where he was. Darkness surrounded him, but vertical streaks of golden light broke through the veil of black. When he reached out, his fumbling hands met a heavy layer of fabric, a flimsy wall that swayed as he groped. Rolling over, he pushed the rustling velvet aside and found himself looking into a large room.

Privacy curtains.

He was stretched out on a canopied bed. On a small table a few feet away, a pair of tallow candles burned with a steady flame. A fire roared in a massive stone chimney. As his senses sharpened, he felt the texture of his woolen hose and quilted doublet against his skin—whoever had hauled him from the straw pallet into his room had left his clothing undisturbed.

Softly spoken words drifted at him from the shadows. “I asked Ian and Alistair to carry you into the laird’s chamber.”

His parched throat only managed a rasp in reply.

“You need to drink,” the voice told him.

He fought the ache in his head and focused his gaze in the direction of the sound. Out of the darkness, a woman stepped forward. She was slender, clad in pair of tight-fitting hose and a green velvet doublet that covered her hips. Glossy black curls cascaded down to her waist. When she offered him a taut smile, a pair of dimples decorated her cheeks.

Fragments, recollections fell into place—the ride through the Highlands, his arrival at Kilgarren, clashing swords with a woman. “Lady Brenna?” he croaked.

“Drink.” She knelt beside him and lifted a stone cup to his lips.

Still dazed from the deep, dreamless sleep, Olaf tipped his head back and took greedy gulps, the cool water easing his thirst. His eyes roamed over her—the subtle curve of her breasts, the fine arch of dark brows, the rosy mouth pursed in concentration as she held the drinking vessel steady for him. On her temple, a blue vein throbbed beneath the pale skin.

He swallowed the last drops. “Thank you.”

Lady Brenna moved away from him. She set the cup down on the table and bent to deal with some other objects that Olaf couldn’t see from the distance. He heard a clunk and a scraping sound. A moment later, Lady Brenna dragged a low pine stool to the bedside. She went to the table again and returned with a wooden board, a roll of parchment and a quill.

She held up the document. “The marriage contract.”

She’d chosen him over the competition.

A small corner of Olaf’s damaged pride repaired itself, but the rest of his thoughts whirled around in a confusing mix, almost like an army attacking from all directions on a battlefield. His brain felt dull. She must have drugged him. He should have realized he needed to be more cautious with the drink she’d offered him when he settled down to sleep.

He’d just drunk some more.

His stomach lurched. Perhaps he should purge its contents. Dismissing the idea, he gritted his teeth to fight the nausea. So far, she’d only given him a sleeping draft. It made no sense for her to poison him now. Better to wait until they were married and she could become his widow. Still, he would need to be on his guard.

Olaf pushed up to a sitting position on the bed and swung his legs over the edge. The icy floor chilled his feet through the woolen socks. He couldn’t recall if he’d removed his boots, or if someone else might have done it while he lay in a stupor. Despite the situation, the thought of his bride undressing him, even if it were just his heavy boots, made the knot of tension in his belly tighten another notch.

Lady Brenna settled on the low stool beside the bed. She balanced the board over her knees and poised the quill above the parchment. “Your name?”

Startled, Olaf searched her solemn expression. “You don’t know my name?”

“I forgot to ask when you arrived.”

“The king didn’t inform you of who your suitors would be?”

“Not the third.” Lady Brenna looked away. Her voice fell to a mutter. “The other two were known to me.”

“What happened to them?” Olaf pressed.

“I sent them away while you slept.” She returned her attention to the parchment on her knees, her brisk manner indicating that she preferred not to dwell on the topic of the dismissed suitors. “Your name?” she asked again.

“Olaf Stenholm.” He watched as she wrote it on the contract.

Her soft mouth puckered in concentration as she carefully drew each letter. The long lashes made dark crescents against the creamy skin. She turned the parchment around on the board and held the quill out to him. “Sign your name.”

His mind reeled back to the long ride across the frozen moors, the frostbite in his fingers, the discomfort and fatigue of the endless journey wearing plate armor because he had no other means of transporting it. During the journey, he’d thought that he’d lost everything but his honor. Now it dawned on him that he also had his life, and he valued his remaining days much more than he’d believed up to now.

He lifted one hand in a stalling gesture, not accepting the quill she was offering to him. Despite the lingering effects of the drug, his voice rang sharp. “You’ve had your chance to consider me as a suitor. In return, I want a chance to consider you and your lands. The king sent you three suitors to choose from. I want three days to decide.”





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