The Scot's Oath Page 3

  “Forgive me the intrusion, Lady Hargrave,” Rolf rushed, one palm held toward her beseechingly. “Forgive me. We have a visitor.”

  “A visitor?” the lady hissed. “A visitor? Why would I ca—”

  “A man claiming right to Darlyrede House, my lady,” Rolf interrupted, and it was only then that Beryl could make out the sheen of sweat glistening on the usually collected servant’s forehead. “He is demanding entrance.”

  “Well, turn him away and be done with it,” Caris sputtered. “I have had enough of these tales of errant heirs. Is Lord Hargrave not in attendance?”

  “He is, my lady.”

  “Well?”

  Rolf’s face was expressionless, but Beryl could see the distress just under the man’s pale skin. “The watchman has spotted an army riding behind him, my lady. His lordship has suggested that perhaps you would prefer to remain within the safety of your own chamber. With the bolts thrown.”

  Beryl couldn’t help her gasp. “An army riding on Darlyrede?” She turned her gaze to the lady once more.

  But rather than showing frightened dismay, Caris Hargrave’s chest heaved—the high neck of her dressing gown gaping around her spindly throat, emphasizing the anatomy of her windpipe and tendons. “I would not prefer,” she said through her clenched teeth. “Beryl, go below in my stead. Find out who this person is, and if we are truly to be laid siege to.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Beryl said, scrambling from the bed.

  “And take him with you,” Caris added bitterly. “It is well known that there are to be no men in Lady Euphemia’s chamber. Rolf?”

  “Milady?”

  “Should your boots ever again cross the threshold of this chamber, you will be set from this house, and I care not what Lord Hargrave should say. Do you understand?”

  Rolf bowed awkwardly as he backed through the doorway. “Aye, milady. Forgive me, milady.”

  “Come on,” Beryl muttered as she swept past the nonplussed steward and into the corridor.

  She struggled to keep pace with the long-legged man as they fairly flew down the polished stone staircase. They were yet two floors above the entry of Darlyrede House, and already Beryl could hear the echoes of angry shouts, words without form; blustering accusations and loud reports of footfalls from below.

  Beryl’s heart pounded as she rounded the balustrade on the second floor, but it was not from exertion or fear; she was angry.

  I want to tell you a secret…

  What had Lady Hargrave wanted to tell her? Was it something more about Euphemia’s disappearance? Perhaps she was poised to incriminate her husband. So many whispers of Vaughn Hargrave, so many peculiarities about the man. The way he sometimes looked at Beryl made her skin crawl.

  Has he touched you? I don’t like it when he touches my girls…

  The missing servants, the missing villagers. They couldn’t be blamed on Thomas Annesley, gone from Darlyrede House for more than thirty years. He was supposed to have been located early that year, executed in London. But he had vanished again.

  Like Euphemia Hargrave.

  Like the villagers.

  Like the purses of the wealthy nobles who dared travel unguarded over the road of the moor.

  Perhaps it could all be blamed on the band of criminals inhabiting the wood beyond Darlyrede. Caris Hargrave was likely justified in her heartbreaking hope that her niece had met a quick and accidental end. If young Euphemia—a physically frail, sheltered noblewoman barely out of childhood—had had the misfortune of encountering those base thieves, her fate would likely have been quite gruesome indeed. Beryl had stood for what probably amounted to days now, staring at the portraits of Euphemia Hargrave that welcomed visitors in the entry hall of Darlyrede House. Euphemia at seven, with her wolfhound; Euphemia at ten and two, in close profile; Euphemia at fifteen, one pale hand resting on the back of a chair, a single white lily in the other.

  Her hair had been the color of winter sunshine, her blue eyes too big for her dainty, heart-shaped face, and always she wore an expression that hinted she was watching something frightening unfold just beyond the gilt frame.

  I want to tell you a secret…

  Damn it all! Whoever this person was who had destroyed the moment of victory Beryl had been working toward so diligently, so carefully, for six months, had better brought a large army with him, for if Vaughn Hargrave didn’t see the interloper dead, Beryl felt she might just be so inclined.

  She hastily crossed herself for the sinful thought out of habit.

  Beryl and Rolf gained the main floor in nearly the same instant, and both slowed their running to brisk strides as they came upon the rear of the motley group gathered on the marble paving before the large main door. A collection of servants and men-at-arms formed a barrier behind the tall, gray-haired figure in the center.

  Lord Vaughn Hargrave.

  Rolf penetrated the line easily, slipping between the house servants and disappearing, while Beryl was left to struggle against the flank of the older head maid.

  “Let me through,” she said, seeking to wedge her body into the crowd.

  The woman buffeted her back with such force that Beryl staggered on her feet. She felt her eyebrows lower and then she charged forward again, pulling at the woman’s gown.

  “I said, let me through—Lady Hargrave sent me.”

  The woman jerked the folds of her gown from Beryl’s hand with an ugly frown and then sent her through to the center of the group with a shove.

  The sheer number of people pressed together should have prevented her fall, but as Beryl tried to regain her balance, the servants moved away from her as if on cue, and she went down on the marble with a frightened shriek, her palms slapping the cold stone, her nose only a hair’s breadth from smashing against the floor as she slid to a stop nearly at the toes of Lord Hargrave’s costly boots.

  And another set of footwear—this one dark and dull and old; gouged and stained and mended. If this was the visitor, he was not worldly.

  “What in the devil’s name is this about?” Vaughn Hargrave demanded in a series of barks.

  Beryl got her knees under her and then felt a hand grasp the crook of her elbow firmly, helping her to stand. “Forgive me, my lord.”

  She raised her face at last and saw that it was not the barrel-chested, malevolent lord of Darlyrede who had assisted her, but the owner of the old boots. She looked into his face and her heart fluttered a half beat, throwing off the rhythm of her anger, her humiliation.

  His hair was the color of polished oak, curling in a lock over his forehead, his eyes blue like the sky in their depth and clarity; his features seemed to be set with precision within the frame of his face, his skin bronzed and supple-looking beneath the stubbled beard of a traveler even in this late time of the year, when all other Englishmen were already pale and wan. Her pulse beat in her elbow beneath her skin, and Beryl realized the stranger still gripped her.

  “Are ye all right, lass?” he inquired in a low voice, his brow creased, the rich, rolling timbre of his voice causing her heart to stutter once more.

  This was no Englishman.

  “Lay no hand on a servant in my house,” Hargrave growled, and then he jerked her away from the stranger. “Beryl?” Lord Hargrave blurted in annoyed surprise. “What are you doing here? I have already sent word to my lady.”

  Beryl dared a final glance at the Scotsman before turning her reluctant gaze up to Vaughn Hargrave. “She has requested my report, my lord.”

  “There shall be naught to report,” Vaughn Hargrave said, and as he once more looked to the stranger, Beryl did the same. “Yet another imposter intent on affixing himself to Darlyrede’s teat for a rich drink.”

  Beryl felt her face heat and wanted to cringe at the nobleman’s crudeness, even before a man who by all appearances was no more than a striking beggar.

/>   “I’m nae imposter,” the man retorted, and his voice held not the slightest trace of doubt or concern as he stood in the midst of the clearly hostile group in his tattered clothing. In fact he raised it, as if intent that everyone should hear him clearly. “I’m the one you’ve been waiting for: Padraig Boyd, the only legitimate heir of the man known in this land as Thomas Annesley.” He turned to look directly at Beryl now, and a shiver raced up her back at the intensity of his gaze.

  “Darlyrede belongs to me.”

  Chapter 2

  Throughout the rough and treacherous sea journey from Caedmaray to the mainland—selling his boat down the coast when the late autumn seas became too rough to navigate even the bays; through more than a fortnight of cold, wet foot travel along foreign roads, Padraig had held in his mind an image of Darlyrede House. A stone keep—he’d already been told that. He’d supposed it owned a good-size village. Rich grazing land, likely, just beyond the Scots border; most certainly a fair river or loch.

  Padraig had fantasized how he would take it all back from the thieving bastard, Hargrave. He would clear Tommy Boyd’s name, and he just hoped someone tried to stop him.

  But when he had seen the shape of the place on the rise beyond the wood edging the moor, the light-colored stone reflecting the hazy glow from the sun setting behind him, he had caught his breath, hanging in the chill of the evening like the smoke from a warming fire he so longed for. Surely this fortress—this palace—could not be Darlyrede House, his father’s childhood home.

  There was a curtain wall extending to either side of the tall main building, which could not be described as merely a keep. The fortifications snaked over the shoulders of the rise, meeting at the rear crest above the river and sitting on the hill as a crown rests upon the head of a king. It could—and likely did—house hundreds of people.

  Padraig had stood alone on that far hill for a long while in the cold, considering the now apparent folly of what he had come to do. He’d brought no companion. He wore the only set of clothes he owned—rough island garb, the woolen shirt and breeches woven by his own mother in the year before she’d died. The shawl wound about his head and shoulders was his father’s, old and faded, and of a Highland design Padraig didn’t know, but it was still thick and warm. His boots had seen many years and veritable lochs of seawater and dung. The seams were more like netting now, the soles thin enough to cause him to curse the sharper stones hidden beneath the yellowed grass.

  He carried only a blade, and his knapsack, which was largely empty save for a deflated skin pouch, an already worn parchment, and an intricately carved piece of tapered wood that was also Tommy Boyd’s. Padraig didn’t know what its original purpose had been, but once, when he’d been yet a boy, his father had said that the little decorative spear had saved his life.

  Padraig had carried the carved wooden piece as a sort of talisman on his journey to claim Darlyrede House, but looking upon the truth of that immense, formidable stronghold, he had felt foolish and unsure. He had no defense, no proof of his claim besides the brief writing scrawled over the parchment in his sack.

  But he had come to do this thing for his father, and he would not fail.

  Now, eye to eye with Vaughn Hargrave, the elaborate entry to Darlyrede House was so silent that Padraig fancied everyone gathered there staring at him could hear the pounding of his own heart beneath his worn shirt and shawl. The beautiful servant girl’s eyes widened at his proclamation and her lips parted as though she were about to scold him.

  Or warn him, more likely.

  And so Padraig lifted his chin higher in this grand entry, meeting Vaughn Hargrave’s incredulous and scornful gaze.

  A chuckle suddenly bubbled from the lips of the Englishman, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Your house, is it now, lad? Ho-ho!” Then he did give a true laugh. “I do have the feeling the king might have something to advise about that, but I’ll not have it said that the lord of Darlyrede ever turned away a man in want of a rest and a warm meal.” He glanced down toward Padraig’s feet. “Perhaps a new set of boots as well, to serve you on your return journey.”

  Padraig’s pride took the blow, although his mind left the bait lay.

  “I’ve a message in my bag,” he began.

  “Yes, yes—I’m sure you do,” Hargrave cut him off in a condescending tone. “Why don’t you come through to the kitchens and fortify yourself with some sustenance, and then perhaps I will read your message to you and explain to you what it means.”

  “I can read just fine,” Padraig shot back. “I ken who ye are, Hargrave. You stole my father’s life. I’ve come to retrieve it.”

  The rumbling sound of many hooves began to push itself into the crowded entry, and although Padraig had no desire to turn his back on Vaughn Hargrave, the man’s frown of displeasure caused Padraig to hope for a miracle as he dared a glance over his shoulder.

  Shadows separated themselves from the gloom of night across the bridge spanning the deep, protective ditch. Tall shadows, bouncing and rolling forward, peak upon peak. Riders, Padraig realized. The horses arrived with thunder upon the bridge, and a lone rider pulled ahead, his sharp features becoming clear in the torchlight to either side of Darlyrede’s entrance.

  A miracle, aye.

  “I told you to wait for me,” Lucan Montague chastised as he neared.

  “An’ I told you I wouldna,” Padraig replied.

  The knight swung from the magnificent black Agrios before it came to a complete halt and flung the reins across the saddle, his irritation clear. He strode forward, removing his black gauntlets with sharp efficiency, tucking them into his belt and then reaching into his quilted doublet in a series of seamless motions. His face was hard, and Padraig knew the man was used to those around him following his commands.

  “Montague?” Hargrave said as Padraig turned back to the entry. The pretty maid was suddenly nowhere to be seen. “I thought I’d given you all that you required when last you tried my hospitality with your cryptic messages. Did you send this…this beggar to my door as some sort of grotesque joke? If I didn’t know better, I should take these soldiers as a sign of aggression.”

  Lucan came to a stop just forward of Padraig. “Lord Hargrave. You received the message from London, I presume?”

  “I did,” Hargrave blustered. “But it made no allusion to this chaos. The king’s men, I say?! I don’t see—”

  Lucan Montague held forth one of two folded and sealed squares of parchment toward the lord. “From Henry himself.” After Hargrave had taken the packet with a frown, the knight held forth the remaining message toward Padraig. “Your own copy,” he said, meeting Padraig’s gaze. He lowered his voice. “Did you think to take on the whole of Darlyrede’s men-at-arms on your own?”

  “If I’d had to, aye,” Padraig answered in an equally soft voice as he used his knife to break the wax seal of the parchment. He was carefully unfolding the missive when Hargrave’s outburst caused the servants in the entry to jump en masse.

  “This is outrageous!” he shouted. “Is this your doing, Lucan?”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but this is not the first instance of forewarning. You know I am only the king’s messenger,” Lucan Montague replied.

  Hargrave sneered. “And enforcer, apparently.”

  Padraig held the paper toward the nearest torch and scanned the words scrawled there. The bottom seemed to fall out of Padraig’s stomach, and it took all his pride to keep him from staggering on his feet.

  A miracle indeed.

  He looked up and found Lucan Montague watching him intently. “I told you to wait.”

  Hargrave’s furious shouts filled the entry again. “Surely Henry cannot expect I would house a veritable stranger while he thinks of a way to scheme from me all I have rightfully earned. Why, this man looks like any vagrant found on the streets of any burg. He is no one!”

  �
��I am Thomas Annesley’s son,” Padraig offered calmly, drawing the nobleman’s glare. “When Darlyrede’s ownership is in question the only heir of the man born to it must be considered. The king agrees.”

  Hargrave turned his attention from Padraig without comment. “I thought you were employed by the Crown, Lucan? I may still call you Lucan now, mayn’t I? Or is such a knight too lofty to address in a personal manner?”

  “I have been charged with investigating the truth of Darlyrede’s rightful claimant,” Montague replied evenly. “While I am in the king’s employ, it would be best that our relationship remain formal, Lord Hargrave.”

  Padraig found himself looking between the two men, the older of whom made no further pretense of looking benevolently upon the dark-haired knight. Lucan Montague himself remained unmoved by any passion.

  There was history here. History that Padraig could not fathom.

  “The king is coming?” Padraig shook the message in the space between them for emphasis. “And I ken that I am to be given residence at Darlyrede House until he arrives?”

  “There will be a hearing,” Lucan conceded with a nod. “But whether here or London, I do not yet know.”

  “I’ll not give this…this pretender so much as a stall in the stable,” Hargrave declared.

  “Very well,” Montague responded. “If you do not agree to the king’s terms, you immediately forfeit right of a hearing. It says so just here—” He leaned over Hargrave’s copy of the message, his finger trailing over the page. “Very clea—”

  Hargrave jerked the parchment from Montague’s touch. “I can read, Lucan.”

  Padraig knew a moment of satisfaction at the man’s phrasing, spoken by Padraig himself only moments before.

  “Both claimants must occupy Darlyrede House until Henry’s determination, and be wholly present at the trial—in both body and mind. Any deviation from the terms shall result in a forfeit.” Montague looked directly at Vaughn Hargrave. “I do doubt that the king would consider a stall in the stables adequate.”