Chapter 3

Bursting into the keep, Ragan sprinted toward the great hall where she knew her father would be. Without a moment’s pause, she crossed the threshold of the enormous entryway of the chamber, proclaiming her innocence at the top of her lungs.

“He’s a liar!” she yelled, her hand against her ribs where a painful stitch had formed. “Don’t listen to him, father!”

“What the devil?” Ronan spoke, outraged by such a ridiculous intrusion.

“The man is a coward who can’t keep his word! He…,” Ragan stopped dead. Her head had been lowered to the rushes when catching her breath. When she’d looked up, it wasn’t Edan MacDougall standing next to the laird, but another.

“Have ye gone daft, girl?” Ronan questioned in a rage, his face mottled with patches of red.

Ragan was speechless. She couldn’t believe she’d made such a complete fool of herself! And to make matters worse, her father’s guest was now openly staring at her. And God help her, for she was staring just as unabashedly back!

The stranger was a Saxon. She could tell by the foreign clothes he wore. Dressed in full knight’s regalia, the man was more solidly built than any had a right to be. Each time he moved, his thick muscles strained against his surcoat, outlining each sinewy detail. And he was tall. Taller than any of her kinsfolk by several inches.

The Saxon had removed his conical helmet as a measure of respect when speaking with the chieftain. Ragan could see that his closely cropped hair was the shade of a starless winter’s night. But his eyes, which were fixed on her now, were his most striking feature. They were a flinty blue and seemed to pierce straight through to her bare flesh. He was, without a doubt, the comeliest man she’d ever beheld.

Finding her voice, at last, Ragan fumbled through her apology. “I... I didn’t know ye were entertaining guests,”

“Have ye no manners at all?” Ronan thundered, his patience with his daughter altogether spent.

“I’m sorry. Tis just that I needed to speak with ye,” she explained, her composure slowly returning.

“Do ye know how to do so without shouting, girl?” Ronan’s ire lessened some at the defeated look on his daughter’s face. Turning to the English lord who was waiting patiently, Ronan said, “Please excuse the interruption, milord. The lass is young and overly bold.”

Warrick had been taken aback when this young, beautiful girl had charged headlong into the hall. He’d been even more surprised when she’d lifted her enchanting visage and allowed him a chance to scan its haunting beauty. Strangely, her looks were traditionally English in nature. She had skin the palest of ivory and hair resembling the finest spun gold. But her bold conduct, that was all scot. A fact that did not disappoint him.

“Tis I who should be making apologies,” Warrick spoke gallantly. “I have yet to introduce myself.” Striding over to the fair maiden, he took her delicate hand in his. “I am Warrick Vymont,” he introduced.

Raising her palm to meet his lips, Warrick pressed a kiss upon her tender flesh. Her skin, which was warm and smooth, smelled of roses. The heady aroma, mingled with her intoxicating proximity, made it hard for Warrick to concentrate on anything other than thoughts of having her in his bed. He was quite grateful then for the armor that he was wearing, for it hid his mounting desire well.

Releasing her hand, Warrick took a modest step back, but the scent of fresh roses still clung heavily to his skin and lingered within his nostrils.

Ronan, not blind to his daughter’s appeal, was quick to separate the pair. “Introductions are unnecessary, milord. My daughter was just leaving.”

Warrick raised his brow. “I was unaware that you even had a daughter, milord,” he said a bit disappointedly. He’d hoped the girl was a commoner and thus available to bed.

“And why would you?” the laird replied curtly.

“Of course, you’re right,” Warrick answered respectfully. “And since we have nothing further to discuss, I shall be taking my leave. Ye can reach me at castle Falkirk if you need to speak with me further. Good day, milord, milady,” he pardoned with a bow toward each of them before departing.

Ronan didn’t speak until he was sure that the Saxon knight was gone. “What in the blazes did ye think ye were doing, Ragan?”

“I’d thought ye were talking to Edan about me, father,” she defended just as forcefully.

“And why would I be doin’ that?” Ronan asked, stumped by such an assumption.

Wishing she could simply disappear, Ragan avoided her father’s imploring stare. “We had a wee row earlier,” she admitted, her head cast downward at her kidskin leather shoe tracing imaginary patterns upon the rush-strewn floor. “I’d thought that Edan would have come to discuss it with ye.”

“Knowing ye, lassie, there is no such thing as a ‘wee’ anythin’,” Ronan accused. “Cut this stalling of yours and tell me what happened?”

Before Ragan could speak on the matter though, her four brothers entered into the great hall, sparing her the painful confession.

“What was the Englishman doin’ here?” Ronald asked with annoyance.

Turning his back on her then, Ronan spoke over his shoulder, “Get ye gone from this hall, lass. Your brothers and I have some talkin’ to do.” But as his daughter made to leave, the laird stopped her with his burly arm. “Do nye go far, as I still want a word with ye in private.”

“Yes, father.”

As promised, Ragan didn’t go far. Not because she was following her father’s orders, but because she wanted to listen in on his conversation with her brothers. There were so many questions about the handsome foreign knight swirling about her head that she couldn’t think straight. Listening at the door unseen would give her those answers and put her mind at ease.

“As ye lads well know, King Alexander is dead,” Ronan stated sadly. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “he has left no distinct heir to his throne, and therein lies the problem.”

“Yes, we know this, father,” Rourke interrupted. “But why are the English involved?”

“Don’t get ahead of me, boy!” Ronan scolded. “The English have gotten involved because their king believes his granddaughter has the only legitimate claim to the throne.”

“But the lady is nye but three years old,” Ryan, who was typically silent at such meetings, pointed out.

“That is why Edward has sent his most trusted vassals in the girl’s stead. He means to protect her claim until she is of a proper age to rule,” Ronan concluded.

Ronald’s face turned furious at this. “Ye mean until Edward finds a way to rule it himself!”

The laird sighed. “Aye, tis most likely the way of it.”

“But ye said that there were others contending for this seat of power, father,” Riley reminded.

“There are, son. One of them just happens to be King Edward himself!”

“Edward will either, by hook or by crook, control the Scottish crown he has ever coveted,” Ronald deduced.

Cup in hand, Ronan took a large pull from the vessel before answering. “Tis a possibility, lads, but the king’s granddaughter is a sickly lass. Tis rumored that if she is made to take the hard journey to Scotland, she will surely die along the way.”

“What good does that do us?” Rourke queried.

Ronan clapped his son on the back. “If King Edward can’t find any documents supporting his ascension to the throne, there are still many Scots who can!”

“But...,” Riley said, sensing that his father had yet to tell them everything.

“But,” Ronan repeated, “Edward has the power to choose who the claimant will be and thus will pick a man who he can use as his puppet.”

A servant girl approached their table and replenished each one of their cups. Ronald waited until the lass was gone before speaking. “Like the English knight who came to visit us today?”

“Yes. His name is Warrick Vymont and we must watch the man carefully. He’s Edward’s emissary and so can’t be trusted. Do ye understand what I’m tellin’ ye lads?”

“Yes, father,” they spoke in chorus.

“Good,” the laird ended. “But what I really want to know is why none of ye even saw the English knight approachin’ the keep? The man must have come in right under your noses!” he declared angrily.

All of Ronan’s sons held equal looks of shame and embarrassment. Finding his voice first, Ronald uneasily answered his sire. “We were watching the contest in the courtyard.”

“What contest?” the baffled chieftain queried.

“The one in which Ragan thoroughly defeated Edan at!” Riley shot back with a grin.

“Someone had better tell me what is goin’ on here,” Ronan spoke sharply.

Trying to sound as diplomatic as possible, Ryan took it upon himself to clarify the matter. “Ragan bet Edan that she could best him at a game of archery, father,” he explained.

“And just what did my daughter prove?” the laird queried, his face looking as though it would explode.

“That she could!” Riley unwisely cracked. Both Ronald and Rourke, though trying not to, broke out into peals of laughter.

Ronan was not amused. “Silence!” he shouted. “Just what did your sister stand to gain from this contest, Ryan?” he demanded, his voice falsely sedate.

“Ragan bargained that if she lost the match, she would marry Edan without a fuss. But if she won it, she wagered she would nye have to wed with him at all,” Ryan explained.

Ronan’s face became pinched and blotchy. “Oh, she did, did she?”

“In Ragan’s defense, father-,” he began, but his words were quickly quashed beneath those of the laird’s.

“Ragan MacDougall, get ye in here!” Ronan roared, his fury spilling out into the hall where the very lass was standing.

Thinking it would be wise to give the man some time to cool down, Ragan ran from the keep and her father’s furious summons. Realizing that he would search for her at her aunt’s hut first, as she had more than once sought refuge there, she hurried to the stable and saddled her horse. She’d ride to the pond that was but a few miles away from the village. No one would look for her there.

Pressing her heels into the flank of her mare, she goaded the spirited filly onwards. The horse, like a tightly coiled spring, shot across the courtyard and past the stone abode.

Riding over the fertile fields and plush glens, Ragan’s heart raced as steadily as the wings of a butterfly. She knew there would be hell to pay when she returned to the keep, but right now she was free. Dashing through the April winds with her golden hair unbound, it trailed like a proud pennant gloriously behind her.

Reaching her intended destination, Ragan leapt from the unsaddled back of her horse, not even bothering to tether it. She knew the beast wouldn’t stray. The abundance of sweet grass around the pool assured the docile creature’s attention for hours.

Walking over to the pond, Ragan removed a single slipper from her foot to test the temperature of the water. It was freezing. Regardless of the cold, she kicked off the other slipper as well.

Humming, she splashed her toes through the crisp water, contemplating the mystery that was the Saxon knight who’d visited her father. He was incredibly attractive, with eyes of piercing blue that were so intense they appeared to have a life of their own. As she considered the man further, she wondered what the Saxon had thought of her.

“Why should I even care what that Saxon thinks of me?” she unexpectedly spoke aloud.

Her horse, Ali, gave a short neigh then, which made Ragan laugh.

“I’d bet ye don’t bother yourself with such foolishness as men, Ali,” she responded absently, adeptly skipping a flat stone against the pond’s smooth surface. “I bet ye think tis quite daft to do so. But there was just something about the man that made me weak all over,” she confided excitedly to the mare.

With a sigh, she removed her feet from the pond and walked over to her mare. “Have ye found a good stock of sweet grass, dearest?” she asked, absently scratching beneath the mare’s chin. “Would it bother ye much if I go for a quick swim before we return to the manor?

The gentle beast nudged her with its muzzle as if to say it was alright.

“I will be hasty about it, I promise.” Kissing the mare’s graceful nose, Ragan discarded her cloak.

Detaching her brat, a rectangular piece of cloth that fastened at her breast with a broach, Ragan removed it and set it atop her growing pile of clothing. Before she could step out of her shift, she realized she was no longer alone.

In the water’s reflection, Ragan could see a man standing behind her. Whipping around with a start, she attempted to cover her exposed flesh. Behind her stood the Saxon knight, Warrick Vymont.

“What are ye doing here, milord?” she hotly demanded.

“Excuse me, milady,” he began, his eyes roving over her inviting curves. “I was merely riding across your family’s estate and stumbled upon this magnificent hollow.”

Though this was partly true, Warrick left out a few details. He had, in fact, been scouting the land to find out all he could about the clan MacDougall. When he’d spotted the small pond, he’d decided to water his thirsty destrier. That is when he’d seen the lady undressing near the water’s edge and fast acquired a thirst all his own!

The Scottish lass had appeared to him as fair as the mythical goddess Diana, glistening in the late afternoon sun. She’d frolicked about like a carefree woodland nymph and Warrick had shamelessly watched her undress. Like they’d had a mind of their own, his feet had carried him over to the edge of the small pool. It wasn’t until the beautiful maiden had gasped with astonishment that he’d even realized what he’d done.

Ragan stood stiffly before the knight, clutching what remained of her attire to her chest. “What are you doing here, milord?” she replied breathlessly.

Warrick grinned, exposing even, white teeth. “I’ve come to water my horse, milady.” Picking up her cloak, he handed over the strewn garment. “I believe this is yours.” But when she reached for the article of clothing, he quickly retracted it.

“What are you playing at?” Ragan snapped.

“What kind of gentleman would I be, if I didn’t help a lady don her cloak?” he teased, as if gravely affronted.

Warrick stepped closer and wrapped the cloak around the woman’s rigid shoulders before she could object. Leaning into her ear, his warm breath caressing the delicate lobe, he asked, “Is that better?”

His intoxicating smell, along with his virile masculinity, nearly collapsed Ragan’s trembling knees. “Tis fine enough,” she tightly replied, but her eyes could not mask what it was she was feeling inside.

“Tis fine enough, indeed,” he breathed back, though it was clear they were no longer speaking of cloaks.

The lady’s eyes were as crisply blue as Scotland’s infamous lochs. Time seemed to stand still as Warrick felt himself drowning in their vivid, limitless depths.

Moving forward as if pulled by an invisible string, his lips grazed against hers. Their kiss, which had begun softly, immediately turned hard.

Ragan’s mouth slanted wantonly over his. It demanded something she was too naive to understand but instinctively told her she would thoroughly enjoy.

Without thought, Warrick gathered the petite girl into his arms. He could feel she was naked beneath her thin cloak and his body grew instantly hard from the unfettered, intimate contact. He attempted to school the out-of-control emotions coursing through his heated veins, but it was no good. He was enthralled by this bewitching beauty and he wasn’t ready to relinquish his hold on her yet. He needed one more taste. One more touch.

Lowering his mouth onto hers once again, Warrick renewed his efforts. His hands, eager to experience her lush body’s bounty, stroked over her breasts. His manhood, swollen with desire, rubbed insistently against the mound of her thinly veiled sex, demanding entry.

The man’s expert kisses sent Ragan’s head reeling. She’d never felt anything like it before. When his rough hands grasped her waist and he pressed his hardness against her apex, she gasped, delighting in the newly discovered feel of his body.

The sound of approaching horses interrupted them then, doing what neither could seem to manage on their own.

Coming to her senses, Ragan realized her family had come to find her. Quickly, she pulled out of the knight’s arms and picked up her discarded garments. Donning her cloak, she stuffed the rest of the items underneath the thick fabric in an attempt to hide them from her kin.

As the Scotsmen came over the hill, Ragan recognized the faces of her four brothers, Edan, and the laird. “Good day, father,” she called out, her face flushed and her lips shiny and swollen from kissing.

“Daughter,” the brawny highlander returned, his scathing glare moving between the Englishman and his youngest child. “We have some talkin’ to do!”