 
Perfect Obedience A Bride's Vow

by Maggie Jagger

Smashwords Edition

Author Edition 2012

Copyright 2008 Maggie Jagger

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Chapter 1

The guard posted outside the bridal chamber chose the young maid wearing drab clothes and a wimple. He ushered her inside, then closed the door before the plump lady with the red face could follow. He had orders not to let in a gawking crowd of females who wanted to view the bridegroom.

He held the door closed against the frantic knocking from the maid he'd trapped inside. Every time the door opened a cold draught swept the chamber. He was not going to risk his lord's wrath by opening it again.

Jarrad twisted round in the bath to see a young maid tugging furiously at the door. Scattered at her feet lay soap, sponges, and drying cloths.

She was trying to flee. Who could blame her? Most young maids were afraid of his face, this one feared his back.

Could Alaric not have found a willing servant to wash him?

What hope had he to charm his bride if this slender sprite was so determined to leave after one glance? Yet he could have sworn she had not seen his face.

The closer he got to the wedding, the more uneasy was his temper. No doubt Joan would breathe a sigh of relief when he chose Ferne to be his bride, for what woman would take him willingly for her husband.

The secret had been kept, not a whisper, not a hint of it had been revealed.

He prayed the lady did not swoon easily, for he had no mind to stand before the priest with his bride unconscious in his arms.

It had been years since he had felt so marked, not since he was a youth. No, he'd need an iron fist to hold Ferne. Not that he could ever trust he'd tamed her. Trust would be impossible. It was a dangerous game he played, and he must play it to the end.

The timid knocking on the door and the maid's nervous fumbling with the handle made him pity her plight. Her voice softly pleaded, "Sir, I am not the one who does this."

Ferne tried the latch again.

A splash from the bathtub made her worry for her immediate peril, but the naked man gave no sign he'd moved. The chamber was lit by only one shuttered window far from the door, leaving the firelight to play upon his back.

Ferne abandoned her attempt to open the door. She nervously eyed the generous width of the man's shoulders, to decide instantly he could not be Lord Jarrad. She had just spent two months on a surcoat this man could never wear. Yet, only the nobility had the luxury of a bath, and no one else would dare use the bridal chamber.

His dark hair fell in waves to the nape of his neck. His skin was a golden color, which spoke of warmer climes than the north of England.

The bridal bed curtained in red and gold was untouched. The man's dirty clothes were flung on the floor.

He gave a long sigh with an echo of humor in the sad sound. "If you'd wash me, I'd be eternally grateful." His voice, low and pleasant, gave no cause for alarm. He rested his back on the edge of the wooden tub lined with linen.

"I don't know how, sir. May I ask my lady to enter?" Ferne hoped the stranger in the bathtub stayed seated. She'd never seen a man entirely naked, except for the time she'd sewn Richard's groin. A delicate task they'd both winced over.

The man sighed again. "I am easy to please and must insist, because I fear if I sit here any longer the water wrinkles might eventually be fatal." He gave a low laugh as he pleaded, "Take pity on me, little one, and just get it done or I'll be late for the wedding. Wash my hair and leave the soap on while you scrub my back. If it makes you feel any safer, I promise not to ask you to wash my dangerous parts."

The easy warmth of his voice soothed her fear of strangers. His sighs stirred her sympathy and his humorous words eased the rapid beating of her heart. He only wanted to be washed. If she hadn't been locked in with him, she'd have laughed at his words.

Strangers in the castle always made her nervous. Sometimes men came in search of her, to kidnap or kill her. It had been so for all her life. She had learned to live cautiously to survive. But this man was one of the wedding party, come to celebrate Lord Jarrad's marriage to her foster sister, Joan. Surely he was safe enough and no threat to her.

Ferne gathered the scattered things and approached the man to kneel behind him. She gave him a cloth to hold over his eyes before wetting his hair with a dipper full of warm water from one of the pails close to the hearth.

She rubbed in circles on his scalp, spreading her fingers through his hair, rubbing slowly upwards, while the man relaxed under her hands to give a contented sigh.

"That feels good," he murmured. "You have the hands of an angel."

Ferne warmed at his praise. She wondered who he was. He couldn't be Lord Jarrad. He must be one of his brothers or a friend.

"Scrub harder, little one, if it pleases you to obey," the man said in a low voice. He dropped the cloth into the water and leaned back into her hands. The fire in the hearth crackled as the half-charred logs shifted. Fear of him vanished. He seemed so contented, so relaxed, even his slow breathing soothed her. His dark hair slid through her fingers like silk and her curiosity grew to see his face.

Ferne peeped over his shoulder. He had a fine chest. A warrior's chest, not padded with fat like some noble lords. Warrior or glutton, all lords were dangerous. Even this one, so calm beneath her fingers might on a whim try to take her body by force. Knights lived to make war, to fight in tourneys, and to wed brides who brought them riches. They rarely felt the need to moderate their appetites, and yet she felt safe with him. Safe from his dangerous parts.

His eyes were closed when Ferne moved to see his face. He had faint scars from an old wound on one side from his jaw to his eyes. It had healed well, to leave only thin white lines that didn't detract from the fine planes of his face. The corners of his mouth didn't match, the scarred side was a little longer. A faint puckering of his eyelid ran in a curve towards his eyelashes, so finely sewn she saw no trace of the stitches. Skilled hands had worked on him to make such an injury heal so well. She had never seen the like and wished she possessed the knowledge of how it was done.

His lips were beautiful, as if God had compensated him for the marks he bore. The line of his jaw was perfect. A handsome man for all his scars. He looked like the Savior bearing the marks of His torment. This was the face she needed for the altar piece for the nuns of Fountains Abbey! His was the face she would give the Lord Jesus as He was taken from the cross.

He had just the face she'd been searching for. Her altar piece was almost finished, except for the head of Christ. The body was that of the knight Boone, his limbs broken from the tossing he had received at the hands of Baron Welford's men. But Boone's face would not do at all.

Not that she dared use this man's likeness without permission. Did she dare ask him?

The man's shoulders were wide and muscular. His belly was flat. The cloth he had dropped into the water covered his dangerous parts. She gripped him by the shoulders and squeezed gently to get his attention.

His eyes opened. They were gray with a circle of gold around the pupil. Ferne leaned closer to study his face. His kind eyes stared back. He blinked and looked at her wimple and the dreary clothes that disguised her as a servant, before he met her eyes again. For some strange reason she felt as if she'd known him forever. What a foolish thought. For all she knew, he ravished virgins by the dozen, after they'd washed him.

"What's wrong, little one?" he asked on a breath of air. "I warn you, when you look at me like that I feel as if I am some great treasure you have found, and I sadly fear your eyesight is not good."

Ferne let go of him to sit back on her heels. She suppressed the urge to laugh at his words. "Sir, if it pleases you, may I use your face as a model for the Lord Jesus? I am embroidering a cloth for the Abbess of Fountains Abbey, and you are the answer to a prayer, for I have not been able to finish because I was not inspired. But yours is truly the face I need."

The man flicked some of his cooling bathwater at her.

She gave a squeak of nervous laughter and wiped her cheek with the edge of her wimple.

He gave a sigh, so deep and sad she hoped he joked. "I knew there'd be some sting to your words, little one. I'm happy for your sight, but not flattered by your question."

"I meant no sting, none at all, sir." She patted his shoulder to comfort him in case she'd hurt his feelings. "May I use you as a model?"

"If it pleases you," he said mournfully. It was all she could do to not put her arm around his shoulders while she told him how handsome he looked. Not that he'd believe his scars did not make him ugly to her. Some carried their scars in their minds as well as on their bodies.

She measured his face with her fingers, making mental note of the lengths and widths. He closed his eyes and this gave her time to really look at him. His face did not move under her fingers. Handsome and gentle, truly like a saint should look. She used only the softest touch of her fingertips over his scars.

He sighed and gave a low rumble of contentment that sounded very much like a noise from the Baron's stallion. She laughed under her breath, but she didn't stop measuring the length of his nose, and the distance to his ears.

"I'm glad to be useful," he said, with his eyes still closed. "It's far better to be useful than frightening to look at. Though I have to warn you, I think your taste is lacking. Are you sure you aren't blind?"

She laughed and measured his shoulders, "Do you mind if I use your body as well? It seems a shame to separate your head from the rest. I mean, may I measure you, sir, to get the proportions right?" There was no use telling him she wanted to use his body for one of the centurions, a cruel one with Boone's face and intense stare.

The man lifted one long leg out of the water, taking care not to splash her, and stretched it out to rest his calf on the rim. "You may use me in any way that pleases you, little one, even though your pleasures seem strange to me."

His invitation warmed her blood. Wicked thoughts rose unbidden at his invitation. She reminded herself sternly that she wanted to be a nun. He probably attracted legions of women with his voice. It was only the warmth from the fire that sapped the strength in her limbs and made her heart flutter at his words.

She measured the length of his limbs with a light touch, not venturing near the parts of him hidden by water or cloth.

His sudden movement took Ferne by surprise. She stood up to hold him in his bath by pressing down hard on one of his shoulders. She croaked, "Don't stand up!"

He shifted his leg to put his foot back into the water. "My apologies for startling you, my toes were getting cold."

Ferne retreated to the hearth having lost her nerve.

"Could you wash my back?" he asked. "If you've no objection to it?" He stopped leaning against the bath to give her space to touch him there. He gave a half-smile, with his scarred cheek not matching the unmarked side of his face. It gave him a quizzical air, as if he questioned as he smiled.

Ferne took a shaky, thankful breath. She knew that he could stand up any time he wanted to. How foolish of her to attempt to hold him in his bath by force. She could have triggered his retaliation. She reminded herself sternly, he is not a friend, he's a stranger. "You are very tall, sir," she gabbled as she reached for the pot of soap. "Only some of the Danes from York might equal you in height. Have you come from York?"

"Do you dislike the Danes?" The man looked sideways at her. "They seem quiet enough. Did you guess that I have Norse blood? The Terrenord in my name implies it. Were you trying to drown me for it just now?"

Ferne choked back nervous laughter, he was gabbling, too. Did he mimic her? She managed to reply, "There is not enough water for you to drown." She approached him cautiously to run soap laden fingers up and down his back. She wondered if he was Lord Jarrad's brother and hoped they were alike in their voice and manner, even if the great lord was different in body.

When she stopped soaping him, he asked, "What is your name, little one?"

Kind he might be, amusing to talk to as well, but that didn't mean he had to know her name. Not that she mistrusted him entirely, but others might discover who she was if he called her by name. There were many strangers in the castle, come to celebrate the wedding.

The man raised his voice carefully, with just a note of impatience. "Your name is?"

"Matilda, sir." The lie flew out of her mouth before she'd time to decide if she should tell him her name was Ferne or not. She always lied about her strange name, if she could get away with it. How she came to be named after a plant was too embarrassing to be told to a stranger.

She poured a dipper of water over his head to wash the soap away. He flinched and groaned a protest as the cold water hit him.

What had she done!

"I'm truly sorry, sir." Ferne kept her voice low and soothing. She prayed he didn't have a hasty temper. "I forgot to warm the water."

His hand brushed her wimple aside. She flinched and closed her eyes.

"It's nothing, Matilda. Will you scrub my chest for me?"

She released her breath. If she'd managed to wash his back, what more trouble was it to wash his front? Except that was where his dangerous parts lived. Well, she must do it to be able to retreat to safety.

With one hand she steadied herself on his shoulder, so close to him that she must bend over his arm to soap him. Her breast touched him once or twice, until she shivered at the contact.

She concentrated on the hard muscles of his shoulders while she worked up courage to venture further down. Her hand seemed to know what to do, how to find every hollow and curve. Even her fingertips wanted to play over him, to feel the change as she stroked down to the bands of muscle on his belly. Soap frothed between her fingers. His nipple grazed her palm.

Afraid to stop, afraid to continue. She was so close to him, she felt his breath waft over her cheek. His warmth seeped into her, sending tingles towards her heart.

One of them moaned. She gave a guilty start, certain it had been her.

"Ah, little one, stop," he murmured. "Stop now and rinse me, Matilda. You've done very well, thank you."

After a moment to compose herself and get her legs to obey her, Ferne went to the hearth for the kettle to warm the water in the pail. She carried it to the far side of the bath away from the fire, determined to be calm.

She wanted to memorize his body as this would be her only opportunity to see him and use him as her model. She poured from the dipper and stroked over him as she tried to fix in her mind the muscles of his chest.

Even rinsing him seemed a licentious act.

Thank goodness his eyes were closed, for everything she did made her ache in her wicked parts, like a wanton woman. Her hand played about his chest as if it had a life of its own, not daring to rest anywhere, but wanting to.

He sighed when she stopped. "If only you belonged to me, little one. I'd call you, Angel, for you are very like one. I think the bride must take comfort in your presence. Could I tempt you to come with me, to make your home at Hollingham?"

She'd like nothing better than to go with him, to go south to safety. Away from the border and the raiding Scots bent on murdering her. To live with him, to bathe him again, to hear him speak, all those things promised pleasure. She'd soon learn how to school her body not to respond to him. If he tried to make her his mistress, she'd persuade Joan to send her to a convent. She'd not imperil her immortal soul by the sin of lust.

Before she could answer, the chamber door opened.

Cold air swept in bringing the scent of the bridal feast.

A tall, thin young man strode inside. The door closed behind him as he surveyed her with a disdainful expression on his long face. His tunic was finely made, cut from a rich black fabric shot through with silver thread. His chemise was black, a most unusual choice.

He walked proudly, but in a ridiculous way, so high and mighty he looked as if he'd burst from it. He had black hair and eyes with swooping eyebrows, which seemed to sit too high on his brow. His mouth curved downwards as his eyebrows slanted upwards. Deep lines joined his nostrils to his mouth even though he looked so young. He was tall and lean, with narrow shoulders and hips.

Ferne stared in amazement. The tall, thin man looked exactly like a walking beanpole. She bit back a nervous laugh. It would never do, not when such an aura of cold displeasure clung to him. And yet there was something ridiculous about him, something odd that invited laughter.

It took all her concentration to lower her head respectfully and not stare at him. He had the longest, narrowest feet she'd ever seen.

He warmed himself by the hearth. Ferne was glad the bathtub was between them.

The naked man put his arm round her shoulders as she knelt beside him. "Did you invite him in, little angel? Shall I turn him out for you?"

She shook her head. His touch felt as protective as his words, but what power could he have compared to Lord Jarrad.

The beanpole warmed his backside at the fire. "Rise, Lady Ferne," he ordered.

"This is Matilda," said the man in the bath. He stopped her from rising.

"Lady Ferne, explain what you are doing letting that fellow take my bath water," said the beanpole in a cold voice. "I have searched the castle over to thank you for the beautiful surcoat you made for me, only to find you here bathing him."

Ferne didn't answer. Her relief that Lord Jarrad had only sought her out to thank her, calmed her fear a little. She didn't know what lie to say that would not result in the man in the bathtub being punished for taking his lord's place. They could not be more unlike! One so handsome and kind, the other lordly and proud. If only she hadn't lied about her name!

"Tell this knave your name, Lady Ferne," the beanpole invited. "I warn you, do not lie to me."

"My lord," she said, "I beg your pardon. My name is Ferne."

The man in the bathtub gave a low, comforting sound. "The little one was so swept away by my beauty that she forgot her name. It's an effect I have on many women. We were getting on very well before you intruded."

The beanpole leaned down from his great height. His long head waggled at her as she knelt on the other side of the bath. "I don't like liars, Lady Ferne. Do not think of lying again."

Ferne shot a wary look towards the door and wondered if she should make a dash for it. She had seen as much of Lord Jarrad as she cared to. Her hand crept to the embroidered rose at her breast. She took a careful breath.

The beanpole raised an astonishingly high eyebrow. Lady Ferne," he asked, "why did you lie? Is it your habit to tell lies?"

Ferne bowed her head. "I am sorry I lied, my lord. My name is unusual and I don't invite questions about it."

The beanpole crouched on the opposite side of the bathtub. "Tell me, Lady Ferne, how did you get your name?"

"I was named so by my mother because I had been conceived under forest ferns."

The man in the bathtub gently touched her fingers where they gripped the rim. "Poor little one, don't be afraid, there is more than one liar here," he whispered in her ear. "Go and join your sisters. It was a pleasure to meet you."

"Lady Ferne," said the beanpole, leaning over the water to bring his long face closer to hers. "I have a mind to tan your arse, but as you did not lie to me, I'll let this knave do it." A black clad arm snaked over towards her.

"Don't frighten her or be warned, I will frighten you," said the man in the bathtub. He rose with a great slosh of water to stop the beanpole from touching her.

Ferne found herself dragged upwards with him.

She was astonished to hear the powerful Lord Jarrad threatened. Her feet stumbled beneath her as she tried to stand upright. Her knees hit the side of the bathtub. The naked man caught her, to hold her upright dangling in his grasp. Her shoes fell off with a splash. Her toes dipped in the bathwater.

The beanpole thrust his face close to hers and smiled the most awful smile.

Ferne could stand it no longer. She struggled to be free. She tried to protest. Only a croaking sound came out of her throat. The naked man lifted her over the side of the bath to release her onto the slate floor.

She fled towards the door.

"There is nothing to fear, Ferne, no one will touch you," he called.

She knew better than to trust his soothing voice.

How could she believe him when his body betrayed his licentious intentions? She tried to stop staring at him.

"Forgive me, Ferne." He looked around for something to cover himself with. "Men are untidy creatures, don't hate me for it."

He shouted, "Alaric! Open the door!"

The beanpole gave a mocking hoot of laughter. He signaled for her to come to him without a trace of pity or sympathy on his face.

Fern ducked under the young guard's arm as he peered inside.

She flew down the steps as if the devil himself were after her. That awful beanpole of a man could have her beaten to death or humiliated by a public whipping on her naked flesh. Whatever he decided to do to her, she must bear it. To run away meant his punishment might fall on the Baron or all his family. Her mind raced, seeking a way out of it. Maybe the kind man she'd bathed had influence over him. He had not feared that awful Lord Jarrad, he had threatened him. But who was he?

In the chamber, Jarrad stepped out of the bath. His friend fell to his knees before him, mimicking a distressed lady abashed by the view of his yard, which was losing interest now that poor Ferne had fled.

Owen handed him a drying cloth with a trembling hand. "Oh, my lord, do not use your lance on me," he sobbed in a high falsetto voice. "Poor me! Alas! Alack! Woe is me, my belle chose will not be able to take it in, so great is your girth, so enormous is your length. Don't hurt me, I beg you, noble lord. I will expire of fright if you use that," he pointed upwards with a trembling finger, "scary thing on me."

"Idiot! What if she flees the castle? She is no fool, Owen, do not make the mistake of thinking Ferne a simple maid."

"Matthew and Thomas are following her, my lord. The rest of the men guard the only way out by the stairs. The lady is trapped, and with any luck she hates me, not you."

"We were getting on well before you interrupted." Jarrad dried his hair, glad of the warmth from the fire. "I knew who she was. Did you really think I'd not recognize Morag's daughter when I met her?"

His fool stopped lolling in front of the hearth. He leapt to his feet with a sly grin. "I wasn't sure. I thought you might need rescuing, in case the lady had found out who you were and why you are here."

"Is everything ready? How long does the tide allow us?"

"Three hours at the most, less if the wind turns," said Owen. "The lady cannot cry out, my lord, did you notice she couldn't scream. I was told she lost her voice when a Scot tried to strangle her to death. It left her mute for a year or more. Now she can only speak softly, and fears to lose it altogether. That might be useful. At least we don't have to worry she'll burst our eardrums with her protests when we take her home."

There was no use chiding Owen for his lack of sympathy. His fool had to have a reason attached for any behavior that brought comfort to anyone else. "It won't be a safe home for any of us if she is unhappy with the marriage," warned Jarrad. "They'll look for any excuse to cut my throat and marry her to one of their own choosing. Her terror will have to be eased quickly lest they think she'll plot with them to take the Isle."

"But if the lady is sure every Celt plots her capture and death, she'd never trust them enough to conspire with them!"

Jarrad began to dress. "Wouldn't you sell your soul to the devil to get what you want? Don't annoy her, Owen, she needs a friend and I doubt I can play that role."

"Don't be angry, my lord, it was done only to make your task simpler, I swear it. The lady will be so relieved she doesn't wed me, she'll sit beside you and lean on you, and be so glad I'm not you, that all you'll have to do is smile at her and she'll spread her legs for you and gladly welcome you in."

"She is Morag's daughter and a virgin. Don't raise my hopes." Poor Ferne would hate him for eternity and never trust a word out of his mouth.

His fool grinned. "She raised your interest, if not your hopes."

"She thought me amusing," said Jarrad. He regretted what came next, her terror of their destination and her fear of him, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Owen gave a start of surprise. "Amusing? You?" He gave a mocking, mournful sigh.

Jarrad swatted at him, without wanting to strike him.

Like the wind, Owen gave a mocking laugh and danced away to change into his costume.

"What did you find out about my bride?"

"By all reports, she is not docile and meek, I warn you, though neither is she cruel and vicious." Owen rummaged in the pack to give Jarrad the heavy gold necklace set with rubies. "They like her here. She is loved and returns their love. She doesn't intend to marry because she wants to be a nun. The lady thinks that will save her from the Scots. No one has ever managed to convince her the Scots are attacking England, not her."

"Poor Ferne. No wonder she dresses like a servant. Not that it can hide her identity from anyone familiar with the Isle of Demons." He grabbed Owen by the arm to keep him still. "Once she is in the great hall, make friends with her. I want you to give her a gift, something to make yourself useful to her."

"The gift of truth, my lord?"

"Use it well. I want her to make a friend of you. Don't frighten her, have some sympathy. We are her nightmares come to life. Remember, if she plots against us, we die." Jarrad hoped that would be reason enough to make Owen obey.

A bell tolled, calling them down to dine.

Jarrad gave a mournful sigh. "Sweet Ferne, I swear she shall have the gentlest bedding I can manage."

His fool muffled a snort of laughter. "Then you should pray for a smaller lance to prick her with, my lord."
Chapter 2

Ferne fled down the stone stairs on hose clad feet. She turned past the doorway to the great hall and descended beneath it. With one hand she guided herself around the newel post at the center of the spiral steps, with the other she touched the embroidered rose on her breast. Even as she escaped, she knew she'd committed a grave error. Knowing she should not have run didn't make returning any easier. What if the kind man had gone and she had to face Lord Jarrad on her own?

She'd not do it. If he beat her in the great hall, naked or not, she had more chance of surviving it than if she returned to the chamber to face him alone.

The small barracks next to the storeroom was deserted except for two bedridden men who stared at her in surprise.

"Excuse me, good sirs, I just wanted to make sure you lacked for nothing in the excitement of the day," she said, trying to look as if nothing was wrong.

This was not a part of the castle she usually frequented. The narrow loopholes did not let in enough light for sewing wounds.

Old Tom answered for them both. "Nay, we are not forgotten. Ale, pies and puddings have been brought for us. 'Tis kind of you to visit, Ferne." He smiled at her, showing his few remaining teeth.

He waved a shaky, dismissive hand at the younger man whose pallet lay deeper in the chamber. "Boone has been asking for you again. Morris gave him a kick to quiet him down. Don't you fret, it didn't hurt him much."

Ferne gathered her skirts and her wits. She wished she wore shoes as she tiptoed towards the young man. The rushes underfoot offered some protection from the cold floor, but they hid many an unwelcome object.

Boone raised himself on his elbows at her approach. His blanket fell to his waist to display his chest. He was much thinner than when she had seen him last. His muscles stood out in relief in the dim light and she hoped he was not clenching in pain.

He had not been lying quietly, resting and healing. His black hair curled and fell in sweat drenched strands to his shoulders. He glared ferociously at Old Tom with bright blue eyes that glowed like turquoise jewels.

"Lady Ferne, is Jarrad here?" His voice had a faint musical lilt to it.

Ferne was careful not to get too close to him. She'd seen him fight and had no wish to provoke an attack.

"Lord Jarrad arrived today, Sir Boone. He has come to choose a wife."

"He cannot have you." His eyes fixed on hers, silently beseeching her, then suddenly tendon and sinew flexed across his abdomen. He began to weep, dry-eyed with anger.

Old Tom gave a bark of laughter, "Give him a swat with the broom, Ferne. It's the only way to get him to close his mouth on the subject."

"You must not hit him, Tom. He is confused and cannot help it. If you had been dropped from a great height to a stone floor you might not think so clearly yourself. Sir Boone is only grateful I set his legs for him."

She smiled kindly at the young man. "Don't be afraid, Sir Boone, will you show me your limbs so I may judge how you are healing?"

Boone uncovered his legs. The splints had rubbed him raw, another sign he had not stayed confined to his pallet. His legs looked straight, the swellings gone, though bruises covered him.

Ferne knelt beside the dark knight. His sobs stopped as swiftly as they had begun.

"If you let me, I will remove the splints, Sir Boone. Do you promise not to touch me?" she asked. She hoped old Tom had breath enough to call for help if she needed it.

The young man nodded. He lay back to let her work. "I hate Scots, my lady. I'd kill them for you, if there are any you want killing. I'd kill anyone for you."

"There aren't any here. Keep still." Ferne quickly unwrapped the linen strips. She felt for the breaks in the bones. As far as she could tell he had healed.

He twitched like a dog with fleas at her touch. His fierce, adoring gaze never left her face.

"You will be much more comfortable now," she said kindly. "Later, you can try out some crutches. Maybe old Tom will lend you his, until yours are ready. I'll tell the carpenter to make some for you. Now, Sir Boone, you have something else to think about, you can go home soon."

She doubted he knew how to get there.

He had first been injured fighting against the raiding Scots with the Deanhaven knights. Not that any of them knew who he was. He had appeared from nowhere and turned the tide of the skirmish. They'd forded the river and brought him to her to sew his arm. Even his name was not his own. He'd been dubbed Boone from the war-cry he gave while fighting.

It was his accent that had caused the upset in the first place. Some thought he spoke with a Scottish burr. He had sworn he was Irish, but it had not stopped them from tossing him to the ceiling to see what language he spoke when he knocked about the rafters.

Only her intervention had saved him from more than broken legs.

The young warrior turned and groaned. The muscles in his back bunched. Ferne moved quietly away from him.

Old Tom spat on the floor. "If he has a home, he will want to take you there. Have a care when he is recovered, Ferne. Heed a warning from an old man. He'll try to make off with you, for he speaks of nothing else but you." A blast of noise echoed down the stairs. "Oh, there are the trumpets sounding dinner, you had better run or you'll be late."

Ferne rushed up the stairs. She had to get to Baron Welford before Lord Jarrad gave his version of her sins.

Boone rolled off the pallet. He crawled naked towards the door.

"Have a care, lad! Where do you think you're going?" called Old Tom. "Aye, you can use my crutches." He watched Boone get to his feet. "Don't you go disturbing the wedding, Ferne is not marrying anyone today!"

Boone took aim at Old Tom's head and struck him dead with one blow.
Chapter 3

Ferne swiftly climbed to the main entrance of the great hall, where Baron Welford waited for his family and the guest of honor. Two young knights clad in the Terrenord colors of dark gray and blood red silently stepped back to let her go to him.

Other knights watched the great hall. They spoke to no one, not even each other. They wore no swords, though long knives hung on their belts. The ones nearest the hall suddenly took great interest in the walls painted with hunting scenes that led to the slaying of the dragon on the far wall behind the dais. The two men from the stairs respectfully joined Alaric, who had locked her in, as he listened to the Baron complain of the Scots and the perils of living so close to the border.

Ferne went to stand near enough to be seen by her foster father. Banners hanging from the ceiling wafted in the air from the open shutters in the roof. She clasped her hands. Go back or stay? The scent of herbs in the fresh rushes strewn over the floor calmed her stomach. Any moment that awful man was going to come down the stairs. With any luck, he'd be so taken with beautiful Joan that he'd forget all about the liar he wanted to beat.

Baron Welford wore a worried expression on his lined face. The constant strain of raids and war had left their mark on him. His quick nod to Ferne made her hurry to curtsey to him.

He bent to speak in her ear, "Mathilda told me you had to bathe our guest, Ferne. I trust you gave him no cause to complain of you?"

Ferne shook her head, somewhat distressed. She had no wish to be caught in another lie.

"Come, lass, was it as bad as that? He did not—" the Baron hesitated, then added a warning, "There is nothing I can do if you have cause to complain of him."

A calm, reassuring smile was her only answer.

Ferne looked warily around to see if any of Lord Jarrad's men were listening. To her surprise she found every stranger dressed in the du Terrenord colors looked at her and then glanced away.

Two young knights ventured nearer, she did not doubt they listened. The Baron waved them impatiently away. "Let us hope he is pleased with Joan, for when I told him I had only one daughter of marriageable age, he warned me what he could do."

"What can he do, my lord father?" Ferne asked.

"Order me to remove the curtain walls. The King has ruined hundreds of castles, and more are to follow. If we lose our defensive walls, how long do you think it will take for the Scots to slaughter every one of us?"

"Surely Lord Jarrad would not condemn us all to death over a wedding?" Ferne could not keep the fear from her voice.

"This is not a wedding, it is a test of loyalty. Never fear, lass, just pray he is taken with Joan, though she is such a moonling. I fear she may get me hanged if she runs away. I entrust her to you, Ferne, do not let her leave the hall alone, not for any excuse."

"I will do all I can to assist you, my lord father."

Lady Mathilda brought the good Baron's daughters to him with a warning to them to behave. Her plump face flushed with annoyance to find so many knights in her way. Baron Welford greeted his daughters with hearty kisses and exclamations of admiration for their finery.

Joan had never looked more beautiful. Her golden gown embroidered with silver and seed pearls glittered as she shook with trembles from head to foot. Baron Welford said kindly to Ferne with a conspiratorial nod, "Sit with your sisters and know you have my thanks for their splendid attire."

Joan grasped Ferne's arm. "Sit with me, please do. The wedding is today." She hissed in Ferne's ear, "Why are you dressed like that, when you could attract him if you tried? Make him marry you, not me. I beg you!"

Lady Mathilda gave Joan a sharp push. "What a fuss you are making! As if you have not made us guard your virginity these last years, for you never seemed to cherish it. Be a sensible girl, or so help me, I shall box your ears on this your wedding day."

Joan dared not reply but clung to Ferne, whose other arm was taken by Anne, a pale thin child of twelve, with a wary expression on her face. A child not ready to be any man's bride.

Ferne silently prayed for the Good Lord to save her sisters from Jarrad du Terrenord. She prayed fervently, ardently, and promised to bear whatever cross God chose for her, without complaint, if only He would save her sisters and her home and all the good people in it from their enemies, especially the Scots.

Baron Welford took Joan by the arm. "Come, my dear, wait with me. Don't be afraid, he won't eat you."

The other girls followed Ferne to their table. It jutted forward on the far left of the dais. The Baron liked to keep his children under his eye and placed them where they were easily viewed.

Anne hurried to stand by the stool at the head of the children's table. From there she could see down the length of the great hall, yet be hidden from the guest of honor when he was seated at her father's side.

Ferne's place was lowest at the table near the edge of the dais, as befit her low rank. She smiled at five-year-old Elizabeth, then at Meg who was six. They chattered to her, now they were not near the Baron. He loved his children but had never sired a son, not from any of his three wives. After his last lady died, he'd given up and vowed never to marry again.

A hush came over the crowded hall as everyone waited for Lord Jarrad to appear.

Ferne peered over heads to see Joan hunch her shoulders and look down at the floor. It seemed she swayed on her feet until Lady Mathilda moved to support her.

A fanfare sounded. The bridegroom had arrived.

A hush fell as Lord Jarrad entered the great hall. Everyone sank into curtsy or bow. A great silence fell over the company, followed by a whispering, for the bridegroom's shape was wrong. This broad-shouldered giant was no skinny bean pole.

The bridegroom surveyed the company with a scarred, cold mask of a face. His clothes were dark gray, the gold studs fastening his tunic at the neck were jeweled with rubies. A heavy chain of gold, inlaid with more rubies, lay upon his chest. His dark hair was brushed back from his forehead, revealing every mark on his face.

A strange whispering grew in the great hall.

The broad shouldered man she'd bathed was Lord Jarrad! The kind and gentle man she'd bathed and lusted over! Her spirit soared with happiness. This man would never remove the curtain walls, he'd never beat her for lying to him. She felt as if her head lifted off to dance a merry reel on her shoulders.

Lord Jarrad walked with the Baron down the length of the great hall, and gave a slight tilt of his head when he recognized her as she stood at the side of the dais. He gave the slightest of shrugs, and smiled just for her. She warmed under his gaze and felt as if they shared a secret joke.

His voice lingered in her ears. She ignored the sudden hum from her licentious body.

Suddenly a drum banged loud enough to wake the dead.

Over the heads of Baron Welford and Lord Jarrad sprang a tall, lean, beanpole of a man, clad in a fool's costume of white skeletal bones painted on black fabric.

Such a leap was not possible, Ferne was sure he'd had help to get so high.

The fool's feet missed the men by many inches, his long legs twirled in the air, spinning an entire circle before his feet touched the stone floor. Down the length of the great hall he bounced in a dizzying display that ended with him leaping the board and bridal chair to disappear out of sight.

Baron Welford escorted his guest towards the dais, leaving Lady Matilda to support Joan. That the girl was distressed was plain to see. Surely, she'd be happy when she knew him. A kinder, gentler man didn't exist, even a shower of cold water hadn't made him angry.

When Lady Matilda and Joan reached the center of the great hall, the fool came flying over Ferne's head. She ducked, certain he meant to kick her. He sailed effortlessly in the air to tumble into the knights who followed the ladies in the procession.

Everyone laughed and cheered.

One of Lord Jarrad's young men threw the fool a long cane, fastened on the end was a pig's bladder painted to look like a skull. With this he tapped lightly on Joan's head, beating time to the music from the minstrel gallery.

Ferne wanted to tie his long limbs in knots and kick him around the great hall. He'd taken delight in scaring the wits out of her and now he tormented poor Joan.

She had wasted weeks sewing for him because he had substituted his own tunic for his lord's and sent it on to be measured.

Lord Jarrad reached out to pluck the slapstick from his fool's hand. He gave it to the bride. Joan held it but dared not do anything with it. Lord Jarrad took it back and hit his fool over the head. The painted bladder made a loud smacking sound but did no harm. Again, the great lord passed the slapstick to Joan. The fool fell to his knees to kiss the hem of Joan's skirt. He waggled his thin behind in the air, inviting her to strike him there. Joan could not resist so enticing a target. She let him have blow after harmless blow until her arm tired.

The great hall erupted with laughter.

Exercising her arm had helped Joan's mood. She threw the slapstick to the floor and walked with her head held high towards the dais.

Ferne laughed and applauded with the others.

The fool retrieved his slapstick and scampered after Joan. He pretended to cower from her, then suddenly turned to blow a kiss to Ferne before he disappeared to stand behind his master.

Two of Lord Jarrad's knights approached her. The man who had guarded the door, Alaric, bowed to her. "My lord sends his apologies for Owen the Fool's conduct, my lady. He said to tell you he is keeping your shoes in the hope you will come to Hollingham to claim them."

"Tell your lord I need my only pair of shoes." There was no denying Lord Jarrad's joke flattered her, as if she were born to please him.

She looked over to see him watching her. He gave a slight tilt of his head as if in mock apology.

Baron Welford formally introduced Lord Jarrad to Joan. Her foster sister flinched when Lord Jarrad spoke to her. Silly Joan saw either a man's beauty or his defects. Scars to her were gross faults. Ferne saw him look over at her, as if he compared them. As well he might, Joan had a rare beauty. Not that she showed it off today, by cowering and hanging her head.

Lord Jarrad talked to the Baron and Joan slumped in the bridal chair she shared with him. She looked as if she wanted to vomit. Behind her, the slapstick slowly rose to tap her on the top of the head. Joan made a grab for it, but the fool tapped Lord Jarrad on the head and it was he who wrestled it from Owen's grip to give to Joan.

Joan held the slapstick while Lord Jarrad listened to the Baron.

Then, slowly, from behind the bridal chair rose another slapstick.

Elbows nudged elbows in the great hall, gradually the noise fell to whispers as everyone watched.

The slapstick rose high to smack down hard on Lord Jarrad's head.

Joan gave a shocked scream and clutched her slapstick to her breast.

She swore that she had not struck him, but the lord only laughed and pointed a finger behind him with a sorry shake of his head. Joan actually laughed with him. She laughed with relief, but she laughed and dared look at him.

Ferne thought it cleverly done. Joan had forgotten all about Lord Jarrad's scarred face. He spoke to her and winced when he patted the top of his head. Joan nodded eagerly and answered him with a smile.

The people below the dais began to talk in normal tones. Servants hurried about carrying food and drink. The great hall rang with laughter, gossip, and lewd jokes about brides and bridegrooms.

The fool looked over at Ferne and grinned. If he dared try anything again, well, this time let him beware, for she was ready for him.

All the children, except Anne, stared at the lord's face with open curiosity. When the smallest one opened her mouth, Ferne hurriedly leaned towards her and whispered, "Quietly, Lizzie, if our lord father hears you, he will be displeased."

It did not take a second hint for the child to whisper all her conversation. "Why does he look like that? He won't want to marry me, will he?"

Meg gave a tiny squeak of fright when the fool approached to kneel across the table from her. He eyed her balefully over the tablecloth, then suddenly he reached out to tap the little girl with his slapstick.

Meg cried out. The Baron looked over at his children. He shook his head at Meg, who bowed her head in shame. The fool waited until she raised her head, then he tapped the little girl again. Not a sound did she make, but next to her Elizabeth began to tremble.

To fight the fool would only make the situation worse, instead Ferne turned to the two youngest girls to distract them. She hoped her words could be heard by Anne.

"Joan will be very lucky if Lord Jarrad marries her, for he has his very own pet dragon. It lives in his solar and warms his toes when he is cold. He has only to reach down to pull its tail to make it breathe out such hot air that he rarely needs a fire in his chamber."

At last the fool turned to look at her. "Ah, but will Lord Jarrad let his lady wife pull his dragon's tail? Do you think you would be brave enough to grasp it, Lady Ferne?" he asked with a leer. "For 'tis long and thick, and scaly. Methinks you caught a glimpse of it today and fled."

Ferne smiled at the little girls, ignoring the fool as if he had not spoken. Anne listened intently for the tale to continue. Even the fool bent his elbow on the table in rapt attention.

"The reason Lord Jarrad has a scarred face is the dragon kissed him, for he told me all about it when I bathed him."

Ferne knew it would soon be all over the castle that she had bathed the bridegroom. There were no secrets, not when Lady Mathilda had abandoned Ferne in the tower chamber, and she had left her shoes floating in his bath-water.

Elizabeth asked in a loud whisper, "Why did the dragon kiss him? Will it kiss Joan?"

Ferne shook her head making the wimple sail round her face. "No, the dragon adores Lord Jarrad. A sweet, pretty dragon she is, it's a pity about her teeth. All dragons have teeth which protrude and this one is no different. Great sharp teeth stick out of her mouth at all angles. " She used her fingers to show them how and waggled them towards Elizabeth.

"It is a shame, for it quite spoils her looks. It was a gentle kiss by dragon standards, but it cut open Lord Jarrad's face. She lacerated him. Poor Lord Jarrad. The dragon promised to never kiss him again, but the damage was done."

Anne peered round to see Lord Jarrad's face. Ferne was glad, but as virgins and dragons in stories were usually an unhappy combination, she added for reassurance, "So now the dragon flies free during the day and returns to warm Lord Jarrad at night. She lives off mutton, for he has forbidden her to eat his virgins."

The fool smirked, "I don't think he has any virgins left. Perhaps the dragon ate them, or perhaps not." He sank out of sight below the table to surface opposite Elizabeth.

"Have you seen the dragon?" asked the little girl, eyeing the fool with awe. "Did she bite you?"

"Only a little," replied the fool, holding up a hand, pretending he was missing a finger. "My lord thinks she might have followed him here. What's that under the table!" Quick as lightning his other hand snaked under the cloth to grab Elizabeth by the ankle.

The screams that this mild prank conjured up nearly split Ferne's eardrums. Elizabeth howled and shrieked, quickly Ferne lifted her to sit on her knee.

Baron Welford crooked a finger at his smallest daughter. Elizabeth ran to him, not giving the dragon a chance to catch her.

She scurried behind the guests to the side of Baron Welford's chair to hide her face in his sleeve. He scooped her up to sit on his knee. "No screams at dinner, Elizabeth. Did the fool give you a fright?"

"No, my lord father, there's a dragon under the table. It bit me on the ankle. It belongs to him."

Elizabeth pointed a finger at the man sitting next to her father. When he smiled at her, she leaned towards him and asked seriously, in a high whisper, "Did it hurt when the lady dragon kissed you and cut your face?"

Jarrad du Terrenord laughed. So that was the tale Ferne was weaving for her sisters. "I didn't feel any pain. Dragons have a salve in their teeth that makes their bite painless." True enough. He'd felt no pain at first, just his warm blood flowing down his neck. "Will you sit on my knee for a while? You are too young for me to marry, but you can help me choose my bride."

Elizabeth did not object to the honor. Jarrad settled her comfortably on his knee, to find her staring up at his face with great interest. He dismissed Joan with a polite invitation to join her sisters.

It was a strange delight to have this little creature on his knee. If it convinced Ferne he was not to be feared then so much the better.

"My sister Joan has cold feet," warned Elizabeth, "and she will put them on your back to warm them. And if she shares your plate, she will eat all the best pieces and leave you the gristle."

"Hmm, then I won't marry Joan. Thank you for the warning. Who else can I marry? Would Ferne put her cold feet on my back?" asked Jarrad, ignoring the Baron's spluttering cough as he choked on his wine.

"Ferne doesn't sleep with anyone, so I don't know. She might by accident, but not on purpose. Anne will cry if you make her marry you. Will you mind if she cries?"

"I don't want a timid wife, maybe I will have to marry you after all. Do you have warm feet?"

Elizabeth patted his hand. "No, Meg says they are like icicles, but I do not wet the bed like she does."

"I think we can safely dismiss Meg from the list," said Jarrad with a laugh. "This makes me very glad I asked for your help, Elizabeth. Whom would you suggest I marry?"

"Do you want to marry a brave lady? I'm afraid of your dragon, but I know someone who will smite it on the nose if it tries to bite."

"But will she smite me?" asked Jarrad.

The little girl giggled. "She might. Aunt Mathilda sometimes boxes our ears, but you are bigger than she is. Can you marry Aunt Mathilda and take her away?"

While he pretended to consider her choice, the little girl thought harder, her brow wrinkling with effort. "Ferne already has a husband. She doesn't like him much, so she wouldn't want another."

Ferne watched Jarrad du Terrenord as he listened attentively to the little girl squirming on his knee while trying to keep her feet from dangling under the table. He seemed to enjoy her conversation until suddenly he leaned towards Baron Welford and asked a question. The Baron laughed and shook his head. He waved a hand up towards the ceiling as he answered.

Owen sauntered back to stand behind his master.

Joan's return to the children's table had sent Anne to a place on the bench where she had a view of the bridegroom. The sight of Elizabeth sitting so comfortably on the great man's knee amused them all. Ferne laughed with the rest of their audience at the sight. She almost missed Joan creeping along the side of the hall bent on escape. Did she have no sense at all! If she needed to leave the hall, Ferne had to go with her to make sure she returned. A quick glance at Baron Welford and his relieved nod brought her to her feet.

Ferne stepped off the dais. The young knights moved back to let her pass, after a hasty glance at their lord.

It took much maneuvering to avoid the busy servers but finally she reached the center of the great hall and started for the doors. If she hastened, she'd meet Joan there.

Suddenly, the fool leapt in front of her to block her path. He thrust his long, bleak face inches from Ferne's nose.

"I am Owen the Fool, Lady Ferne. My master bids you to come to him."
Chapter 4

Ferne rubbed one cold foot upon the other as she faced the fool. The noise in the great hall swelled raucously over them. The pages hustled to replenish trenchers, while the squires served ale.

She faced the fool amid chaos, as voices rose higher to be better heard, and rose still louder in reply. If he quickly played his trick on her, she'd run to catch Joan with no harm done. A few words in the girl's ear about Lord Jarrad would surely not go amiss. If he truly wanted Ferne to accompany his bride, to bring comfort to her, then Joan had less to fear from marriage and might, with any luck, face her fate with courage.

The fool stared at her, as if waiting for her to go to his master. She had no intention of obeying the malicious liar. What a fool she'd look if she did! Did he expect her to saunter up to his lord as if she had a right to approach him?

"My lord father has sent me to aid Joan, who is not feeling well," she said as loudly as she could.

The fool smirked. "Lord Jarrad commands your presence at the head table, my lady."

Ferne tried to step around him. He countered, effectively blocking her way.

Owen tried an ingratiating smile on the lady, which was not answered. "My Lady Ferne," he swept her a mocking bow, "my master wishes to interview you with the thought of marriage, not whoring, on his mind."

The lady dared to laugh at him. She should have been both flattered and awed, but she was neither.

"Marriage?" she said. He listened carefully for a hint of wistful longing or envy in her soft voice, and found none. "You must think we are two fools here."

If she wanted to be married, she hid it well. Or the lady dared not look so high.

Owen shrugged mournfully. "If I were you, I would choose to be his whore. It would be an easier life. Look, he sends the little one back to her sisters. Look, my lord beckons you."

This last was a lie, but as Ferne refused to turn towards the dais she could not know it. That she dared risk Jarrad's wrath so calmly, surprised him, but then she really did not know her new lord and master yet.

Raising his arm high, Owen struck her harmlessly on the top of the head with his slapstick, crying out, "Sir Fool! Call me, Sir Fool! Sir Fool! Let us wager you will always call me Sir Fool, if I am right and he marries you. If I am wrong and he takes you for his whore, then, I shall marry you myself."

He capered around her, striking her lightly this way and that, waiting for a display of temper or fear. She bore it well, not displaying any emotion.

Finally, she shrugged and said, "Sir Fool, nay, Lord Fool, if you prefer, for a bigger fool I have never met. Neither event will happen. Talk no more of marriage for your master is as likely to marry you, as marry me."

A good answer with a measure of wit. Owen pretended to ponder her words before he whispered, "Lady Ferne, as a wedding gift I pledge to always tell you the truth. Not being a liar like yourself it is an easy task for me. So know this, you will marry this day."

But still she refused to turn towards the dais, where his master waited to beckon and beguile her.

Owen smiled gleefully and baited her further, "You saw his glory, Lady Ferne, yet did you take pity on him? No, you did not! I had to bind his staff to his belly so he could wear his clothes."

He smirked when she blushed, but he didn't dare push her further. He could see Jarrad's impatience mounting. With a quick gesture, he asked his master's permission to compel the lady to return to the dais.

Jarrad assented, it had gone on long enough. Some curious folk had stopped talking to stare at them.

She tried again to step around him. Owen blocked her path.

"Sir Owen the Fool, Lord of Nothing, will you let me go to do the Baron's bidding, or must I appeal for help?"

The fool grinned at her. Telling her the truth was going to amuse him, and if it made him indispensable to her so much the better, for there was no denying his master might become so enamored of her that he'd banish his fool from his solar, to please his lady wife.

He cut a caper perilously close to her unshod feet then grasped her arm to plead piteously. "Jarrad needs release, Lady Ferne. Offer to ease him after he has married you and he will eat from your hand. Offer him the few inches of your body he wants, promise to obey him, and let him use you as often as he likes, and you will find him easy to govern. Don't be afraid, it will not take him long to breach you and spill. A few seconds of pain, my lady, then you can govern him. Know this, you will rule not he."

Owen smirked, glad the lady did not believe him, but by the morrow his words would have more meaning. Had he gone too far? If she repeated what he had said to Lord Jarrad, he might get the beating often promised and never given. But by the morrow, Lady Ferne would know he spoke the truth.

She glanced piteously around her, as if pleading for assistance. What a superb liar she was, for she was no more afraid of him than he was of her.

Several of Welford's knights began to stalk towards them to rescue her. Owen recognized the threat they posed, many a rough handling he had suffered in his career. He grabbed Ferne's hand, held it clapped to his ear, and screamed a high shriek of pain.

"Ow! Let go, my lady! I meant no harm! Don't tear my ear off!" He screeched and yowled like one demented, then whispered quickly, "Come with me to my master, and think on this while you journey to your fate. Why did I search the castle for you, if it was not to find the bride?"

At last her voice was no longer meek and gentle, she fairly hissed at him, like a kitten in a rage, "You wanted your surcoat before your master found out what you had done."

He liked her error. It pleased him to think she had no idea of what was to come. His only response to her words was a wrenching turn, which forced the lady to pivot round to face the dais.

It did not take her long to understand she had no choice in the matter. The noise he made was deafening, his antics ludicrous. He writhed, put one long leg over his head and hopped on the other, all the while forcing her forward towards the dais. He kicked and bucked, and begged for mercy as he dragged her to his master.

The company howled with laughter. The joke made better by the knowledge Ferne never hurt anyone if she could help it. Nay, it was obvious to a blind man he was forcing her hand to his cap.

The lady growled at Owen when they reached the dais and the fool quickly released her. He had led her to his master, now it was time for Jarrad to master her. With a respectful bow he retreated, not taking his eyes off her, ready to stop her if she tried to flee.

There was a hush in the great hall as the laughter died down and everyone waited to see what happened next. The only one with power to break the silence was Lord Jarrad. Ferne wondered how long he was going to make her stand there looking ridiculous.

He seemed so different clothed. The scars on his face stood out in greater relief. He looked so much more beautiful naked. The memory of how he had looked when he stepped from the bathtub made Ferne lower her gaze to stare at the floor.

"Lady Ferne." He acknowledged her at last. His voice warmed as if he smiled. "My apologies for not knowing your name when we first met."

Ferne risked a glance up at him. He gave her his quizzical smile and looked pleasantly at her.

Baron Welford gave Ferne an encouraging nod. "I heard from my sister Mathilda that my dear Ferne attended your bath, Lord Jarrad. I hope she gave no offence? It is not a task she has ever done before." He gave a nervous cough. "Ferne make your apologies, now."

"Ferne has no need to apologize. Come here and sit beside me, little one."

Ferne looked to Baron Welford for permission before obeying.

Lord Jarrad raised his voice, "Now, Ferne, please!"

It was not a loud shout, though she almost jumped out of her skin. She had never heard him speak like a lord. Three words were enough to show his authority. She stumbled near the edge of the dais. The fool moved quickly to grab her arm to stop her from falling.

She shook him off. He retreated only a step or two.

Lord Jarrad added in a softer tone, no doubt thinking she had taken fright when he had merely startled her, "Stay there if you wish, Ferne. There is nothing to fear, but you must learn to obey better than this."

Did he mean to marry her? He could not!

The good Baron turned to his guest. "Ferne is a pretty girl. Take no notice of how she is dressed. It's a whim of hers to dress like a servant. She thinks it will hide her from the Scots."

He gave a sigh and shook his head. "There is one thing you must know about her. Ferne is the gentlest of women, the best of daughters, I could not love her more if she were my own. Only one thing makes her difficult to govern, she is afraid of Scots. Deathly afraid. Terrified. She might become difficult if she meets one." He glanced at Lord Jarrad in apology. "Other than that she'd make a fine wife, except for one more problem."

Lord Jarrad laughed and gave a gracious gesture for the Baron to continue his list of her faults.

"Poor Ferne is the daughter of a mad woman. She might share her taint, though I've never seen it. She was not born in wedlock, and has no dowry except for her own skilled hands."

Lord Jarrad gave a graceful shrug. "Ferne has no need of a dowry and I see no madness in her." He looked at his fool before turning to her. "Remove your wimple, Ferne. I wish to see the color of your hair."

The color of her hair? Ferne bowed her head to hide her annoyance. She elbowed the fool when he offered his help. He poked this way and that at her wimple, as if struggling to understand how it was fastened.

Ferne reached for the bow to the chin strap hidden under the veil to remove the wimple herself.

The ribbons slid free to let her horrible hair swirl down to cover her shoulders and breast.

Her hair was ugly. It waved and curled, and refused to grow straight or turn blond. In childhood, she'd bothered God with requests for it to be changed to anything, as long as it was not red.

She was as far from fair as it was possible to be. Her hair was a strange lurid color and so distinctive that she wore the wimple to hide it.

Owen chortled close to her ear. He called for everyone to hear, "What color is your hair, my lady? No wonder you cover it! It's truly hideous, like the flames of hell on a dark night."

Lord Jarrad said kindly, "Lady Ferne cannot help the color of her hair, Owen. We must be glad she doesn't have a temper to match it."

He rose from the bridal chair. "Call for your priest, Baron Welford. Ferne is my bride. Command him to marry us, for time and tide wait for no man."

Baron Welford's priest could not be found. The guards at the gatehouse had seen him leave with a stooped old man, mayhap he'd been called to give last rights.

Ferne watched Lord Jarrad's wrath grow as every minute passing delayed their marriage. Was he so eager for the bedding? It was the only reason she could think for his tension. She had seen many an eager bridegroom fume and fret. This man was more powerful and more dangerous than all the rest.

"I have sent a party after them," said Baron Welford, "but it might be best to delay the wedding until tomorrow. Come, let us continue our feasting. What need is there for haste?"

Lord Jarrad said with a warning in his voice, "I brought a priest of my own."

The great hall resounded in cheers and applause, though a few moaned their regret at her leaving them to Lady Mathilda's healing skills.

At the front of the dais, Lord Jarrad pulled her tightly to his side, trapping one arm against his body. He held her so tightly Ferne made a small sound of distress.

The fool appeared, with a nudge he persuaded his lord to free her arm and hold both of her hands instead. Fool and lord towered above her. Nothing felt real. This could not be happening. Lords did not marry worthless brides.

"Look at me, Ferne." Lord Jarrad waited until she met his gaze. His gray eyes stared at her like a hungry hawk.

"Father Rab was to be a witness to this. Now, he can do the deed himself, which pleases him but not you. Don't be afraid because he is a Scot, he is one of my oldest friends."

An old, white haired priest rose from the head table. He growled in a Scottish way and limped between the tables towards them.

A Scot! Was this all a trick to take her from her home? Lords did not marry baseborn brides with no wealth to make them worthy. She shuddered. Her hands were drawn towards Lord Jarrad's chest. The fool quickly removed his lord's ruby necklace.

He placed the necklace over her head to fall on her neck. "There, my lady. I can do nothing about your birth, but now you are worth a king's ransom."

The necklace did not distract her from her fears. Lord Jarrad had a Scot with him and Baron Welford knew it, hence his warning about her. She trusted none of the strangers in the castle, but she dared not make a move against them. If she died to save her home, then death was her fate, just let it not be in Scotland.

Owen said in mocking tones, "Father Rab is half-deaf, half-blind and creaky with age, if you fear him, Lady Ferne, you are a coward."

The Baron cut in sharply, "If Ferne fears Scots she has earned that right. Thrice she has nearly lost her life in raids."

His words were ignored. Lord Jarrad signaled his knights closer to witness the wedding, and soon she was surrounded.

The great hall grew silent. Everyone wanted to see the great scarred lord take her for his wife.

Every sense warned her his proposal was a clever trick to get her out of the castle. Her body argued for his honesty, but the man she had bathed seem far away now. It was as if she could not recognize him clothed. She feared him and dreaded his intentions. Why bring a Scot here, where Scots were suspect and arrived with swords drawn to slaughter.

Ferne tried to shake off Lord Jarrad's restraining hands.

He let her go and sighed. "Father Rab cannot stand for long without pain. Be merciful and do not keep him waiting."

"Do you go to Hollingham, my lord?" she asked. "Will Hollingham be my home?"

"Hollingham will always be yours. You have nothing to fear while you are with me." He spoke in a way that made her want to believe him, while her fear of Scots sounded a warning. Her heart beat with slow, heavy thuds of fear.

"My lord," she said, doubting him still, "you cannot want to marry me."

"How can I resist choosing you?" he asked gently. "You are the only lady who has ever admired my face."

His words did not comfort her.

"If that is the only reason, then I'll marry you and gladly. If we go to Hollingham, I'll go with you and think myself fortunate, my lord."

She said her prayers while he made his marriage vows, glad he did not insist on holding her hands. She didn't need to hear them, seven of the Baron's daughters had married before her.

The old priest began her vows. She lifted her head, unsure she'd heard him or mayhap she'd been so busy recoiling from his accent, she'd mistaken what he'd said.

He'd changed the words. The Scot didn't ask her simply to obey her husband, he wanted her to vow perfect obedience. She'd never heard of such a vow. How could anyone be perfectly obedient?

She dared not refuse to swear it, not with the Baron urging her to speak and the whole company waiting for her to do it.

Perfect obedience!

No complaint could pass her lips. No matter what he willed, she must obey him. Perfectly. It was a dreadful fate. Even if he wanted to remove her head, she must let him. Was this what Scottish brides promised on their wedding day?

Ferne believed a vow to be sacred, yet this terrible vow would be impossible to keep. Yet not to keep it meant she'd burn in hell for eternity.

Perfect obedience!

If he wanted to kill her slowly, she had to be perfectly obedient and let him. The only way out was to add a few words of her own to it. Once said they couldn't be removed, and she'd have freedom near the end of her life to do as she wished.

Lord Jarrad's hand rubbed her back in a gentle caress. "Little angel, say the words. You'll soon find them easy to ignore. Isn't that the way of wives?"

Ferne pushed away his arm. Her last act of free will.

"I vow to Almighty God perfect obedience to your will, my lord Jarrad, from this moment on until the end of my life."

The priest declared her married to Lord Jarrad and did not comment on her added words. No doubt the Scot thought it bound her more, not less. She had not vowed perfect obedience until her death. The instant she felt her life to be in danger, she was freed from her vow. For all she knew it was the end of her life now. The thought did not comfort her.

Lord Jarrad murmured, "Very clever, little one. I'll not expect you to obey me if you fear your end is nigh. You're not nervous at the moment, are you?"

Under the fanfare and cheers, one of the young knights voiced his triumph at the marriage in incomprehensible Gaelic. Ferne had heard enough of the language from men who'd tried to kill her to recognize it. The noise from the crowd drowned the young man's words from everyone but the tight group around her.

Lord Jarrad gave a quick retort in the same language. It rolled out of his mouth as if it was his mother tongue, but he knew his mistake the instant he spoke.

Terror shrieked in her veins. Escape or be killed were her only choices. The fool grabbed her wrists with an iron grip. Lord Jarrad hauled her towards him, trapping her arms, knocking the breath out of her lungs.

The stranger she'd married did not let her take a breath to warn the others. He lifted her off her feet to kiss her hard.

The cheers intensified as Lord Jarrad swept her into his arms, prolonging the kiss. He was crushing her, deliberately not letting her take a breath to sound the alarm. The kiss went on and on, until Owen rushed to assist his wicked master.

"This way, my lord. Let me carry her feet for you. The only thing better than a wedding is a bedding. A bedding! A bedding!" Owen cried, as he steered them through the great hall towards the stairs to the tower and its bridal chamber.

Ferne struggled with all her might, but Lord Jarrad was crushing her, not letting her take a breath. His arms so tight about her, she could not get air.

He meant to kill her.

Her head tilted back until she thought her neck would break from the force of his kiss. She struggled to take a breath to sound the alarm, until her mind darkened.
Chapter 5

Ferne awoke to consciousness, ready to fight for her life with all the cunning she possessed. She kept her eyes closed, while her fingers crept around the bed between the fine linen sheets.

She was alone.

Someone had spread her hair over the pillow. Her clothes were pulled open at her throat.

She opened her eyes. No sound or movement disturbed the still, cold air. The fire in the hearth had long since died.

Ferne held her clothes together and tied the laces. She threw back the covers to get out of the bed only to see dark spots of blood on the sheet next to her. The blood was not hers. That awful stranger had not touched her, except to deny her air to breathe. She tried to slow her panting breath. Where was he now?

She did not fear the bedding. She feared being given to murderous Scots to die a slow and bloody death. Her head swam until she managed to steady her breathing.

Men who married always consummated it. Seven of her foster sisters had married men eager to make the marriage legal. Did Lord Jarrad mean to sell her virgin body to the Scots?

She scrambled off the bed to stand with an arm round the bedpost to quell a dizzy spell.

Lord Jarrad rose from the floor. He had been sitting quietly with his back against the wall under the window. He kept his distance by moving to stand between the door and the bed. "Hush, we have to whisper, the Baron's men and mine are listening." He watched her, his body taut and ready to fight, though he attempted an easy shrug and a half-smile. "Unless you want a battle inside the castle?"

Ferne shook her head, she didn't want anyone killed. She knew how skillfully Scots fought.

Lord Jarrad, if that was his name, approached the bed. She retreated to let him pull the top sheet back. "Poor Owen tripped on the stairs and bled on the sheets more by accident than design. Forgive me for touching you but when you didn't recover from your swoon, I thought you'd breathe better with nothing tight around your neck."

"Don't come near me," she croaked.

He did not move from his position near the bed. He pretended innocence, but he was only one stride away from her.

She tested her throat to see if normal speech was possible.

He tilted his head at the noise.

"Are you a pirate?" she asked in her usual quiet voice. "What are they paying you to take me from the castle?"

"Ferne, this is no way to begin a marriage, with accusations of piracy and kidnapping. I have a brother who speaks the Saracen tongue. He learned it at my father's command, as I was ordered to learn Gaelic." He gave a rueful shrug. "My father lives to trade from one end of the world to the other. He bought a title for me because he thought it useful."

"How many Scots are with you," Ferne asked. Her mind raced. Was he who he said he was? If he wanted to kill her or carry her out of the castle and deliver her to her enemies so they could kill her, there was little she could do about it, not here alone with him. And she could do nothing without lulling him into believing she trusted him.

"They are no concern of yours, Ferne. King Henry's court has its share of Scots, some of them are his relatives, and I have some Celts under my command. Of far more importance is the welfare of your soul."

Her soul! If this was the end of her life, she'd no need to obediently go to her death.

"I really must insist you obey me, to save you from eternal damnation. Don't you think it is a husband's duty to protect his wife's soul, little one?" he asked, as if nothing at all was wrong. As if he had no evil intentions towards her.

Ferne wanted to believe him with all her heart.

When she did not answer, he shrugged. "Maybe I should have married Elizabeth. I am beginning to think that even Meg might have been a better bargain than you, Ferne. Though I have no liking for a wet bed."

It was said so mournfully it almost made her laugh, despite her fear. He was either telling the truth or he was far too clever for her.

"We must leave soon, Ferne, the tide waits for no one." His sympathetic voice almost made her weep.

"I will go with you, my lord, because I fear a battle in the castle. I swear, I'll go with you."

"Then trust me, little one, and call me Jarrad. I claim no lordship over you. When you bathed me, I told you I wanted you to live with me at Hollingham. How many women do you think have admired my face?" At his mocking sorrowful expression, she retreated a few steps from him. It was all a lie. He had never truly believed she admired his face. His soul had been scarred, when he was a boy, along with his face. It was only a lie he used to soothe her.

He asked gently, "Tell me what it is you fear. Surely not words spoken in a foreign tongue?"

She had no objection to telling him. "The Scots killed my mother when I was only a few months old. Her torn and bloody clothes were found, with a trail of blood leading down to the sea." Ferne touched the embroidered rose at her breast. "They return often to try to kill me. They search for me in the night, always in the night. Once they caught me but I was rescued before being strangled to death. My throat was damaged. It's why I cannot scream or shout."

"What do they want with you, little one? Do you know?"

"To end my mother's line. To kill me."

He gave a sympathetic sigh, but she didn't believe him.

"Why do you have Scots with you?"

"I have some Celts under my command, little one, but they have never been to Scotland and I would never take you there."

She wanted to believe him. She reminded herself that she had been alone with him and had found him pleasant enough. He had seemed so far from a murdering Scot that she had found him amusing, and to her shame, arousing.

Now, she feared him.

Ferne knew she must give him perfect obedience until their destination became clear. It was very simple. If they traveled south, he was telling the truth. If they went north to Scotland, then he was a lying, murderous knave and it was the end of her life.

"Poor, little one, there is no use trying to think of a way out of our marriage, not when Owen has bled on the sheets."

"What do you want of me, Jarrad?" she asked.

"Nothing you won't willingly give. I won't not take an unwilling bride. The idea terrifies me."

"Terrifies you?" She looked at him carefully. "You are not terrified at the moment, far from it, in my judgment."

"How do you know that?"

"I am called if anyone is injured. Lady Matilda taught me all her skills when it became difficult for her to see things close to her. Men have been afraid of what I must do to them. Some have a reaction for a while afterwards. They avoid me and if they meet me by chance, they sweat and shake. You do not look terrified to me."

"But I haven't spoken of it yet, so you cannot see my fear. Do you want to?"

"No. I am afraid enough for both of us." Her words brought a smile to his face. She ignored it. "Do we go to Scotland? Tell me the truth."

He raised his right hand. "I swear by Almighty God I will never take you to Scotland and that if anyone tries to take you there, I will rescue you or die in the attempt."

Ferne sat on the edge of the bed. She wanted to believe him with all her heart and soul. "Truly?"

"Am I so terrible a husband, Ferne? You know, even while you fear my intentions, I am still glad you don't find me hideously ugly."

Ferne shook her head. "If I can trust you, then I am pleased to be your wife."

"Which leads me back to where we began." He took a deep breath. "I shall try to be brave, though, I would be braver if I could hold your hands." He didn't look the least bit scared or nervous.

Ferne couldn't tell if he mocked her or not. She held out her hands.

He did not approach her. "We cannot fight while we hold hands, can we? Do you want to fight me? You look reluctant. I will not hold unwilling hands."

"I don't want to touch you, I only want to keep my vow of perfect obedience."

"You cannot break your vow if I ask nothing of you. Just let me say what I must say or you will never understand my fear of brides." He gave a slight shrug. "Forgive me, little one. My scars. It happened at a bedding. The bride disliked her marriage bed, and, mistaking me for her husband, she slashed my face." He ran a hand over his cheek. His fingers shook slightly. "It has given me a dislike of beddings, and if the truth be known, of brides."

"I'm sorry."

"So was I. The wounds were..." He paused and closed his lips to give a slight shudder. "My brother's surgeon reopened the wounds to make the edges neater."

It cost him dearly to tell her. "He did a fine job but I'd rather have died at the time. Not that the opinion of a boy was of any interest to anyone." He perched on the edge of the bed next to her.

Ferne reached out to pat his knee. "I'm sorry."

"It gave me a dislike of force, among other things. Not a useful attribute in a knight." He gave a slight smile and covered her hand with his. "You can feel my pulse if you like, little one, just don't make any fast movements or I might faint dead away." He raised her hand to kiss her fingers.

She shook her head at his jest.

"You're right, little angel, I don't faint easily. I wish I did. I apologize for what happened in the hall. I didn't want a fight. Not one between us, nor one between our friends. It is my firm opinion that no one should die over a wedding or a bedding." He took a deep breath. "Do you fear what I must do to make you mine, as much as I fear having to do it?" He drew her closer to hold her nestled by his side. "Not that we have anything to worry about, now that Owen has already bled on the sheets for your honor and mine."

There was a sharp rap on the door. The fool's voice called out, "We will miss the tide, my lord. The wind veers slightly. We must be gone from here or we'll never clear the bay."

"My apologies," said Jarrad, "I get cold hands whenever I talk of it."

That was the truth. His hands were colder than hers.

Ferne touched the embroidered rose at her breast. She gave a silent prayer. This was either the end of her nightmares about Scots or the beginning of a real nightmare, ending in her death.

He called Owen into the chamber. The fool looked at them seated together on the edge of the bed. He gave a snort of disgust. "Has my lord been playing on your sympathies, my lady? He's had lots of practice at that. Don't make it easy for him. Tell him he's ugly and get it over with."

Jarrad pretended to hit his fool, who ducked out of the way and pranced around the chamber collecting anything that took his fancy. Two fine candles and a bottle of wine went into her sewing bag. Why had he stolen that?

At her look of surprise, he opened the bag to show her the surcoat she'd made to fit him. "My thanks for your gift, my lady. It is very beautiful."

He bowed his lord out of the chamber first.

As the fool ushered her out, he whispered, "Remember, my gift to you on your wedding day is to always tell you the truth, my lady. Is there anything you want to know?"

Ferne shook her head. The truth! From that liar?

"Here is one truth for you, my lady. Your husband finds it easy to win women's sympathy, but does he want it and can he keep it? Here is another truth. If you kill my master, I'll kill you."

She returned his cold gaze. "What if he kills me? What will you do then?"

"I'd die of surprise, my lady." He staggered about clutching his heart to cleverly force her out of the tower chamber.
Chapter 6

The wind buffeted the small boat as they cleared the bay. Twenty men stopped rowing, stowed the oars, and swarmed about to raise the sail. The boat heeled over with the sail eager to fly before the wind, while the hull dragged in the water. It lurched, gathering speed until the sea hissed along the sides.

The men raised leather skins sewn together to cover a wicker frame over the top of the boat, leaving only space for the man who steered. The noise of the wind lessened. The smell of wet leather rubbed with sheep grease, almost masked the odor of the men who faced Ferne in the gloom.

The bright glow of the setting sun glinted through the lacing, where the leather was lashed to the boat.

They were going north.

Ferne held tightly to Jarrad, both her hands gripping his belt, her arms wrapped tightly around him. If she held on, it helped her believe he meant her no harm.

It brought her comfort to be close to him. She tried to breathe in time with him, to not show her fear to the watching men.

His fool placed a cloak over them both. The crew faced them, staring at her from their benches. One of the older men wore a strange helmet of horn and brass. Tufts of red hair stuck out from behind his ears. He'd not been at the wedding, he looked too much a Scot. His nose looked familiar, she'd seen one like it on the Scot who'd tried to kill her.

The red-haired man reached over to strike the young man who'd spoken Gaelic. "Hang your head before your lady, you dog. It was not your place to frighten the bride on her wedding day." He raised his fist again.

Ferne let go of Jarrad. "Stop hitting him!" she said in her loudest voice. The men stared and shrugged. They asked each other what she'd said.

Jarrad called out, "My wife said, stop hitting him!"

Must he shout so loudly? She reached up to pat his cheek gently to soothe him, then she rubbed her tingling ear. Not that dead people needed ears but she'd rather not have it damaged while she still lived. Just in case she survived, and they were only lost and really did mean to go to Hollingham.

The crew stared at them with a strange expression on their faces. Alaric leaned forward to say in a calm voice, "My lord, you have blood on your face and so does your lady."

Jarrad didn't react. He didn't reach for her, or try to restrain her.

She looked up at him. His cheek was smeared with blood but it didn't drip. She peered up above his head to see if anything had dripped on them. She said in a soothing voice, "I don't think it's your blood, may I see if it is?"

"If it pleases you," he said lightly. He let her turn to face him and touch his face. Fresh blood was smeared on the surface of his skin. She heard the fool move closer to her, ready to save his master from her.

She looked at her hand. "It's my blood. Forgive me, my lord, I didn't know I had injured myself." A puncture wound on her fingertip bled profusely. She pressed her thumb against the wound to stem the flow. "I must have caught my finger on your belt."

The fool unlashed the hides closest to them to wet a cloth with seawater.

She took it and wiped her husband's face. He had not lashed out at her. He had allowed her to touch his face. Surely that was a good sign.

Then she checked the position of the sun. They were still going north.

God help her! No, maybe there was a shoal at the entrance of the bay, and they went north to avoid it and any moment now they'd turn south to safety.

The fool helped bind her finger with a scrap from her sewing bag. Through it all the crew sat silent and watchful, as if they were afraid to breathe.

Father Rab prayed to himself with his eyes tightly closed.

At last, Jarrad spoke to the man with the helmet. "Duncan, if you are hinting it's my place to frighten the bride, I must disagree. My wife and I have a dislike of violence and we both ask you to forgive your son his error."

Duncan bowed his head. "Aye, the young idiot is forgiven, my lord. My apologies for scaring both of you by cuffing the lad."

The men laughed at his joke.

With a smile, Jarrad said, "A bride must be won, not frightened. It does no good to scare the bridegroom, either, we are timid beasts."

The men laughed and slapped one another.

Young Robert yelled out, "Lord of a Thousand Tricks!" He laughed so hard he fell into a coughing spasm.

Ferne anxiously scanned them all until she was certain she'd not seen them during a raid on Baron Welford's castle. Only Duncan looked familiar with his Scottish nose and the frown creases between his eyebrows.

A groan came from the fool, who slumped by the opening between the leather skins. "Shall you introduce the men to Lady Ferne, my lord? Whether it please you or not, oh great lord of the sea, I shall soon be of no use to you at all." He rubbed his thin belly and moaned as the boat rose and fell over the waves.

Ferne felt Jarrad shift beside her. "Do you want to know their names, little one? It seems they can't keep quiet to save their lives." He gave a mournful sigh. "Remember, I have scars enough and take pity on me. You have met Alaric. It is he we have to thank for introducing us."

The young knight grinned at her. "My lady, under my command are Thomas and Matthew. Good stout Englishmen."

The two youths bowed their heads.

Ferne gave a formal nod to acknowledge them.

Lord Jarrad spoke again, "The rest of them are not Scots. They are Celts. Don't think they are Scots because they speak Gaelic. They are not from Scotland and we do not go there." He said in a sympathetic voice, "It may comfort you to know that they'd be no safer in Scotland than you."

Ferne knew he lied. The boat sailed north. Like it or not, she was going to Scotland. No idiot wanted to go to the Western Isles owned by fierce Norsemen. No, there was no hope for her. It meant the end of her life. Her vow of perfect obedience died in her breast.

Owen moaned and moved to lean over the side of the boat. His noisy vomiting was a source of merriment to the others, who called out words of encouragement and promises to join him in his noisy worship of the waves.

Ferne turned to look at him. "Poor Owen, is there nothing you can do for him, my lord?" she asked, as if she cared whether the fool lived or died.

When Jarrad turned his head to look at Owen, Ferne struck him squarely on the chin with her elbow. She gritted her teeth against the pain and leapt for the side of the boat.

It was as if he had been expecting her to do it. As she sailed through the air, his large hand simply reached out and caught her by the belt. He would have held on but every man on board made a grab for her and the boat slewed and wallowed. She heard something snap.

The beam holding the sail swung round to knock her out of Jarrad's grasp and over the side.

Unfortunately, it was the same side Owen was leaning over. Ferne had no objection to taking him with her and drowning him, but it seemed the fool had an aversion to water. He hung on to the boat and to her, and cursed her furiously.

Ferne's head and torso disappeared into the saltiest water she had ever tasted. It was surprisingly warm, much warmer than the air. She was sure, if she could just make Owen let go, she'd be able to swim home with ease.

The fool hauled her back on board, soaking wet, coughing and kicking, and smiting him as hard as she could.

The men lashed the sail in place above her head, while Owen and his master wrestled with her.

Ferne fought with all her strength until they forced her down on her back with the top of her head against the mast. Jarrad held her down by kneeling over her, pinning her down, and pressing her shoulders to the boards with a numbing grip.

Eager hands gripped her by the wrists and ankles. Death beckoned. She welcomed the end of her life. Better to die here than in Scotland.

Jarrad called, "Father Rab! My wife struggles, bring the opiate."

The priest knelt with difficulty in the narrow space beside them. "Don't you be afraid, my lady, everyone will be glad to see you safely home."

The old man's voice was enough to make her want to vomit. His lean, craggy face peered down at her.

So it was to be poison.

The antichrist of a priest gave Jarrad a small, dark vial. Ferne resisted with all her strength, but the evil Scots held her arms down with bone-breaking pressure.

What could she do but grit her teeth and refuse to open her mouth. He slid a finger between her lips to pull her cheek aside to pour a small amount of aromatic liquid into her mouth.

She did not unclench her teeth to allow it to reach her throat.

"Swallow it, Ferne," he commanded. "It is only an opiate to calm you." Some of the liquid trickled between her teeth.

He seemed to think it not enough and poured some more, gently stroking her throat. It took all of her willpower not to swallow. Ferne shuddered with fear and cold. It was not breaking her vow to disobey him. This was death itself.

Owen appeared, his face tinged with pain. "May I have a taste, oh great master, Lord of the Sea, before I vomit my guts up again."

Jarrad handed his fool the bottle.

The fool took a mighty swig and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "It is only something to soothe us, my lady." He gave a conspiratorial wink and declaimed, "Good Mother of God, calm my stomach, I beseech you. Bless this company and take us safely home. Amen."

He rushed to the side of the boat to vomit.

Unable to control her throat, Ferne swallowed convulsively.

The fool sank to his haunches to rub his belly. "Oh master, forgive me, for I have dropped the vial."

Had he really swallowed some of the brew? Or had it been a trick to make her swallow a fatal dose? Her mouth felt numb from the drug.

Before it stole all her strength, she struggled to be free. Let it be said of her that she died fighting.

Lord Jarrad suddenly stroked her forehead. The Scots laughed triumphantly, calling to one another in their heathen tongue. Their master stroked her cheek.

Ferne turned her head quickly to catch his finger between her teeth.

Some of the men swore and one made a grab for her jaw, but the scarred lord kneeling over her spoke sternly, "No, leave her be." He looked round at his men. "Don't grip her so tightly or we shall have broken bones to contend with."

The pain in her wrists eased, but still she refused to release the finger she had so cleverly trapped.

Jarrad watched his frightened bride. Her hair dripped water. The look of frightened anger she shot at him, reminded him of her mother.

She swallowed, her tongue brushing against his finger.

He waited for her to realize it was a foolish thing to bite him. Morag's daughter was no halfwit. The longer Ferne held him captive, the less likely she was to part him from his finger.

Jarrad stroked her cheek and the lady opened her mouth. He took his time sliding his finger out, touching her tongue and finally rubbing his fingertip over her pretty lips.

She endured the caress.

Poor Ferne dared not try to bite him again. Her tears were not far away and she bit her lower lip to stop them.

"Don't, little one. Don't bite your lip. Weep if you must. When you are calmer I shall tell you our destination."

The Scot named Duncan leaned over her. "My lady did not take your finger, nor even break your skin," he said incredulously. His face was the most violently ferocious of any Ferne had seen. He swore, "By the Gods, her—"

"Enough, Duncan, my lady wife is gentle as a lamb. She did no more than hold me to keep my finger warm."

The Scot snorted. "There are better ways to warm yourself with a bride. I'd let nothing I was fond of near her teeth, if I were you."

Ferne was hauled up to sit on her captor's knee, at the stern of the boat. He stroked her forehead and smiled down at her as if he was well pleased.

The fool held her ankles on his lap to lash them together with scrap of material from her sewing bag. He dried her feet with another scrap while they both dripped seawater.

"What use is that, fool?" she asked. "You may as well kill me now, for I'll be dead of cold long before we get there." The words did not come out clearly. Her tongue felt strangely numb.

Lord Jarrad wrung the water out of her skirts as best he could. Duncan passed over a dry cloak large enough to envelop all three of them.

Father Rab called out sharply, "It's a mortal sin to kill yourself, my lady. You will have to be punished, for sure. When we get home, I shall give you a penance."

Duncan's son called out, "Why did you jump, my lady? Do you prefer death to marriage?"

Jarrad answered for her when she ignored them. "My wife has no liking for those who speak Gaelic, young Robert. We shall all have to mind our manners and speak English. She fears we are taking her to Scotland, but we are not, are we?"

The chorus of nays startled her into answering. "Then you had better turn around for you are lost," she said haughtily, though her mind told her not to argue, even as her tongue ran away with her. "England is back there, Scotland is ahead, or do you think me as daft as you? And I was not trying to kill myself, I was trying to swim home." The men farther away needed to have her words repeated to them by the ones nearer.

Young Robert spoke up again. "You must be a good swimmer, my lady, but there was no need. We are bound for the Isle of Demons. It's not Scotland."

Ferne shivered with cold. Her fright diminished as she prattled on, "You cannot go there! No one who goes there ever returns. It is populated by the fiercest of people, even the Danes couldn't take the Isle of Demons."

They all grinned at her words.

Her shivering got worse.

Jarrad wrapped the cloak tighter about her. "Don't praise them, little one, they are proud enough."

Ferne eyed the Scots disdainfully but the effect was spoiled by her chattering teeth. "S-s-so you would have me believe you are all King Henry's men and are loyal to England?"

Duncan answered for them all, "We are Lord Jarrad's men and bow to whomever he pledges his allegiance, my lady. 'Tis a better bargain to take England than to have bloody eagles carved in our backs, with our lungs torn out to be offered to the Norsemen's God."

"Enough, Duncan, my lady wife shivers with fright and cold. We shall guard you well, my wife, for you are the Lady of the Isle."
Chapter 7

The small boat entered the inlet just before dawn, guided by lanterns along the dark shore.

Horns blared to announce their arrival. The sudden noise startled Ferne awake. Jarrad carried her off the boat into the deep black shadow of the castle looming above them. It rose without gate or window that she could see, an unwelcoming mass of ancient stone perched on the cliff.

She hunched her shoulders against the wind until he turned to shelter her from it. Her teeth chattered loudly, her feet were frozen and she had long since lost all feeling in her hands.

The fool held fast to his master's cloak to keep his balance. His shivers and moans made her feel colder than ever, and almost made her feel sorry for him.

"My wife is half dead with cold, we will take her in through the postern gate. Light the beacon, then open the barrels, Duncan. Let the celebration begin."

Jarrad carried her up the narrow ramp, away from the windward side into the lee of the castle wall. "Alaric, I want you outside my door this day with Gordon and Thomas. Don't try to stop them entering but I want warning of their approach."

Flaming torches in iron brackets illuminated the postern gate. Savage shrieks, the war cries of exultant Scots rent the air, growing louder and louder. Ferne fainted in his arms.

Jarred carried her through the bailey and into the great hall. Dozens of Scots screamed their war whoops at the top of their lungs. He held her tightly, glad she could not react with fear in front of them. Alaric opened the door to the stairwell.

The noise died away to a muted roar. "Wait for me outside the solar, Owen. Don't go in alone."

He climbed higher, the burden in his arms growing heavier with every step. Poor Ferne revived, too frozen to weep, too scared to think.

"We are almost there, little one. If my heart gives out before we get to the top," he gasped for air, "remember, you own Hollingham and can live there without me."

Her chattering teeth made an answer impossible. Her body shivered so hard, he almost dropped her.

He tightened his grip on her and carried her up the last turn to the solar. "This is what happens when you try to swim in the Irish sea in winter."

Ferne struggled to be free. Owen opened an iron clad door into a round chamber. A fire crackled behind an ornately carved screen. The walls were freshly plastered but not painted, unrelieved by any tapestry or frieze. A huge bed stood in the center of the chamber, curtained in blue with silver lozenges.

Lord Jarrad set her down on her feet but kept his arm around her waist. She couldn't feel her feet or her hands. The violent shivering increased without him holding her. She gripped his belt and for a moment laid her head on his chest, for his strength alone kept her upright.

A woman emerged from behind the fire screen. She was tall and graceful, her hair the same dark brown as Lord Jarrad's, with most of it hidden under her cap.

Shrieks and shouts echoed from under the floor. Ferne clapped a frozen hand to her breast, but the lady didn't seem the least frightened by the sound.

The fool went behind the screen to warm himself at the fire.

"Did she give you any trouble on the journey?" the lady asked.

Lord Jarrad beckoned for her to come to him.

The lady approached cautiously. She curtsied but kept some yards between them.

"Ferne, this is my sister, Marie. You must excuse my wife, Marie, Ferne cannot speak for shivering. She was not happy with our destination and tried to swim back to England."

The tall, imperious lady bowed her lovely head graciously as she spoke. "Welcome to your new home, Ferne. Will you bathe first, Jarrad?"

Ferne looked for the bath. A cloud of steam rose from behind the screen.

"Ferne, you will bathe first, unless I can tempt you to share. Owen," he called, "change your clothes, then go. Marie, will you help me undress my wife? My hands are so cold I cannot manage her laces."

The air swirled about when Owen opened the door to leave. Smoke mingled with the steam.

At least it was warmer behind the screen. The fire called to her. Ferne tried to step closer and only succeeded in tripping over Lord Jarrad's feet.

"You are lucky I cannot feel that, little one. If you're standing on me on purpose, you'd better wait until I have sensation there."

He began to peel the wet clothes from her with his sister's aid. "You are so small, I fear I'll not be able to see you when you are naked."

She patted his hand and found she could just make the contact if she tried between shivers. What did nakedness matter when she was about to shiver her teeth out of her head? She pressed her face against his chest in an effort to stop the motion.

Marie spoke softly under her breath. "Ferne is not very like, is she? I'm sure that pleases you."

He whispered back, "I find her kind and gentle, like an angel. She didn't even try to strike Owen, when he gave her good cause." He held her while his sister unfastened her clothes. "She told Duncan not to hit young Robert. You should have seen his face. There she was, scared to death of Scots one second, and the next telling him off. I did explain that he was a Celt not a Scot but that is a distinction Ferne has not grasped yet. We got a lecture on treating family and friends in a civilized way. She made us all promise not to kill each other. Didn't you, little one?" He laughed low under his breath. "I had to promise, too."

Ferne raised her head to let them remove her clothes, but the motion made her head spin and she let it drop back on Jarrad's chest. She unclenched her teeth to say, "Not-t-t if you are at-t-ttacked!"

Marie stripped Ferne's hose from her legs until she stood naked between them. The lady stepped away. "You should have taken her to the other side. Get rid of the dragon before Xavier gets here. There are spies here, I fear we are all doomed."

Ferne locked her knees to keep upright. Pins and needles began to signal the return of blood to her hands and feet.

"No one is going to kill you, little angel. Marie, you must take care what you say in front of my wife, she has suffered at the hands of Celts." His kind words meant nothing when he lifted her up to put her in the bath.

Anguish turned to pain as her frigid skin touched hot water. They were going to boil her alive! With a croak from a throat useless for screaming, Ferne leapt out using her husband as a ladder. She climbed his thighs with her toes to wrap her arms around his neck. Her hands were too numb to be of any use. One of her frozen feet slipped. She hooked her leg around his waist, clinging to him with all her strength. Her toes found purchase on his belt.

His sister screamed, "Stop her, Jarrad. Oh saints preserve us, I cannot watch you do this. Stop her! Strike her down!"

Ferne climbed higher and higher. Her breast brushed his jaw and his chin scratched her. Her cold fingers curled around his face. If he thought she meant to tear his face with her nails, he'd kill her. She patted his cheek to reassure him as she tried to get out of the way of his fists by going over his shoulder.

He didn't try to stop her. He just let her climb over him, moving only to make sure she could not fall. "Where are you going, Ferne? May I help you get there? Perhaps there is an easier way around me than going over my shoulders. Not that I object, if it pleases you."

Marie screamed and fled, crying, "Why must you have her here? Surely you cannot mean to actually live with her? Remember who she is? Why on earth you want this God forsaken place is beyond me. I wish she'd died, then you'd not be here."

The door opened. Marie cried, "Get out of my way, fool!"

The sound of Owen's feet echoed in the chamber. He called over the screen, "Do you need assistance, my lord?"

"No, Owen, which way did my sister go?"

"Up, towards the roof."

Jarrad peeled Ferne from his shoulder to place her on the floor. He threw a cloth over her naked body. It fell off with her shivers. "Guard Ferne, watch out for the fire, don't let her near it."

Ferne heard him racing up the stairs.

"My lady?" Owen poked his head over the screen. "Oh, let me help you."

He reached for the cloth. "I've got my eyes closed, my lady. Let me cover you and help you sit up." He gave a wicked chortle. "Get your wits together, I have a truth to tell you that you need to know."

Ferne leaned against the bathtub. She didn't care what he looked at. He'd not closed his eyes. They held no lust or interest in her body.

He pulled the drying cloth over her shoulders and sat beside her. He'd changed his clothes and looked warmer than before.

She shivered. Her clacking teeth faded to an occasional tremor.

"Can you understand me?" he asked.

She nodded.

"All Terrenords believe that every person has their price. Do you know what yours is?"

Ferne nodded. "Hollingham-m-m."

"Yes, my lady, but you haven't earned it yet. It is a worthless plot of land with a manor house, a stream, and little else. It is far from the sea or a navigable river. No Terrenord would ever covet it."

She shivered a shrug. "I'll n-never live to see it."

"All Terrenords believe that death is a waste. They rarely kill."

"Not like Scots!" She managed to get both hands in the water. The cloth slid off her shoulders.

The fool caught it to replace it. "Another truth is, to my lord it doesn't matter if he has your body or not. He is used to whores from the Orient who know a thousand tricks to please a man. You are not necessary to his pleasure, nor able to please him. And know this, he'd never take you by force, but that puts you in danger, my lady. If the men find out you are a virgin still, and not enamored of him, they'll kill him and marry you to claim the Isle."

"I'm a bastard."

"Don't be a fool, my lady, that's my role. Earn Hollingham and you might survive long enough to live there. Encourage him. He has a liking for whores and a fear of brides."

"Easy to say, Owen, but I d-don't know any tricks to please a man. Not one, n-never m-mind a thousand!" She paused to think about it. "I don't believe there are a thousand ways."

"My lady, you must know of one. The usual, ordinary, boring one."

"Men do that without help from females." She stopped to think. "I don't even know how to help him do that one. I'm d-doomed, Owen. Not that I believe you for an instant. A thousand tricks! Most men need only a warm body, and some n-not even that."

"I know the thousand. Pick a number and I'll tell you how to do it," he urged.

"You are such a liar." She called his bluff. "What is number two hundred and three?"

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs made Owen lean closer to whisper in her ear.

Ferne listened intently. No woman had ever done that to a man! Surely it would hurt him? The vision of her easing foreign love toys into Lord Jarrad's ears, in an effort to interest him in consummating the marriage, sent her into gales of hysterical laughter.

The fool nudged her with his foot to make her stop.

Ferne tried to kick him in return but her feet were too numb to know if she'd succeeded. Hysterical laughter always gave way to tears. She wiped her cheeks. A sudden bout of giggling sent her to tears again. She'd seen a madman laugh like that on the way to his execution. Did her mother's madness live on in her?
Chapter 8

The fire crackled and moaned as the wind blew fiercely. The window echoed the sound, showing a brighter glow now the morning sun tried to light its way through the clouds. Far beneath the tower, waves crashed at the base of the cliff.

Jarrad held a naked angel in the warm water by force, with her hands tied behind her back. He was not fool enough to trust his face to Morag's daughter, not when he needed both hands to hold her and rinse the soap out of her hair.

"Don't! I need to confess before I die."

Ferne's fear of drowning in his arms was real enough to her. Marie's presence would have helped, but his sister had lost all control and sense, and had almost said too much.

"Unless you want Father Rab to join us, little one, you'd better confess to me."

To his surprise, she began. "I lied about my name, but you had no right to know it. I have lusted, but that was your fault because I had to touch your naked chest. I almost tried to commit murder, but I didn't really want Owen to drown, I just didn't care if he did accidentally." She looked up at him with a woeful expression. "Will I burn in hell?"

His stroking hand took her mind off her sins and dried her tears. She hid her face against his arm, flinching when he kissed her temple and shivering into laughter when he kissed her ear.

"You won't burn in hell, my angel. Not when all your sins were my fault."

Slowly, he pulled her away from his body and helped her to sit. The side of one of her breasts was scraped and she quivered, but whether from the cold or his gaze, he could not tell.

He had never seen a more lovely sight. But Morag's daughter strained to loosen her bonds. How could he expect Ferne to welcome his touch and lie quietly in his arms?

Her struggles made her breasts ride higher, she seemed to strain towards him, writhing upwards, offering her breasts to his mouth. An invitation he could not resist

He lowered his head to take one cold pink nipple in his mouth. She froze in place, and then she gave a sudden whisper of air, like angel's breath. He couldn't stop. Not until he had warmed both her cold breasts.

At last, she lay quietly in his arms, but other thoughts rose to kill his lust. What he had just done reminded him too much of Xavier's advice, to reward compliance with pleasure and punish any revolt with pain. What use was that with Morag's daughter? Why bother her with lust when all he had to offer her was an unknown future, and enough lies to keep that future at bay for a few weeks at the most.

Ferne wished he'd get it over with, it was exhausting being drowned. Her breasts felt strange and tingled, first one and then the other. It was only when the sensation stopped that she opened her eyes to see him staring at her, lost in thought. If that was all he wanted, to use her body, she'd count herself lucky.

He gave a sad sigh.

"Jarrad." It seemed wrong to call him that. "My lord, will you make me your wife this day? Will you bed me? I want to be your wife, not your prisoner."

He was so close, his scarred face was all she could see. The gold rim around his pupil grew wider and shone against the grey of his eyes. His beautiful mouth quirked into a smile and the muscles at the edge of his jaw clenched. He removed the hose binding her wrists to drape it over the rim before he answered.

"When did you decide this is not the end of your life, little one?" he asked in a low voice. "I must thank you for your trust, but I'll not take an unwilling bride. You terrify me and cannot want to please me so soon."

He rinsed some soap from his hand in the water by her thigh. "Be careful, lest I mistake you for a lost angel searching for heaven in my bed."

"I want to keep my vow, my lord, if you make me truly your wife and do not sell me to Scotland." Her eyes filled with tears as she waited for his reply.

He cradled her in his arms. "You are my wife, Ferne. Any man who tries to take you from me dies."

"Then why did you bind me? It makes me think I am your prisoner." The accusation slipped out, though she regretted the words as soon as they were spoken.

"The du Terrenords are easily frightened." He gave a slight rumble of laughter. "You are a bride, so you frighten me by doing nothing more than wanting to share my bed. And you frightened my sister with your wild struggles over a bath." He gave a mournful sigh. "We are a cowardly lot."

"I don't believe you, because cowards never admit they are cowardly." She leaned against him for comfort, to convince herself he meant her no harm. "Will Lady Marie teach me my duties?"

He said slowly, "Wife of mine, you have no duties. Marie is chatelaine here. Your only duty is to help me recover from my fear of brides, without making me worse or uglier."

"I'd never hurt you, or injure you, or fight with you. I swear it." As if her words had conjured it, a beam of sunlight shone through the stained glass window to paint a scarlet cross on her breast.

He traced the outline of it until she closed her eyes and bowed her head in submission. A tear escaped to roll down her cheek.

"There is nothing to fear," he whispered. "The window was a gift from my father at my sister's wedding. It holds no special powers."

"I am not a coward," she replied, as he wiped the tear from her cheek. "Unless it is your will I behave like a coward to suit your family trait." She tried to mimic his sad sigh. "And if it is your will, then I suppose I must. But it is not my nature I assure you, my lord."

"Two cowards in the family are enough. You have my permission to be brave, except where my brother, Xavier, is concerned."

He held her in the crook of his arm and began to wash her. Ferne squirmed and closed her legs.

Jarrad hesitated. "You wanted to say something, little angel?"

"No, my lord, I mean, yes. I realize my wish to wash myself should not even be voiced but perhaps you really do not want to wash me, and you are only being polite and so I thought I might be permitted to mention my preference, if it pleases you."

"It is my pleasure to serve you, my lady."

It was no vigorous scrubbing such as she had given him. It seemed to Ferne that he often forgot the fragrant soap, to simply stroke his hands over her body. He touched every part of her, and yet he never lingered long enough at any task to make her fear his touch, or flinch from him.

His kiss brushed her cheek. "Do you mind if I join you? There is a draught freezing those parts of me I hold most dear."

Ferne looked away as the water rose up her arms and his thighs brushed against her legs. She moved to let him stretch out, not wanting to see or touch any part of him. If she looked at him, she might not be able to think.

Tempted, she looked. The water left most of his chest naked to her gaze. It was a dangerous part of him. His chest seduced her, beckoned her to stroke it. It had made her witless when she'd bathed him, and aided him to kidnap her.

He sank deeper into the bathtub and his knees rose from the water. He was too tall to fit in it lying down. "Ferne, I know you're angry with me and if I could have done it any other way I'd not have come for you, but Duncan found out the Celts were planning another raid to capture you. I thought perhaps you'd prefer to be my bride rather than be their prisoner. They'd never have agreed which one of them should marry you." He gave a graceful shrug. "I doubt you'd have enjoyed their quarrels or their rough courtship."

Owen was right. Those wild Scots meant to kill him to claim the Isle. She had to make them believe she loved him and wanted to share his bed. But how to make him consummate the marriage was beyond her.

Like a sea monster he rose to grab her. Her wrists were caught in one fist, with the other hand he dragged her to lie with her back pressed against his chest. "Don't struggle, little one, you are cold and so am I. Let's get warm together."

She let him drape her over his body, even let him trap her legs between his knees so she couldn't kick him. Did he really think himself in danger from her? He was twice her size, a warrior, for all he'd said about disliking violence. She refused to think of his chest, but he had not developed such interesting ripples by devoting himself to whores of a thousand tricks.

She crossed her arms over her breasts to protect herself from his hands. He rested them above her heart. His body felt warm and wicked in the lapping water. As far as she could tell he hadn't frozen any part of him.

"Your heart is beating too fast." His voice warmed her ear.

Perhaps ears were sexual places.

Suddenly, wild cries echoed up from the floor. She started at the noise.

He caught her wrists. "Don't be afraid, Ferne, we are not in danger. They're celebrating in the hall beneath us. A winter storm has begun, we made it here just in time. The tide is high. Can you hear the waves crashing against rocks at the base of the tower?" He lowered her hands into the water.

"Who am I?" The words slipped out of her mouth. "Am I base-born?"

"No, you have your father's forehead with the same vein that forks across it when you are roused to strong emotion." He scooped water to trickle warmth over her breasts.

"Who was he?"

"Graeme ruled the English side of the Isle."

"Who was my mother?" Ferne covered her breasts with her hands. All her life, she'd wanted to know about her mother. She was not going to be distracted now.

He gave a low laugh. "She was not a mute, little one. The Baron told me your mother never uttered a word, but that must have been to avoid betraying her accent because she spoke English well. I'd like to have seen her mime how you were conceived under forest ferns."

"Who was she?

"Her brother, Black Angus, ruled the Celtic half of the Isle. He married my sister, Marie, and when he died without children, your mother inherited his half. You own the Isle. One side from each of your parents, if it pleases you or not." He raised her hand to kiss her fingers.

She let him do as he pleased with her fingers. "Let me go home, Jarrad, I don't want the Isle. Let me go back to live in England. Bringing me here puts us both in danger. Let me go to live at Hollingham, please, I beg you. It's the only way to keep us both safe." She reached for the edge of the bath.

He helped her to get out. "Forgive me, little one. You are safer with me, and I must be here."

Ferne marched naked to the hearth. Before she reached it, his arms restrained her. "Don't step nearer the fire. It makes me nervous."

She tried to push him away, taking care not to look at him in case it stole her wits. "The drying cloths are here. I have tended burns, believe me, I don't want to die that way. You can stop worrying about me trying to burn myself to death."

"Good." He knelt to reach for the cloths to give her one. "That only leaves me to worry about you trying to burn me." He dried his body, painted by the flames that warmed and invited her to gaze at him.

"I'd never do that," she said. "I've never killed anyone on purpose."

His body stilled, surprised at her words. "You've killed men by accident? Are you a careless angel?"

"Not every injury can be mended. Trying to help is worth the risk, if death is the only alternative. There are men alive because I helped them, and some men are dead even though I tried to save them." Ferne wrapped herself in the drying cloth.

An awful thought coursed through her mind. She dreaded to ask him but she had to know. She wanted to be wrong. "Did my mother mark your face?"

"Yes, she slashed me with a broken glass bowl, but she was very sorry for it," he said, as if it meant nothing to him, as if part of him had not died that day. "You have a quick intelligence, just like her."

Ferne wanted to ask him about her mother, but dared not. Not yet. Her mother died long ago, when he was a boy. Asking questions that kept her mother in his mind wouldn't make it easier for him to consummate their marriage. But there was one more question she must ask.

"Did my mother try to burn anyone to death? Is that why I cannot approach the fire?"

"Yes. Though, to be fair, she tried to burn herself along with her husband." He watched her, to judge how she reacted to his words.

Ferne kept her face calm. She nodded as if she believed everything he had said, but something was not right. If all he said was true about her inheriting the Isle, then why lie about Hollingham? Why lie to Baron Welford? Why not just say he was there to marry her?

Had he feared her violence, or her attempts to escape her fate? Her violent mother had taught him women can escape and can kill. Here, on this barbarous Isle, death was only a knife's length away. If Jarrad died, she'd find herself married to a Scot! She tried to control her lungs.

He still gazed at her, waiting for her to talk to him.

How easily she had been lured to trust him with his soothing voice and gentle manner. All designed to lead her into temptation and make her eager to go with him. His promises of safety at Hollingham, of safety of any kind, were all lies.

He distrusted her, not all brides, only his bride. No wonder Owen had threatened her with death if she killed his lord! The entire Isle must think her a murderous woman.

She said lightly, "No wonder Owen says you need a whore of a thousand tricks."

He gave a low chuckle of laughter. She was glad he found her amusing and wasn't fending her off with a blade. There was no use worrying about how she was going to get him to consummate their marriage. Those wild Scots were going to race up the stairs to kill him, long before she gathered enough courage to do the deed.
Chapter 9

The Scots danced reels in the hall below, screaming like demons. A fitting sound for the Isle of Demons. Ferne shivered in the long bed-robe Jarrad had given her to wear. It tripped her at every step and her hands didn't reach the end of the long sleeves. She kept rolling the material until she could use her fingers, only to have it slide loose again. No doubt, he'd chosen it to keep her from doing battle with him, or leaping at him to kill him.

The idea amused her. She laughed under her breath as she paced the chamber, and hoped Jarrad wouldn't notice that she had gone mad from fear.

He wore a drying cloth tied around his waist, as if he were loathe to stop the heat from the hearth warming the rest of his naked body.

Every time she walked past him, Ferne could scarcely keep her gaze from his chest or his thighs.

A knocking at the door sounded, then Owen raced into the chamber. "They've finished the dancing, my lord."

Silence prevailed in the great hall below. It was as if the castle held its breath, then shouts, war cries, fierce screams rent the air, growing louder and louder.

Alaric pounded up the stairs, "Duncan asks permission to enter, my lord."

"Delay for as long as you can, then let them up," answered the idiot lord.

Ferne froze in terror. She needed more time.

Owen rushed to her side to whisper, "Unless you want a Celtic husband, show them your pleasure in this marriage."

She ran away from Owen, away from Jarrad. Down the length of the chamber she fled, holding the hem of the bed-robe up off the floor. A curtained opening in the wall proved to be a garderobe with a wooden seat and a tiny barred window. She climbed onto the seat, taking care not to let a foot slide into the hole. She tugged on the iron bars.

Owen pried her fingers open, grabbed her around the waist, and ran back with her. She pinched him hard to make him let go until he threw her onto the high bed. Ferne scrambled to escape from the opposite side. Jarrad caught her.

He had not dressed, there was no time. Owen pulled back the covers for his lord to pin her to the bed with his body. The weight of him centered on top of her, crushing her. Grasping her wrists, he slid her hands beneath the pillows to hide his restraining grip.

"Don't be afraid, they mean you no harm. There is a tradition here of annoying the bridal couple by visiting them to stop them from enjoying the pleasures of the marriage bed. Do you think you can pretend to want me, little one?"

At her nod, he stretched her arms out towards the bedposts. "Cover me, Owen, I'd prefer not to show my naked backside to everyone."

Owen obeyed, though he winked at Ferne. "It's not the scariest side of you, as your wife will attest on the morrow."

"I don't have a scary side. I've already confessed to dangerous parts, haven't I, little one? At the moment, they're still frozen and that worries only me. Get the ribbons and wrap them around my lady's wrists and ankles. Let's play a trick on them, little one. Pretend that I have bound you to make love to you. While they watch, release yourself by unwinding the ribbons."

The fool reached for scarlet ribbons, already tied to the bed posts. Her husband either planned his jokes carefully or he intended to make love to her bound. It cheered her to think he meant to consummate the marriage, even if he needed to tie her up to get the courage to do it.

Ferne let her wrists be bound. "What if they kill us both?"

He rested on his elbows to not crush her with his weight, only his hips lay heavily on hers. "Then they die or they are sold into slavery. It won't be our decision, alas."

"Who decides it?" Did he have an army on the Isle?

One of her ankles was drawn out from under him and tied to the post. He shifted to lie between her legs. She felt exposed to him, her wanton place exposed to his dangerous part. He moved her free leg to make more room for his hips. "My brother, Xavier. They know him here and fear him."

His brother! No army! Demonic Scots were going to kill her!

The fool reached for her other ankle, to spread her wide.

"Don't! I don't want my ankles tied."

"Just one, Owen, leave my lady's other ankle free."

The fool gave a snort and tickled the sole of her foot. "Anyone who doesn't fear Xavier has not met him yet."

Ferne asked her husband, "Do they fear you?" She hoped the answer was yes.

"No, little one, they hope that I can save them. Are you going to lie quietly under me while drunken Celts visit or will you join in the game? I want you to persuade them you are in love with me." He gave his quizzical smile. "Unless you'd prefer one of them?"

"They tried to kill me!"

"If the Celts wanted you dead, we'd not be talking."

"Then you have signed your own death warrant! What use have they for you now they have me here? We must run away!" She struggled to free herself. The ribbons tightened on her flesh.

"To save me?" He smiled down at her. "I'm flattered, but you forget that if I die, Xavier scourges the Isle."

"Does he love you so much?"

Ferne felt his belly contract as if he laughed.

"He is my older brother, be polite when you meet him." He stroked her cheek. "I can almost see your thoughts. No, Xavier will not save you from your fate. You are the Lady of the Isle."

A warning cry came from the door, "Now, my lord."

Pounding footsteps echoed up the stairwell.

Duncan appeared, looking wild, his red hair slicked back with sweat.

Young Robert staggered in after his father, drunk, with his sword drawn.

Ferne pointed a finger at the young man. The scarlet ribbon grew taut between her wrist and the bedpost. "N-n-no weapons in here!"

He put the sword behind his back, but could not leave for the mass of people pushing through the door.

"Do you still live, Jarrad?" asked Duncan, approaching the bed. Whisky laden breath blasted from him. "Has she bewitched you or maimed you yet?"

His men roared with laughter. They pushed Duncan nearer as the chamber filled.

Ferne had seen enough of the Baron's daughters the morning after the bedding, when the lucky ones were besotted with their husbands, to know what it looked like. She raised her head to kiss the pulse in her husband's neck, desperate to make them believe she was happily married.

It silenced most of the crowd.

A few of the women screamed a warning.

Did they really believe she'd rip his throat with her teeth? What kind of people were they?

"You're making them nervous, little one, but I enjoyed it," whispered Jarrad. He stroked her lower lip to stop it from twitching.

Ferne smiled up at him as if insane with love. Her free ankle snaked about his leg as if to hold him in place above her. She ran her foot over the back of his knee and sighed like a wanton woman.

"Should I pay them to go, Ferne? I am yours to command."

She silenced his lies with a kiss, but could not hold it long. Not when he gently bit her lips.

The fierce red-haired warrior cheered. His men cheered with him.

Ferne unwound the ribbon to free her hand.

It was as if they all held their breath. What would a loving bride do with her hand? Ferne dared not touch his face. She stroked his naked shoulder and gave a sigh. The wicked part of him moved against her leg.

She jabbed a finger towards Duncan. "Go," she commanded. It was the most she could get out before her jaw clenched shut and a shudder swept her.

To her astonishment, Duncan bowed his head and obeyed her, moving backward until he was swallowed by the crowd.

None of the others dared approach as closely. For a frantic howling mob, the Scots now watched her silently.

She saw Marie with her women by the door. They stared at her with cold faces. Except one of them, a young blond, who looked envious.

Ferne closed her eyes, determined to act her part. She sighed wantonly. It was a shame she had only one leg free to wrap around his but it would have to do. She could not unwind the ribbon fastening her other foot to the post.

Someone took hold of her toe. She knew it was Owen. He was trying to unhook her from his lord.

Ferne raised her head with her eyes still closed. "Cease, fool," she commanded, "I know it's you."

She opened her eyes to see if she had convinced any of them yet.

The Scots were clad in their best clothes. Plaid was a popular choice but not the only choice. They wore fine wool and linens in every color and clashing combination. They were tall and short, many black haired. The red-haired ones ranged from bleached gold to dark auburn with every possible color in between. They all stared at her in wonderment, as if she were some strange creature they had dredged up from the bottom of the sea.

Her husband spoke in Gaelic

He whispered his translation in her ear, "Good people, I want to you meet my wife, Lady Ferne. Guard her well for she is ours."

She rubbed her ear on his shoulder to stop it from tingling. Ears were sensitive places.

Cheers sounded. Young Robert was pushed forward. He kept one hand hidden behind his back to hold his sword out of her sight. "My lady, I have been asked to speak for the women," he said shyly. His bruises faded into his blushes. "They want to know if you need tending to."

Before Ferne could answer, Owen simpered and sat coyly on the edge of the bed as if he were somewhat tender in his nether parts. He moaned and squeaked slightly as he lowered himself down.

"I do not think I need tending," Owen said, imitating her voice. "My lord husband made me shed but a little of my blood on the sheets in my foster-father's home. It was just surprise that made me cry out so loudly that I lost my voice, for I knew not what shape a man was, nor where his staff must go." He gingerly patted his hair as if it hurt. "I think I have a bump on the top of my head from the length of it."

His words were hurriedly translated for those who could not understand him.

Ribald laughter echoed off the ceiling.

Owen shrieked and scrambled backwards over the bed. His head sank to rest near her foot, a trembling smile on his lips, his whole body shuddering with pleasure. With each spasm, the fool lifted his legs higher and higher until they were wrapped around the back of his neck, leaving his hips rocking in time to his broken screeches.

The people laughed at him until they bent double. Some of them fell in a heap on the floor. Ferne was sure they laughed so hard they wet themselves.

Owen sat up to untwine his limbs. "And thus was my lady lain upon her marriage bed. See how her leg binds my lord to her. I think she means not to let him go. Are you happy with your lord husband, my lady?"

Before she could answer, a roar came from the doorway. Father Rab appeared, as drunk as any of them.

"A penance! She shall have a penance! Put it there, lads, not too close to the fire. Not there, are you all drunken idiots? There, put the iron ring there!" shouted Father Rab.

A loud banging noise rang through the chamber.

Ferne hid her face against Jarrad's neck.

He kindly held her ears for her so she was not deafened by the noise.

What were they doing? It was loud enough to make the window rattle, a devil's anvil of a sound.

When it ceased, the priest staggered towards the bed. "Better to use it, Jarrad, chain her to it, so the lady knows her sins and learns from them. There is no surer way to keep her safe and teach her right from wrong." He limped toward the bed. "Tis wicked to try to take your life, Lady Ferne," thundered Father Rab in a voice surprisingly loud for one so old and frail looking. "You'd have roasted in hellfire for eternity. Fear the flames for it's a terrible torment."

The old priest gestured at a huge man with a hammer. "Sean has put it in and no feeble woman can shift it. Get me another drop of whisky, young Robert, for I've a terrible thirst." The old man stopped when he saw her under Lord Jarrad. He blinked as if to clear his sight. "Now might not be a good time. Use it if she sins." He pointed a crooked finger at her. "Perfect obedience! God heard you say it!"

Ferne felt the shivers start.

"Don't move, little one," said her husband in soothing tones. "It will soon be over."

She didn't trust his voice. What would soon be over? Her life? Ferne struggled against him. He was too heavy, she couldn't breathe, still she tried to explain, "I did not try to take my life, I swear it."

She could feel the vein pulsing in her forehead.

Others saw it and they pointed at her and began to chatter and crow, smiting one another on the back, laughing at her in their heathen tongue.

"I tried to swim home." They couldn't hear her for laughing.

Her husband's chest weighed heavy. She stroked his cheek to remind him to let her breathe beneath him.

The crowd made a sudden roar. Touching Jarrad's face had set them off.

She winced and tried to free her other hand. The ribbon twisted tighter about her wrist.

Large hands covered her ears. "Don't struggle, little one."

Several of the fiercest warriors stepped towards the bed for a closer look. Owen laughed merrily as if Ferne jested with him, "Which one would you prefer, my lady?" he whispered, the taut undertone of his voice warning her despite his laughter.

Jarrad reared up on his arms, giving Ferne a fine view of his chest. "Be gone, my friends, my wife needs me to comfort her. Unless you want to rule her?"

The horror his words spawned was plain on every drunken face. They retreated as quickly as they had arrived. They fled the chamber, tripping over one another in their haste to be gone.

Owen raced after them. He took a bag of coins from a chest against the wall. "Wait, I have to pay you to leave the bridal couple in peace. Better still, you should be paying us for saving your miserable lives. Is this the reward we get for all our trouble?"

Jarrad called to Alaric to lock the door and stand guard. Ferne could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he looked down at her.

Trick number two hundred and three was going to be no use at all.
Chapter 10

Jarrad climbed from the high bed and reached for Ferne. He untied the bed-robe and pulled it from her shoulders, watching her disappear under the covers to hide her nakedness. He donned it and turned away, saying calmly, "Try to rest, Ferne, it has been a long day for you."

Jarrad was interrupted by Owen's return, herding the boys from the kitchen carrying trays from which the scent of freshly baked bread wafted. Lady Marie followed them in with a haughty nervous air. Owen ignored her, and danced about gleefully.

"My lord, these lads have been rewarded with two silver coins each. See how well they look after us. Put our food there and make a bow to your lord and lady as you leave."

Owen ushered them out, giving them both kicks on their rears which lifted them into the air and made their laughter ring through the chamber. He shut the door with a great flourish, though he kept one eye on Jarrad conversing with his sister in the cold gloom.

"Food! Say I can eat, great Lord of the Isle, for my stomach aches with need, much like my lady will ache when you are done with her. It went well, I think, no one died. What say you to a sweet roll and a glass of ale to break your fast, my lord?"

Jarrad gave his permission with a wave of his hand.

Owen stepped backwards. He suddenly fell noisily to the floor with a curse. Ferne snuggled deeper under the bedclothes, ignoring the fool.

"Ow! I fell over my lady's penance, my lord, take care you do not do the same," warned Owen.

Ferne peeped over towards him. Owen picked himself up and rubbed his thin hips. He looked over towards her and grinned. "I fell, my lady, and I was just—"

He stepped sideways and tripped again, falling with a groan and a clatter upon the floor. This time he struggled up and strained to remove his foot from a silver ring mounted in the wooden planks in front of the hearth.

"Help! It's your penance, my lady. It has me by the foot and will not let me go. Please help me, my lady, for 'tis your penance not mine," pleaded Owen, as he pulled and tugged and fell over again, while he beckoned her to come to him.

Fern sat up to watch the fool and see exactly what it was that had him in its grip. The ring looked like something from the stable, or something used to chain a prisoner.

She gasped! Was she to be chained to it, like one condemned?

Owen flashed a warning glance. They were all staring at her. Jarrad looked as displeased with her as did his sister. Let them look! Owen had warned her, but Owen was no friend of hers.

Jarrad asked kindly, "What is wrong, little one?"

Ferne spoke quietly, disdainfully, in a quivering voice, "I made a vow to God, and I will try to save my soul from eternal damnation by keeping my oath of perfect obedience to your will. But perhaps it would be an easier task if you tell me what is permitted, so I do not end up chained to that ring?"

Lady Marie said, "Do not wage war here, I warn you."

Wage war! The idea set Ferne giggling. They stared at her until she managed to control herself. Who was she supposed to wage war with?

"You cannot end up chained, Ferne, if you live in peace with us," said Jarrad with a smile.

Marie made a sound of disgust. "Peace! There has never been peace here."

But her brother cut her off by opening the door. "We can talk tomorrow, Marie."

"If you survive the night," she hissed in a low whisper. "I shall wait below with Duncan. But be warned, we cannot know who is loyal and who is not. You should not have brought her here."

Marie made an anguished sound. Jarrad went out to the stairs with her to speak privately.

The fool gave a low whistle to attract Ferne's attention. He minced over on exaggerated tiptoes. "His lady sister is so heart warming. All good wishes for our health, so full of gracious hospitality."

Owen leaned over to whisper, "He is easy to govern, I tell you. Welcome him in and please your lord husband."

She almost asked him how, but the door opened and the bridegroom returned with his sister.

"Cover that thing," called Jarrad to his fool. "No doubt we will all break our feet on it."

Marie stalked over towards Owen who was bent over tying a drying cloth to the metal ring. She did not speak to him but simply took him by the ear and yanked him upright.

"Ow, my lady, what did I do?" whined Owen, appealing with a gesture to his lord.

"Come with me, Owen." Marie marched him towards the door. The fool protested all the way but it was Jarrad's voice that stopped her.

"Ask me, Marie. Before I give Owen permission to break your grip on his ear," warned Jarrad.

"Let me take him away, I beg you, Jarrad. I cannot stand the thought of leaving you alone with her, but even worse is the thought that Owen stays," explained Marie.

"Very well, but I hold you responsible for his safety." He waited until Marie nodded her agreement.

She let go of the fool's ear and left with him.

The door closed behind them, the key turned in the lock.

"You have to be brave." Ferne followed her husband to the fire naked. The sight of her made him sigh and give her the bed-robe to wear, though that left him with only the cloth round his hips. Nakedness was not going to help her, though the sight of him almost stole her wits.

She tried not to look at him. "We must consummate our marriage."

"Now?" he asked with a smile. "Must we hurry, little one?"

"Not hurry exactly, but you must do it because I cannot lie."

"Matilda, your words surprise me."

"Lying about my name is different. What right had you to know it? Do you know how many times strangers searched for me? Lots of times. And you discovered who I was and married me because you wanted the Isle of Demons. I wish you'd never found out who I was."

"I don't want the Isle, Ferne. King Henry wants the Isle and I am his liege man, sworn to obey him. You, I wanted. I confess I wanted you with your gentle voice, your skillful hands and your laughter. I wanted you, my angel, even though I knew who you were from the start."

"Then you must make love to me, so I can swear I am your wife and I won't have to act the part of love-struck bride. Not that I don't know what it looks like." She had to stop babbling with fright.

"What does it look like?"

When she hesitated, he put his arm round her. "I've always avoided brides." He gave a rueful shrug. "Show me what a bride looks like the day after the bedding, if it pleases you to show me."

She sighed and leaned against him. Brides always did that.

"If you'd rather not," he said, "I understand. It might be too frightening for me."

Ferne stroked her hand over his chest. It was no use denying herself the pleasure and it might give him courage. "I am showing you. Brides always say something like this the next morning." In her best imitation of a lovesick bride, she whispered, "Oh Jarrad, I wish it were night and we were alone again." She looked up at him adoringly. Her hand refused to stop exploring the texture of his skin and the swelling of the muscles over his ribcage. It was as if her hand had a life of its own and was taking every opportunity to touch him. She sighed lustfully as brides did, if fortune had smiled on them.

It awoke an answering sound, low laughter from deep in his chest.

She gave him a mock frown. "You aren't supposed to laugh at your bride the next day." She stopped leaning on him to put some space between them so she could think. "I told you no one would believe me. I've seen it five times with my foster sisters who were lucky with their husbands. I thought it the silliest sight, and can't do it even if I try. Besides, if I am asked to swear if we are truly married, I cannot lie and say you've bedded me when you have not."

"No one will ask you."

"They'd suspect it, knowing my mother marked your face. What did your sister say? She wished me dead and said you couldn't want to live with me. Won't others think that?"

"I hope not by tomorrow, when they see us together."

"Can you make me look and sound as love-struck as my foster sisters?" she asked hopefully.

"I'll try, little angel."

"Even though I don't know any of the thousand tricks? Except for two hundred and three."

"I know them all."

She laughed and her hand crept back to feel his warmth. How strangely comforted she felt. Safe, even though he'd been the one to put her in danger by bringing her here. Her vow did not worry her. This close to death by Scots, it mattered only that her heart still beat and her lungs drew breath.

"Doesn't it just mean lots and lots, not actually a thousand?"

"A thousand, I swear it." He held her in his arms. "Afterwards, I'll be exhausted."

"You can rest then."

"Ferne, the door is locked from the outside." He lifted her chin with a warm hand. "You can't escape."

She gazed up at him and found his intense expression unnerving. It froze her tongue.

He smiled at her, but it didn't reach his eyes. "If this is all a clever trick, tell me now and I won't take you."

"Tie me up, if you must. Just do it and get it over with."

She led him slowly back to the bed, not wanting to frighten him by any sudden movements. He lifted her up onto it, but did not join her. Ferne didn't know if she should remove the bed-robe until he helped her do it. Her husband watched her tie one of her ankles to the bed post. She smiled at him soothingly and hoped he didn't notice she'd tied it with a bow.

He didn't move.

She managed to wrap the ribbons from one wrist around a post at the headboard. It was too ridiculous. Impossible to tie all her limbs to the posts. She sank into nervous laugher, but it seemed to please him.

"Why are you laughing, little angel?" he asked, as he sat beside her waist.

At least he was on the bed, not hiding in the garderobe. She gave him a ribbon and offered him her wrist. "I feel ridiculous."

For an answer, he placed a cold hand on her cheek. "Forgive me."

His hands had chilled on the way to the bed.

"Please do it, Jarrad. Do it and get it over with." He hated brides, and she was his bride.

"To get the proper reaction from you in the morning, I must bring you to pleasure. Have you any objection to it?"

"If you ask me to feel pleasure, I might burn in hell for eternity if I can't. Please don't ask it of me." She sat up as far as her bonds would allow, to hint, "I fear you might be too big for pleasure."

He smiled at her. "I ask nothing of you except your willing presence in our bed. If you are not willing, tell me now and I won't take you."

Ferne growled a protest. "Don't keep asking me to save you from consummating our marriage. Can you do it quickly, so it won't hurt too much?"

"A timid bridegroom cannot be rushed. He must build his passion with a multitude of caresses."

A scream came up through the floorboards, followed by hoots of demonic laughter. In a instant, her bridegroom flew from the bed towards the door. He covered the distance in the time it took her to unfasten herself from the bed. She leaped after him to stop him from opening the door.

He knocked and was answered by Alaric before she reached him. She bumped into his back with a thud that almost stunned her. She put both arms around his waist and held on with all her strength. The cloth around his waist was dislodged by her grip. It dropped towards the floor until it caught on her hips, where they pressed against his body. His nakedness didn't bother her at all. Not when Scots might be waiting their turn to do their worst.

Her husband stilled, then called through the door to Alaric, "Tell Owen to lead everyone out of the broch. He is to return and wait below. Go and warm yourself by the fire. I want you all sober tonight. Let someone always keep watch. Only Duncan and Marie are allowed to be with you."

Alaric's footsteps faded as he went to do his lord's bidding.

Ferne released her grip. "Forgive me, Jarrad. I thought you were leaving me." She stepped away from him. The cloth crumpled onto the floor between them. Resolutely, she kept her gaze on his face.

He held her by the upper arms. "Were you hoping to escape when I opened the door?"

"No, I don't usually try to escape naked." She saw him glance at her body, and suddenly wished she had bigger breasts. "I was trying to stop you from fleeing."

He shrugged. "I have no liking for screams, either."

"I'll try to be quiet."

She waited until he led her back to the bed. There was no use rushing him. Even though a glimpse lower down showed he was more than ready to invade her body, she could not suppress a shudder when he lifted her onto the bed.

He covered her with his body and wrapped the ribbons tied to her wrists around his hands. Anything to make him feel safe enough to make love was fine with her. She tried to slow her breathing.

He carefully did not crush her, though that might have been to protect that part of him pressing against her belly. His kiss lasted until she broke it to take a breath of air.

"You can breathe and kiss, little angel. You don't have to hold your breath."

It was true, she could. Ferne returned his kisses cautiously, so as not to frighten him. She let him kiss her cheeks, her eyelids and her brow. Ears were surprisingly sensitive, as was her neck. Her mouth welcomed him back and even opened for him as if it had no will but his. Her tongue took him by surprise, even though it was just the littlest lick. She returned his kiss. His body tensed in a strange way.

He moved lower, away from her kisses.

She held her breath.

His hands warmed as he touched her. Encouraged, she stroked his hair. In an instant the ribbons tightened hard on her wrists. She froze in place. Better if she lay like a log. Her participation was detrimental to his pleasure.

"Forgive me, Ferne." He let go of her ribbons and brought her wrists to his mouth to soothe the sting. Of their own accord, her hands covered her breasts.

He moved to tie each ribbon to a bed post. It discouraged her to think he didn't want her to touch him. For the first time, she turned her head away to refuse his kiss. Not that he noticed. His mouth at her breasts made her gasp for air. She writhed under him as her body grew warmer and warmer. Heat pulsed with the touch of his tongue, his lips, the gentle rake of his teeth over flesh so delicate she trembled at the sensations.

He drove her mindless, until he stopped, and began to kiss his way downwards. Ferne gave a moan of protest.

He lifted his head from her belly. "What is amiss, little angel?"

"My breasts are lonely."

"I leave them with regret. Forgive me." He untied the ribbons binding her ankles.

She closed her eyes. His kisses grew more dangerous.

Ferne gave a squeak of protest. If his mouth at her breasts drove her to passion, his mouth at her wicked, wanton place was not to be borne. She tried to wriggle away, then she remembered her vow. Perfect obedience meant she had to let him do as he wished with her body.

She couldn't think, she could only feel the swirl of his tongue as he licked what it pleased him to lick, and tasted what it pleased him to taste. His groans of pleasure gave her hope he might soon make love to her as he should. Passion burned her, to make her lift her hips in an unspoken invitation. She wanted to free her wrists and touch him. The ribbons twisted tighter when she tried to reach him.

He stopped his teasing caresses.

Her heart thudded when he suddenly knelt between her legs to look at her. He sat back on his heels to stroke her inner thighs. The red ribbons trailed over her heated flesh. He'd never fit inside her. There was no room. Women should never marry giants.

She sighed to think his dangerous part wanted her, even if his mind loathed the idea.

His fingers touched her.

Minutes later Ferne stopped writhing and tried to catch her breath. Her breasts raised towards him, as if begging for his mouth. Her arms tugged at the red ribbons wrapped about his wrists. Her thighs tried to squeeze together, only to be met with strong hands holding them apart.

He waited until she stopped moving. She dared not say a word. Dared not look him in the eyes in case he took fright and called a halt. She stared at his chest and wished she could stroke him.

A pressure began between her legs.

She peeped to see if he had entered her. Only his fingers caressed her again. Not that she minded. She gave a sudden gasp. No, she could not stand that! Whatever he did, he had to stop before she melted into a foolish, brazen hussy who begged for more. She closed her eyes and pushed against his hand.

It didn't help. She spread her knees wide and nudged him with her ankles, not daring to say a word in case he stopped.

"Now, little angel?" he asked in a low voice, not out of his mind with lust. Not like her.

Ferne nodded. She risked speaking to him. "Yes, if it pleases you."

She closed her eyes, letting him stroke her thighs wider apart. He pressed into her and her body welcomed him. He held her down while he thrust slowly into her. She tore with a little flash of pain.

She gasped.

The ribbons no longer bound her. She curled around him and held on in case he took fright.

He stilled within her. "Forgive me." He gently kissed her lips. "You are my perfect virgin bride, I must go slowly."

She hoped the word bride wasn't going to stop him now.

The feeling of rushing began to mount with his slow thrusts into her body. Deeper and deeper until every push left her breathless with a strange pleasure, so high that she moaned and her body rose conjured by his touch to reach ecstasy. He held her there endlessly, owning her, making her his, marking her with spasms of pleasure that drove her onwards, until he praised her in a strange litany of words in a language she didn't understand.

Tighter, harder, he pressed into her, filling her until pain tinged the pleasure he gave. He felt her flinch and begged forgiveness in a hoarse voice, changing position so she lay under him on her belly. He entered her again with a quiet sigh and kissed her shoulders and her back, while he thrust into her with hard strokes until he shuddered over her.
Chapter 11

Ferne slept in a haze for days. She walked on wobbling legs when she needed to use the garderobe. Her body reacted badly to food, and drink only stayed in her stomach if she sipped it. Her thoughts and her memory blurred in a fog. How much more proof did she need that she was a coward. She had felt like this after each raid on her home by the Scots.

Strange noises sometimes woke her to see Owen and Jarrad sparring together. They hacked at one another with blunted swords, or smote with fists wrapped in padded gloves. The fool mocked and taught his lord how to survive his attack. But even watching them could not keep her awake.

Home seemed another lifetime away. Comfort and ease were found only in sleep. Bravery and daring, if she had ever possessed any, had long since departed to leave only that awful vow to haunt her.

A vow that made her a slave. All women were slaves to their husbands, but when their husbands were absent, they were freed. A wife ruled in place of her husband, but that was not to be her fate. Jarrad would never trust her. His widowed sister was chatelaine, ruling all on the Celtic side of the Isle. Why couldn't he have taken her to the English side?

At last her head cleared. Owen had shared his small-beer with her and it sat better in her stomach than the wine Jarrad insisted she drink.

She lay on her side, glad to feel fully awake at last. For the first time she'd awoken to find Jarrad in a deep asleep.

The metal ring, her penance, caught her eye. Ferne slid from the bed. She knelt to untie the cloth to see dragon heads at either end of the ring. A pattern had been carefully traced and colored with gold leaf. She bent closer to see it.

God help her! It was her name, Ferne, written out in careful script. No quick work this, no one had made this ring on the priest's orders since she'd reached the Isle.

This was the careful work of days. How kind of them to make a ring just for her! The Scots had waited for Jarrad to bring her to them to use it, without knowing her, without any cause or need to punish her.

Ferne glanced quickly over at the sleeping man. She quickly tied the cloth as she'd found it.

Jarrad had let them hammer the ring into the floor. He had not ordered it removed. Even a vow of perfect obedience had not made him feel any safer with her. He'd never trust her, not after her mother scarred his face.

The Scots had sent him to bring her out of her home, using the pretence of marriage. It was only a matter of time before he chained her to the ring and left her to her fate.

Time passed, she didn't know what hour it was. The fire had long since died.

"Little one, what are you doing there?," called Jarrad, suddenly wide awake.

What was she doing? He slipped out of bed, striding briskly in the cool air.

"Ferne, answer me," he commanded, before sinking down beside her. "What's wrong?"

The chamber felt as cold as the grave. How long had she been kneeling by the ring? He slid his arms round her to feel her shivering.

"We can't keep sharing the same bed-robe, wife. You have to get busy sewing so we can both be clad at the same time. You are cold, come back to bed."

Ferne did not move, not even a knocking at the door made her turn her head.

Owen opened the door to peer into the gloom.

"How fares the bride, my lord?" he asked. Alaric and Duncan stood at the doorway, but only Owen entered. He closed the door.

"We are near frozen to death here," Jarrad said. "See to the fire and the candles."

He carried her back to bed.

When he had her nestled in his arms in the warmth of his embrace, covered by blankets, he rubbed her limbs to warm them.

A new fire was laid and quickly kindled. The candles added their golden glow. Jarrad examined his bride. That she had not found a way to slit her wrists or cut her throat, he was profoundly grateful. But it was as if she didn't notice him.

"Little one, are you feeling warmer now? There is nothing to fear. Come, you have the worst over with. The next time we make love, it will not hurt so much, I promise." He stroked her hair. "I am glad you are awake at last."

Severe shivers wracked her. Jarrad could do nothing but hold her in his arms.

Owen approached the foot of the bed. "My lady, do you require anything? My lady?" He snorted in disgust when she did not answer, and turned to make sure the door was closed.

"What did you do to her, oh great Lord of the Isle? I fear my lady did not enjoy your attentions. Not when she has slept for days afterwards to avoid you. How strange! The one woman you must please, it seems is not pleased with you. Better you had practiced more with virgins."

"Enough, Owen," warned Jarrad.

"Nay, my lord, I think you have done enough and had best leave her to me now. I will amuse her and make her laugh, I promise you." The fool cut a caper and suddenly leapt upon the bed, landing next to Ferne.

"Go away, Owen," said his bride.

Jarrad gave a sigh of relief. "That's right, Ferne. Give him orders and make him obey. The only person he fears is Marie, and he only obeys me if it pleases him."

Owen leapt away, "Part of that is a lie, my lord. There is another I fear much more than your lady sister."

"Enough, Owen. I am going to leave you here with Ferne. Do not—" he stopped. Ferne had not looked at him or spoken to him. If Owen could bring her out of this black mood so much the better, whatever his methods. It was clear his own presence made her worse.

Jarrad washed and dressed quickly. He paused by the bed but Ferne did not even turn to look at him. He shrugged when his fool pointed down to the hall with a wink. If Owen thought the hall full of Celts could bring her out of her fit of despair, he was welcome to try to take her there.

The door closed behind him.

"What can I do to amuse you, my lady," asked Owen. "Can I help you in any way? Shall I tell you a funny story or shall I sing a merry song. Or would my lady like me to tell her the truth? Remember, it's my wedding gift to you."

Ferne said wearily, "Of what marriage do you speak, Owen? I am not married and you know it. I am a prisoner here."

"Tis one and the same thing. Lady Marie was married and it was much worse for her. She was fifteen when she married the lord here. Now there was man who could inspire terror. Black Angus was his name."

"What happened to him?" asked Ferne, feeling some relief at having information offered her.

"He died, my lady. Everyone celebrated, much as they are doing today. You must ask your husband and jailer for the whole story, for it is very entertaining. I'd tell it to you myself, but it seems my lord must earn a smile from you and I cannot steal his chance."

Ferne went to sit at the foot of the bed. She pointed at the metal ring. "Did Black Angus use such a thing on Lady Marie?"

"No, my lady, what he used was much worse." Owen gave a smirk, he had no sympathy for Marie. "Her fear of him was enough to make her life a torment. Why do you think the lady acts so strangely towards you?"

Ferne hopped off the bed and Owen retreated warily. He let her move past him, keeping her always in sight.

"Why am I blamed for his sins?"

"Nay, my lady, I cannot say," said Owen with a nonchalant air.

When she sat in the big chair and stared into the flames, he retrieved his cushion from a chest and placed it on the hearth. He offered her a bundle from its depths. "Here are your clothes, my lady. Cleaned and ready for you."

Her clothes! It almost made her weep to see them. She hurried to dress behind the bed. It made her feel safer, foolish as that was. She touched the rose on the breast of her bliaud to say a prayer, finding comfort in the familiar gesture.

The fool called from his cushion on the hearth. "Let's make a break for freedom! Enough of lying in bed drugged with wine, while my lord and master thinks too much on fate. You must face those damned Celts or live here a prisoner. Are you brave enough to try?"

"Jarrad drugged me?"

"Only with wine, my lady. I thought you were not used to drinking it, and that small-beer might help you to recover from your fright. Let's go prove to him you are no shrinking worm afraid to show your face in the hall below."

Ferne looked down at the metal ring and could not suppress a shudder. "What will Jarrad do to me with that, and why?"

"Nothing you will not like, if he has his way." When it was clear his answer was not enough Owen shrugged and moved to demonstrate his words, taking his time untying the cloth around it.

"This ring which has caused you so much upset is simply an old island custom. The mounting ring, for that is what it is called, aids Lord Jarrad." Owen smiled guilelessly. "If he has any need of it, well, I have my doubts. It's really an insult to your husband. Why you should take offence at it, I do not know."

Ferne took a few steps away to avoid Owen's long thin legs. "You lie. Father Rab said it was to punish me, that is what a penance is. Punishment. He wants me tied to it to punish me."

"But, my lady Ferne, you asked me what my lord would use it for. I repeat, if Jarrad has his way it will be nothing you do not like."

"Liar." She turned from him and stared into the fire.

"My lady, I speak the truth. On this brutal isle it is used to teach unwilling brides their place. First he will tie one of your ankles to your wrist, using this to anchor you."

The fool pretended to tie his ankle to the ring then thought better of it. He looped the cloth round his ankle and then under the ring and around his wrist.

He lay on the floor and arched his back. "He will put your other leg over his shoulder and he will tup you, my lady. That is all. Well, mayhap he will hold your other wrist so you do not attack him."

Whatever she had thought Jarrad might have done to her while she was tied to it, she had to admit that she never would have guessed a carnal purpose.

Owen sat up. "You asked, my lady, and I told you the truth. I cannot imagine my master using it for any other reason." He mimicked his master's shrug and mournful sigh. "I owe him my life. He is not a cruel man, and though I warn him he has too much sympathy for others, he ignores me. I tell you, he is easy to govern, if you would but welcome him and encourage him. He will deny you nothing that makes you content to live by his side."

The fool untied his limbs and idly polished the metal ring. "He is very pleased with you, my lady, and you have nothing to fear from him. Lord Jarrad would defend you with his life. You must convince him you are content to sleep in his bed and he will loosen the leading reins."

"Answer me this then, if I have nothing to fear from my husband, who should I fear? The Scots?"

Owen looked up, his long face alive with amusement. "We should all fear you. I fear you at this very moment. You can read, can't you? Why didn't you ask Jarrad why this ring bears your name? He had naught to do with it, I swear. Did you think he ordered it made for you?"

"Yes! He knew who I was, he planned it all. He means to chain me like a felon, and I'll tell you how I know it. The priest might have ordered it hammered into the floor, but Jarrad never had it removed. Cover it, was all he said. Cover it, to hide my name. Cover it, so it was ready when I failed to keep my vow of perfect obedience."

The fool nodded his agreement to all her accusations. "True, very true, and even more true." He tiptoed to the door to hiss, "What mischief are you planning? Escape, if I am not mistaken. Follow me and take your chance, if you dare."

Suddenly he shrieked, "Help, help!"

Alaric opened the door but did not step into the chamber. Owen dived through it, to knock the young man to the floor.

Ferne followed swiftly, giving Alaric no time to shut the door in her face.

"I am going to my husband. You may escort me," commanded Ferne. The fool had fled. She could hear him howling in the distance.

Alaric did nothing but follow her down the twisting stairs.

Gordon and Thomas were waiting at the entrance to the great hall. They stepped back respectfully and allowed her to precede them. Everyone was looking away from her, no doubt listening to Owen's progress. His cries were diminishing into the distance.

It was all the invitation she needed, she strode down the hall as if she owned it. Nodding regally to left and right at the few Scots who lingered there. They stared at her with open mouths and even aided her escape by moving out of her way.

She was quick but she dared not run. The three young men followed her. Ferne could see but one main exit and she made for it in a determined fashion.

Luckily, Owen was ahead of her and she muttered to Alaric about the fool but he just kept trying to stop her.

"My lady, you are not supposed to be down here. Lord Jarrad ordered me to guard you in his solar. My lady, go back I beg you."

She smiled reassuringly at the young man and turned her head to see how close her followers were, only run into someone so hard she was shaken and her teeth rattled in her head.
Chapter 12

Ferne heard Owen laughing as Jarrad put his arms around her. She had made it to the door and no further.

"I won! I won! It was a race to find you, my lord, and I won!" crowed Owen. "My lady will have to move faster than that to beat me."

Jarrad held her close to his chest. He was all hard muscle and he smelled of the sea, his clothes cold and damp.

Ferne looked up at his scarred face. She had been caught attempting to escape. His punishment she feared, whether he used the mounting ring or not.

Pride rose in her breast, she would not bow her head to him, and there was no need to obey him for she was near death from his anger. It scalded her.

His hands gripped her fiercely by the upper arms. She'd not cry out.

"Let go of me." Her voice was amazingly calm. Ferne congratulated herself on her control over it.

She used no honorific, he did not deserve it. She was pleased she was able to speak in her usual quiet tones.

She stared up at him with a warning frown as if she had the power to punish him. It had often worked with her sisters, and to her surprise he released her and even rubbed her arms where his fingers had bitten.

Owen hovered close by, a grin on his face. "My lord, may I introduce Lady Ferne to the good people here? It is something which I have promised she'll find most amusing."

Jarrad leaned down from his great height and brushed her hair back over her shoulder so he could whisper in her ear. His voice resonated deep inside her. "What are you doing in the hall, my lady wife? I fear you were not looking for me."

This man had lain with her, his nearness made her body tremble with memories of the strange sensations he had conjured. Ferne forced herself to raise her chin to meet his gaze.

"Yes, I am here," she replied haughtily, "because Owen has promised to amuse me." Again, Ferne used neither Jarrad's title nor his name.

The insult seemed to pass him by for he made no sign he had noticed. Instead, he reached for her and tucked her into his side so her head bumped against his shoulder. He kept her wedged against him, trapping her arms, one against his body, one in his grip.

It was how he had held her when they wed. Ferne simmered with outrage. How dare he hold her like this, showing everyone how he distrusted her. She fought the urge to turn her head and bite his breast through the layers of his clothing. The level of passion he aroused in her made her wary of herself. Whatever he had drugged her with might be working to make her braver than she should be. She gave a modest smile and looked cautiously about to see more Scots moving to view her with whispered comments.

Owen danced closer, he chuckled merrily. "My lady can read, oh great Lord of the Isle. She is not very pleased with you. I swear my lady likes me the better of the two of us."

Jarrad frowned down at the woman trapped in his embrace. "Ferne can read? What have you read that displeases you, my lady wife?"

When Ferne did not answer, he lifted her up to face him, holding her easily dangling in the air so they were face to face.

"Do you want to break your vow?" he asked in a low voice. "I asked you a question."

His scarred face was stern but his voice was not menacing but casual, as if he was offering her a dish at dinner.

His gaze slid around to Owen, then back to her, and he pulled her closer to whisper in her ear.

"If you show me insolence in public, I must answer with punishment in public. Think well before you decide on that course, Ferne, for you cannot win."

It did not take long for her to decide to bow her head to him. She whispered back, "I read my name, my lord."

"That's better, my lady wife," said Jarrad, and he kissed her cheek. Slowly, he lowered her to the floor.

Ferne stood facing him with her head bowed.

"Where did you read your name?"

She watched him tap his foot impatiently on the rushes until she lifted her hose clad foot and brought it down on his own. She didn't kick down or stand on him with her weight, she just covered his toes with her foot. A silent challenge to his authority. It almost made him laugh.

She stroked her toes down the length of the soft leather of his shoe, reluctant to answer him, and stared resolutely at the floor as if she had never seen rushes before.

Owen laughed gleefully. "My lord, you must forgive me, this is all my fault. You see, I told my lady what you will use the mounting ring for. The one which was hammered into the floor and which bears her name. The lady is overcome with excitement at the prospect."

Ferne defended her honor, although she remained with her foot most determinedly over his. "You are disgusting, Owen, and I don't believe it is even true."

Jarrad's hand stroked her cheek and lifted her chin so he could look at her face. She couldn't meet his gaze. "It is true, little one, I swear it."

She took her foot from his toes and sighed. "Forgive me, my lord, but I am not overcome with excitement at the prospect of being..." With a glance at him, she gave up trying to finish her thought.

Jarrad nodded his thanks to his fool and Owen gave a graceful bow. How Owen had managed to work this magic, Jarrad knew not, but here she was standing heated in front of him. She was speaking to him and had recovered from her black mood.

He was pleased when she molded herself to him and rested her head upon his heart.

Here she was persuading him of her gentle nature, of her goodness, and all he had to offer her were lies and half-truths.

What idiots they were to have put her name upon the ring. Some of the tale must be told, though he'd have preferred to wait until Xavier arrived.

It was of vital importance Ferne did not feel herself in danger. She must be given no excuse to break her vow. He meant to keep her busy with sewing, so her life would not be very different from what she had known before. But freedom to wander as she pleased was not something he'd allow.

Jarrad lifted his bride in his arms.

"Are you hungry, wife? Do you want to dine in the hall?"

Ferne put her arms around his neck. "My lord husband, you must tell me if it pleases you for me to dine with you this day, for I want to be in perfect obedience to your will."

Jarrad knew it would please him more to take her upstairs to his solar and make love to her until dawn but he was hungry and she was clearly fragile and nervous.

He had every intent to help her keep her vow, but she'd like none of his methods except one.

"Let us dine first. They are setting up the table. Come, you may sit next to me on your chair. Did you think the ring was the only gift these good people made for you?" he asked, in a bantering tone as he carried her towards the long table just now being set up down the length of the hall.

"Duncan," called Jarrad, "Is my lady's chair ready? Go and see."

The fierce, red-haired Scot scowled at her and stalked from the hall with a gesture to his men to stay. They eyed her from a distance.

"You could always dine sitting on my knee, if it were not undignified for your first formal meal in your new home," said Jarrad.

Duncan returned staggering under the weight of a chair, Young Robert rushed to help him.

They hefted it into position.

"Turn it first so my wife may see her initial carved on the backrest," ordered Jarrad, and the men complied.

Ferne studied the carved wood. Yes, he was telling the truth, there it was. The letter F was ornately carved surrounded by a winged dragon.

"Sit next to me, Ferne." He beckoned an invitation to the watching Scots, and with much hesitation they approached to sit on their benches.

Ferne perched on the edge of her chair. The seat was so high off the floor she could not touch her feet to the rushes. No bar or ledge offered any relief for her legs dangling in the air.

The armrests seem to box her in, and were so high up she could not rest her elbows on them. She slid backwards until the backs of her knees rubbed the edge of the seat, but she could not feel the backrest. It was probably just as well. The carving did not seem in the least comfortable to lean against but it was her initial. They had made a chair for her because she was the Lady of the Isle.

She'd have to live here and make the best of it, or be chained like a dog. Prisoner or wife. Lady of the Isle, or a powerless woman kept for breeding purposes. Jarrad needed her to breed sons, to mix her blood with his, to give his sons a true claim to the Isle.

Wife and lady, or prisoner and brood mare? There was only one choice. Tonight she'd begin to learn how to govern Jarrad. She hoped Owen hadn't lied about it being an easy task.

Ferne looked up and found Jarrad watching her. She smiled at him and his beautiful mouth quirked into a quizzical smile back. He meant her no harm, she was almost sure of it.

No one rushed to take their places at the table. It was very different from what she had known with Baron Welford. There was no dais. The table was not overly long, no more than ten or so places down the side. Ferne saw shocked to see that men would sit across from her, making room for twenty. She had never dined at the same table with men.

Ferne watched as the women brought the food and the men began to seat themselves around the table. There seemed to be set places for everyone. The old priest limped over from a stool by the fire to sit beside Marie.

Duncan sat down opposite Ferne, with his scowl firmly in place. Alaric sat next to him and the others ranged themselves along the table to young Robert at one end and a very pregnant young woman at the other.

"Where are the others, my lord. Where do they dine?" she asked in a whisper, gazing up at him with what she hoped was an adoring expression.

"In their homes with their families. The only ones who dine in the keep are my own men and my sister's women."

The fool sat on her left and Ferne saw with relief he intended to eat and not entertain the company. Even the women from the kitchen sat down to dine with them.

There were no pages, no children at all. No servers waited at table, no minstrels enlivened the hall with music. The priest said a prayer and soon all were talking and eating. Ferne looked about her and did not eat, she was too busy thinking. Jarrad tried to tempt her with small morsels of roast lamb. She thanked him and ate a few but her cowardly stomach kept her appetite at bay.

The meal went on and on, talk grew louder but most of it was in Gaelic and Ferne could not understand any of it. Occasionally, she found herself being stared at but the offenders quickly looked away when she noticed them.

The table was cleared by the women and desserts brought out from the kitchen. Near her were placed apples and almond pudding. Ferne reached for a apple and then realized she had no knife to cut it. Lord Jarrad's knife was far away on his right but Owen's knife was close to her hand.

As the fool was busy eating tarts, he had no need of it. With a gesture towards her apple, Ferne asked Owen's permission to use his knife. It was granted with a nod.

She picked up the knife and heard a curse from the other side of the table. It made her look up in time to see Duncan throw himself across the table towards her. His teeth were set and his eyes blazed fury at her.

Ferne screamed. She scrambled backwards until the backrest dug into her spine. The knife was still in her hand and she brought it towards her breast in shocked surprise and would have stabbed herself by accident if Owen had not grabbed her wrist to reclaim his knife.

Duncan did not stop. Apples fell and pitchers of ale flooded the tablecloth. Tarts and puddings mashed beneath the Scot's knees.

Jarrad leapt to his feet and with a roar pushed Duncan backwards with such force that the Scot's back struck the rushes with a thud.

"What happened?" demanded Jarrad. "What did my lady wife do? Duncan? Owen?"

Duncan rose to his feet. He rubbed his back, glowering at her.

"Your lady wife had a knife. I didn't wait to see what mischief she meant with it, but tried to take it from her."

Owen raised his eyebrows in mocking salute. "My lady wanted only to cut an apple, good Duncan. There was no danger, I assure you, until you leapt at her. In her fright, my lady almost stabbed herself to death."

There was a reaction of horror from the people gathered at the table and all began to talk at once. Jarrad bent over Ferne and ran his hands over her breasts to satisfy himself she was not cut, shielding her from everyone but her closest neighbors. She squirmed away from his hands.

"I assure you I had no intent to stab myself. Please, don't! I am unharmed, my lord!" Her stupid voice shook but she couldn't stop the shivers of fright from making her sound like a bleating lamb.

Jarrad frowned at his fool. "Then I conclude the knife was yours, Owen. And you did not mind the mischief you made. Go. You have finished dining this day."

Owen put his knife in his belt. With a mocking bow, he left the hall to race up the stairs to the solar.

Ferne sat weak with fright not looking about her, just rubbing her wrist and gazing into the pool of ale on the table. She heard her breath echoing in her ears and flinched when Duncan returned to sit across from her.

"Do you have any objection to sitting on my knee, Ferne?" Jarrad asked. "There can be no loss of appetite because of it, for you have not eaten a thing. Come." He lifted her onto his knee.

Ferne perched there feeling uncomfortable, a silly fool with every eye upon her.

She felt obliged to defend herself. "I did not try to stab myself. Would you like to explain why I am supposed to hold my life so cheap, my lord?"

But Ferne did not expect an answer and neither did she get one.

The priest stood up and peered at her from his place at Marie's side.

"She will have to have another penance for this one, make no mistake about it, Jarrad. Spare her and she will never know her place, then we'll have no peace at all."

Jarrad ignored the old man.

He insisted she drink wine from his cup, making her take sip after sip until she had swallowed most of it. Ferne hoped she'd not vomit in front of everyone.

She was sure no woman had sat upon Baron Welford's knee this way, not during dinner at any rate.

Her husband gave some orders in Gaelic and soon he had in his hands a bowl of almond pudding, with slices of apple sticking out from it like the petals of a flower.

"Here, Ferne, isn't this what you wanted to have?" He lifted a piece of apple to scoop some pudding to offer it to her.

Ferne turned her head away. She watched Duncan use his knife to cut an apple. Why was Owen sent from the hall and Duncan allowed to stay? So she was not to be trusted with a knife! Though they had no objection to her sitting in a chair to dine, or being tied to a ring for wicked purposes or punishment.

Ferne resisted Jarrad's urging at first but he kept insisting and at last she opened her mouth and ate a piece of apple dipped in almond pudding.

"Little angel, there is nothing to fear. Have another piece. Your sister, Elizabeth, told me this was your favorite sweet. Marie made it especially for you."

Ferne took a piece of apple and used it to offer Jarrad some pudding with a trembling hand.

"Eat with me, my lord husband, then if it is poisoned we'll die together."

He leaned down to take the apple and crunched it heartily before whispering in her ear. "If you accuse my sister of poisoning you, I shall be displeased with you."

"No more than I am displeased with you, my lord, for allowing your demon Scot to make war on me." Her voice shook with her shivers and she had not strength to look him in the eye. Her strength was draining from her as she spoke. She lay her head on his chest for want of a better place to rest.

Ferne closed her eyes, just for a moment, she had to close her eyes. The faintness would soon pass if she could just rest. Soon, she'd gather her courage to seduce him into licentious acts. The idea made her laugh a low chuckle as she drifted away into an uneasy doze.

Jarrad held his bride tenderly, glad she felt safe enough to fall asleep in his arms.

Marie, seated on Jarrad's right, could not believe her eyes. Jarrad smiled at her.

"You see, Marie, there was no need to worry so. My bride is perfectly at ease with me."

As if to prove him right, Ferne snuggled closer and sighed in her sleep.

Marie's eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away. She could not speak but she patted his arm to show how pleased she was.

"I worried," she said, when she was able.

"I know. It went well. My wife has a gentle soul." He was glad Marie did not argue with him but her expression said she still worried. "Marie, there is a problem, it seems the smith thought to engrave Ferne's name on the ring. No doubt it was Father Rab's idea."

"What fools!" In a lower voice, she whispered, "Keep her in ignorance, Jarrad. Don't tell her anything. Take her up to the solar and keep her there until the dragon has gone."

He nodded his agreement. "You must keep her company, with Owen to guard her. Do not be alone with her yet. He has done well this day."

His bride awakened with a start. She put her hand on her breast before she opened her eyes. In moments she drifted into sleep again, only to repeat the gesture when she next awoke.

The men stared at her as they ate. Jarrad was pleased to see Duncan at last lose his scowl.

Young Robert peered down the length of the table to call in loud whisper, "Do all English wives expect to sit upon their husband's knee at dinner, my lord? We had no need to make her a chair, did we?"

Duncan answered, "This is a miracle, pray it lasts and is not some clever trick."

Jarrad lifted Ferne in his arms to carry her away. Alaric went with him to guard the door.

Jarrad laid her on the bed and undressed her, removing all her clothes except her chemise. It seemed cruel to take that warmth from her.

Owen hovered outside the bed curtains.

"Goodnight, Owen. Sleep in the tower room. It is yours in grateful thanks for your loyalty and cleverness."

Owen pulled a face. "Who will guard you while you sleep, my lord? I trust her not. Let me at least stay this night, lest you are found dead in the morning, or I am found frozen to death up there."

Jarrad laughed under his breath. "I doubt you will mourn me tomorrow. Go and get some rest. She fell asleep exhausted in my arms, to dream of home, and, no doubt, to hope when she awoke that I was only a nightmare. Don't we both know how that feels? You can't really think poor Ferne will kill me."

He put an arm round Owen's thin shoulders. "Be gentle with my wife. She needs a friend."

"I think she has friends enough. Did you notice, my lord, how she is always touching the embroidered rose on her tunic. I wonder if something lies under it, some token of affection from a lovesick youth."

Jarrad reached for the tunic to find the rose. He slit it open with Owen's knife. A long lock of straight dark hair, as coarse as a horse's tail, fell out. "Damn!" He threw the tunic and hair into the fire.

"Do you know whose it was, Owen?" He watched the wool smolder.

"Nay, my lord, but perhaps the lady will be upset you have destroyed it. May I be the one who takes the blame? Better she hates me than you."

"At your peril. The lady will live naked until she confesses. Do you think it was that man, Boone, who thought himself her husband? It was a pity he escaped before he could be killed. Did you find out what he looked like?"

"Black hair and blue eyes, common enough in these parts. But a handsome man by all accounts, and no lovesick youth. A warrior, a fine fighter," he warned.

"Leave us. I must go to the other side in the morning. If I die there, get out of here as fast as you can. If you can rescue Ferne, take her to the King."

His fool went reluctantly to the door. "Do I lock you in with her?"

"Yes. If I'm to get any rest at all, I must know she can't escape."

"I shall sleep outside your door," grumbled Owen "but it would be warmer by the fire."

His wife stretched like a waking cat. "What's burning?" She sat up abruptly.

Jarrad threw her underskirt into the fire. "Your clothes, little one. They are not fit for you to wear again."

"Stay in bed," he commanded, but she was as well trained as an unbroken filly. Like lightning, she scrambled out of bed holding her chemise tightly about her.

Ferne did not scream out loud. She couldn't and what use was there in that? The fire consumed her clothes! There was nothing to be done. Jarrad stood in her way and ordered her back to bed. She tried to go around him to the fire, but he blocked her way.

The precious lock of her mother's hair was burning!

Fury gripped her. Fury for this and all he had done. Fury over his lies, his deceit, and his destruction of her treasure. He hated her for what her mother had done to his face! He hated her mother and he hated her!

She stood her ground, not letting him force her back to the bed. When his body touched her, she snarled, "I hate you." That made him jump. Let him have more of the same. "I hope you rot in hell forever and ever. You are a lying thief!"

Ferne braced herself for his fists. Never would she flinch or cry or beg! She hated him with all her might and she'd never forgive him for burning her only treasure.

"Beat me, you lying murderer. Beat me if you dare, but God will punish you, and I'll never obey you. Not even if every bone in my body sticks out of my flesh!"

He towered over her and Ferne flew at him in a fury, smiting him on the chest as hard as she could.

"I hate you! I hate you!" She flung at him. "This is the end of my life, I don't have to obey you. I will never obey you!"

He picked her up and threw her on the bed.

Ferne readied to fight for her life with all the strength she possessed. He reached for the red ribbons tied to the bedposts. He had left them there to use on her! She tried to scramble off the end of the bed to escape him.

He grabbed her wrist to tie her to a bedpost at the foot of the bed. She hit his arms and tried to kick him, sobbing prayers to God to save her. It hurt only her hands, he never flinched or noticed her blows.

He stretched her between the bed posts, unable to move. He stood between her legs, holding her knees apart with his thighs. She couldn't even kick him.

He smiled an evil smile at her, the scars on his face turning silver. But his voice was gentle as he asked, "Are you ready to tell me why you are so angry with me, Ferne? Were you so fond of your old clothes that you object to them being burnt?"

Ferne risked a nod. He did not seem like a man bent on murder at the moment. The hand on her neck stroked her throat with a delicate touch.

"You burnt my only treasure." The words came out with a sob.

His voice grew cold, in stark contrast to his touch. "Did I know it? You flew at me and struck me, Ferne, for burning your old and worthless clothes."

"Forgive me, my lord." She could get no further before sobs threatened to choke her.

"What was this treasure, Ferne? Be warned, if you lie to me your punishment will be worse."

So he meant to beat her anyway. If he found out she treasured a lock of hair from her mother, he'd only beat her more. She hated lies, but she feared to tell him the truth.

Jarrad stared down at her and resisted the urge to stroke poor Ferne's quivering chin. Her breast heaved as her breath sobbed.

"Tell me, Ferne."

When she did not answer him, his anger and jealousy wove a twisting torment in his gut.

"You do not want to talk to me?" He shrugged. "What use are words from a liar?"

He lifted his hand from her neck and slowly he opened the chemise at the neck. With strong hands he tore it down the front to expose her body.

"Don't! You'll burn in hell for eternity for what you do to me," she warned.

"It is you I must save from eternal damnation, Ferne. Listen to me. You are my wife. You have sworn perfect obedience to my will. It is my will you try to enjoy everything I do to you."

Everything! What did he intend to do? Was she to enjoy a beating!

"I will not obey you. I hate you, Jarrad du Terrenord, and I do not have to obey you. You will roast in hell for what you do, not I." The threat was diminished by the quaver in her voice.

"I thought you hated me for burning your treasure? And I remind you, little one, I have not struck one blow but you have landed several. What was this treasure? Tell me and, mayhap, I can replace it."

At her silence, he sighed, if the lady would not tell then he must force it out of her.

"Was it a lock of hair?"

She looked up at him with such sadness that he wanted only to comfort her, but he had to find out more.

"Was it saint's hair or some token from a mortal man?" he asked.

"You found it and you destroyed it, Jarrad du Terrenord, without asking me first. No one can give me it again. Not that you care! It is lost forever and it is all your fault. You burnt my clothes to make it impossible for me to venture into the hall again. You burnt them to punish me, didn't you? You just pretend to be kind but you don't even like me. You married me to have the Isle, and you hate me for what my mother did to you."

She began to sob again.

"Don't cry, Ferne, tell me."

But Ferne shook her head. She would not be mocked because she kept a madwoman's hair and treasured it. No doubt he would have burnt it anyway, had he known. It seemed wrong to even mention her mother. It was a private hurt, and he meant to punish her anyway.

She'd not give in and tell him. Let him think the worst, let him do his worst.

"Come." He unfastened the ribbons at the bedposts to leave them dangling them from her wrists, and untangled her from the remains of her torn chemise.

"Come closer to the fire so you can watch it burn."

He led her naked to the ring and brought her gently to sit on the floor, reluctant to tie her to it.

"Tell me, Ferne. Whose hair burns in the fire?"

She looked up at him with an expression of such woe that he gave a sigh of sympathy and let go of the ribbons tied to her wrists, to stroke her cheek.

She shivered under his touch. "You hate me. It's probably all you can do not to vomit when you look at me." She turned her face away with a shuddering sob.

"Don't hold the ring so tightly, you'll hurt your fingers." He forced her to look at him. "Tell me, Ferne," he urged, "whose hair burns in the fire? Don't risk eternal damnation. No man is worth it. Tell me and keep your vow of perfect obedience."

She stared into the fire. "It was my mother's."

Poor Ferne curled up on the floor next to the ring and sobbed as if her heart was broken.

Relief made him laugh. He couldn't stop himself. No wonder she had not dared tell him! He must tell his bride enough to make her understand that he did not hate Morag.

Ferne heard him laughing. He laughed at her grief!

It stopped her sobs. She sat up.

It was the first true emotion he'd shown, she was sure of it. She wrapped her trailing ribbons round his wrists.

It startled him.

He could have stopped her, but he let her tie him to the ring.

She tied them both to it.

"What are you going to do to me, little one?"

He wasn't laughing anymore. He sat back on his heels, his hands covering hers on the ring.

His torso gleamed golden in the firelight. His scarred face hid his emotions from her. Let him hide them. She didn't care what he felt. She intended to make her pain clear to him.

She bit him hard on the muscle that ran across his shoulder. Her teeth raked his skin. She tasted the scent of him, male and dangerous. She ran her tongue over the clenching muscle she held between her teeth.

Quickly, she drew away from him, not able to move far from the ring and the ribbons that bound them both.

Every muscle of his torso flexed and stood out, Ferne could have traced them all. She had seen men like that when they fought and when they writhed in agony.

The bite had not broken his skin, so it was not agony.

She saw him look down at the marks she'd made. She swallowed a sob, muffling it down to only fractured breath. He'd kill her when he got free.

"What did you do to me, little one?"

"Why don't you kill me and get it over with." She struggled with the knots to free him. "I don't have to obey you, it's the end of my life!" Damn his stupid ribbons! Damn him to hellfire and beyond!

He towered over her, even kneeling back on his heels. "Ferne, I take back my question. Don't tell me anything, if it hurts you so much to confide in me." He lifted his hands to touch his shoulder and found he couldn't reach that far tied to the ring. "Thank you for not drawing blood."

"I'm not you! I don't kill and destroy! I don't laugh at another's pain!" Ferne wiped the tears dripping from her chin with her shoulder. "You won't even bear a bruise, Jarrad du Terrenord." Her stupid voice quavered, "I should have bitten you harder."

At her words he freed himself, even unfastening the ribbons from her wrists. "Do it again. Bite me, if it pleases you to bite me. I order you to bite me to save your soul from eternal damnation."

Ferne leaned close to him to place her hand over his heart to steady herself. She bit him on the curved muscle on his chest. His heart gave a sudden thud that she could feel and almost hear.

He never moved.

Her teeth chattered so much she lost her grip on him. What use was there in biting a statue? She wiped her cheeks with her hands. He'd not bear a mark from her teeth. There was no use tormenting him, not when it could not bring back what she had lost.

"Don't cry, little one. I thought the token was from a man and I was jealous. Don't weep, I'll get you another token." He picked her up as if she weighed nothing. "There are lots of things that belonged to your mother on the English side of the Isle. Just don't ask me to bring a lock of her hair for you."

Jarrad carried his bride back to their bed. He chose his words with care, wanting to tell her as much of the truth as he could. "Let me tell you about your treasure, it wasn't your mother's hair. I was there when your father brought her back from England, almost a year after she'd run away."

Ferne moved with him on the bed until he rested his back against the headboard. She nestled closer to him to listen.

"Your father, Graeme, had cut off her hair on their wedding night to punish her for disobedience. It had grown only a hand-span when he sent me to bring Morag out of the Baron's castle. That long tress was not hers."

He stretched out his legs and began to tell his story. "It was midsummer. Even the wind was lazy with heat, blowing in warm surges like dragon's breath, when your father sent me into the Baron's castle to fetch Morag. She had run away from her husband on their wedding night, after an unfortunate accident." He touched his cheek. He'd go no nearer that fateful night he was injured.

"Graeme's first inclination had been to leave her in England, but when he found out she'd born a child, he had to claim her. She was too valuable and her child could be used to claim the Isle.

"He sent me, a boy of ten, to bring her out of the castle. She cared for me. I think she liked my adoration of her. Imagine how she felt when she saw my face. She wept and you felt her fear, for you cried with her. You were a little mite wrapped in her arms.

"It was as if you knew Graeme had sworn to kill you. I warned Morag what her husband intended, and I suggested she take a doll with her instead of you. It was my fault you were left in the Baron's care."

"I'm glad for it," said Ferne. "Apart from the raiding Scots, I enjoyed my life there. What happened? Why did she go with you?"

"The message I carried was short. Come out or he'd kill me. I believed he'd do it and didn't much care if he did. Morag wanted to save both you and me from her husband."

"On board, when Graeme demanded to hold you, Morag jumped from the boat with the doll clasped to her breast. Graeme dived in after her. He rescued Morag and then tried in vain to find you. When at last he was pulled on board, gasping and half drowned, Morag spat on him and cursed him for murdering you." Jarrad shrugged and sighed. "I must confess, I never thought he'd try to save you."

"Didn't you fear his anger when he discovered what you'd done?"

He spoke carefully, making light of what had happened, but telling the truth. "His anger terrified me, but Morag was my ideal of courtly love. In my dreams, I was a man come to save her, and I lived or died by her smile alone. I knew she'd meant to kill Graeme on her wedding night, and she'd attacked me in error. It was a mistake that made both of us shed bitter tears."

"Most men would hate her for what she did to you."

"How could I hate her? And as for her wishing Graeme dead, there were times when I wished it too with all my heart and soul. When we returned to the English side of the Isle, Morag tried to hurl herself from the roof. Graeme had her shackled and chained to an iron ring in his solar until she was reconciled to her fate. It was only when her next child, a son, began to walk that Graeme relented and freed her."

"I have a brother?" She thought for a moment. "No, he didn't survive, did he? Or I'd be worthless and happy in England."

Jarrad replied with a smile, "You are priceless."

She gave a little growl. "Very clever, but priceless is the same as worthless. I wish my brother had lived."

"Then we might never have met, little one. When we met in England, I enjoyed your admiration of my face, for the few moments you allowed me to bask in your words." He mimicked her growl. "A model for Jesus Christ? After He'd been scourged and was near death?"

"I didn't mean to insult you." She stroked his chest. "Tell me what happened next."

"My father heard what had happened and he came to bring me home." He chose not to tell of the lives lost to his father's vengeance. "After Morag's son was born, Graeme had no need of me. His hold over Morag was her love for her child."

"Did my father find out I lived?"

"Graeme found out when Morag taunted him with my betrayal." Jarrad had no wish to let Morag be enshrined as a saint in his bride's heart.

"Why?" Ferne asked, her voice a whisper.

"He'd praised me for some small task, and Morag decided I was his loyal vassal and could no longer be hers. She was big with child and driven insane, I think, by having to submit to him. When he'd raged at finding out he'd been tricked, she'd laughed, but then he flogged me until she wept. I remember wishing she'd wept sooner or not at all, because after that he made me her whipping boy. I realize now how carefully he beat me. He didn't dare maim me for fear of my father's revenge."

Ferne put her head on his shoulder. Her tears rolled down his chest. "Don't weep over me or your mother, Ferne, it was long ago. My father wreaked his vengeance on the Isle and I was taken away by Xavier to be healed." He lifted her to sit on his knee.

Jarrad watched the dying embers in the hearth with Morag's daughter kissing his chest and weeping over him. Not that he expected her sympathy to last.
Chapter 13

Ferne awoke to the sound of fractured breathing. She recognized the panting of a wounded man.

The closed bed curtains obscured her view of the chamber.

Jarrad was there, she heard him drag someone over the wooden floor.

He kept his voice low, "If you awaken my lady wife with your tears, or your protestation of innocence, I shall be glad Duncan beat you. Know this, I will not tolerate your pranks on my sister. Rest on your pallet. You will sleep by the hearth while I am gone. If I hear one word from Marie's lips that you have not treated her with the greatest respect, you will make me rue the day I bought you from my brother. Don't listen to her threats. Remember, you are free!"

A muffled sob was the only answer. Ferne held her breath as Jarrad's footsteps approached the bed to pull one of the curtains aside.

The breast of his surcoat was flecked with dark spots and drops of liquid clung to his hair. He ran his fingers through his hair sending it falling back from his face to his shoulders. She stared at his hand, but it was not stained with blood. He had been out in the rain. It was only rain. She could hear it now beating against the window.

"I'm glad you are awake, Ferne, I am leaving for—"

Ferne stopped his words with a jolt, holding out her arms to him, letting the blanket fall. Without a thought to her nakedness she grabbed his arms, twisting her fingers into the cloth of his sleeves. The bedclothes fell to her hips.

"No! You cannot leave me here alone with them. You must take me with you. I beg you, my lord."

He looked down at the swell of her breasts and moved one hand to stroke her.

"You must take care not to freeze without me to warm the bed for you." He kissed her to stop her from speaking. "No, I forbid you to complain. I will be gone for a few days, maybe even a sennight. Obey Marie and Duncan."

"But they both hate me. I am your wife. Why must I obey your sister and your vassal?"

He kissed her again to stop her complaints. "Because you have sworn perfect obedience to my will. Is that not reason enough? Because I do not trust you to behave as my wife should. Because you have taken Duncan in dislike, and must learn to tolerate his presence because he is vital to me. Duncan guards my back, Ferne. While I am gone, do as he says."

As if he could not help himself, he tipped her backwards. The heat of his mouth seared her breasts. For long minutes Ferne lay in his arms and let him taste until his mouth turned hungrier and he nipped at her softness and pulled and sucked her deep into his mouth.

At last he groaned with pleasure, and she knew he was pleased that she had made no move to stop him or to retreat from his caresses. Nay, she would have stayed in his embrace forever if it meant he'd not leave her to the Scots.

"I must go. Promise me you will behave yourself, Ferne."

Jarrad waited for her answer, his face stern, the muscle in his jaw flexing.

"I promised perfect obedience to your will, and you shall have it, my lord husband. I will comport myself with dignity as your wife. I pray you return quickly."

Nay, she could not let him go. Words burst in soft spurts from her lips. "Why must you leave me here? Was this why you brought me here? Have you sold me to them? You are not coming back, are you?"

Her accusations seemed to shock him. He made a move to drag her from the bed. She had roused the demon in him, for he strode away from the bed, returning with his bed-robe, flinging it at her.

"Put it on! Now!" he commanded. His scarred face could have shown no more menace if he meant to murder her on the instant.

Ferne hastily tried to don the robe, but became tangled in it. With an impatient sigh he helped her to dress, taking time to make sure she was fully covered before he hauled her from the bed.

A pallet bed lay in front of the hearth, the still figure on it turned towards the fire.

The rain tapped a mournful dirge on the window.

"Owen got a beating this morning. Look after him for me, and take no nonsense from him. He will sleep by the fire and tend it for you. And lest you think I mean to leave you alone with a man, know this, Owen lost his manhood years ago. And lest you think even worse of me, it was not done at my command."

He held her hand to make her walk with him to the door. "Duncan will bring Marie and her ladies to help you sew." He lifted her up to kiss her. "When I return in a sennight or less, I expect you to have clothes to wear which befit the Lady of the Isle. I can hardly take you with me naked, now can I?"

He smiled at her with his beautiful mouth, and Ferne was so relieved by his words and his smile that she hugged him and laid her head on his heart.

"Ferne, if I am to leave today you had better let go of me, or I shall take you back to bed and try again to get you with child." His voice became a breath in her ear, "Forgive me for frightening you last night, little angel."

He held her away from him. "If Duncan sends word that he is pleased with your behaviour while I am gone, I'll bring you back something that belonged to your mother."

Ferne nodded her compliance. What she wanted most of all was to go to the English side and see where her mother had lived.

"The next time I'll take you with me, if you are my perfectly obedient wife. Then you may go through all your mother's possessions and keep whatever you want. Would you like that?"

Jarrad smiled to see his wife bereft of words, and delighted with the promise of so little. It was a fine line he walked between truth and omission. Lies were a necessary evil, but he would tell her as few as possible.

"Then kiss me farewell, and pray I will not drown in the rain before I am halfway there." He held her close to his heart. "Try to get some more sleep."

She readily raised her mouth to his. Her kiss was lightly laid upon his lips when he lowered his head. Jarrad closed her eyes with his fingertips. Her eyelids were tinged with violet. Poor Ferne was in need of a few restful nights.

The news from the north was not good. He prayed Xavier arrived soon. Morag's mood grew fouler as she waited to know her fate. Fear made her more dangerous, and Ferne's presence was a temptation to try another attempt to take the Isle.

* * * *

The fool ate most of her breakfast in noisy delight. She'd let him have it while she washed and dressed in a tired old tunic Marie had given her. A day of sewing and hopes for a brighter future, of leaving the broch and going to the English side of the Isle, made her happy.

Owen had recovered so fast from the beating that she doubted he'd been more than frightened into tears. He gave a sly grin to see her so cheerful. "As my lord left me here to guard you, his absence shouldn't worry you. Not that you look worried! Alone with the Celts and you look happy as can be. Aye, don't worry about my lord and master now that he is out of your sight. He'll come back for me, I'm not so sure about you." The fool pulled a mocking, mournful face. He stretched like a cat, with a roll of bread stuffed with ham in his hand.

"What can I do to amuse you while you sew?" he asked. "Can I help you in any way? Shall I tell you a funny story or shall I sing a merry song. Or, my lady, before the others arrive, would you like me to tell you a truth?"

Ferne made the bed and tidied the chamber. "What truth do you want to tell me? Or better yet, tell me I'll soon leave these Scots and go to live on the other side of the Isle."

"Celts, my lady! Do try to remember to call them Celts. We wouldn't want them running to Scotland to swear allegiance, would we?" he asked. "I thought you'd like to know what happened to your uncle, Black Angus?"

"What happened to him?" asked Ferne.

"He died, my lady. With an arrow in his neck, while he held you dangling by the throat, according to the good Baron. Duncan is his half-brother, born on the wrong side of the blanket. They look somewhat alike, I'm told, but for the color of hair."

"So Duncan is related to me?"

"Nay, my lady, don't say it as if that is an awful truth. He is your closest relative living here. Doesn't that truth please you?"

"No, it doesn't. Why does the King want this awful place? Doesn't he have lands that go on forever and ever?"

"That's easy to answer, my lady. Henry wants to use it as a stepping stone on his way to invade Ireland."

"Shouldn't he stop the Scots from invading England first?"

"Kings plan ahead, my lady. Peace first, war later. Or is it taxes first, war second, then peace? Your mistake was thinking the Celts from the Isle were from Scotland. Then when the Scots raided, pushing the border south, you thought they came for you. So much guilt, my lady, so little reason for it. Only Black Angus went to England to kill you once or twice. Probably to stop his enemies from going there to kidnap you with a view to marriage."

She shook her head at him. "Only once or twice? All those raids from Scotland had nothing to do with me?"

"Nothing at all."

Ferne crowed a laugh. "I am very glad to know it. Thank you, Owen."

Footsteps echoed up the stairs.

Matthew opened the door to smile at her and greet her. He tried not to seem curious, but all men wanted to know how a new wife looked in her honeymoon month.

He held the door open for Lady Marie and her ladies.

Thomas helped Matthew carry in a trestle table to set up near a window.

Owen helped young Robert bring in rolls of cloth. Two of Duncan's men carried in braziers to warm the depths of the chamber. The coals glowed bright in the draught from the open door.

Duncan stayed to guard Marie and her ladies. The iron shears were clenched in his fist, the sharp pointed ends hidden in the palm of his hand. If he cut himself, she was not going to be the one to stitch him. He was going to have to be brave and give them to her soon.

Blue wool fabric in varied hues predominated. All the cloth was of the very best quality, some of it threaded through with silver and gold. There was even a generous amount of cloth of gold.

Ferne lifted the white linen onto the table to spread it out to be cut. The stained glass in the window made shifting colors ripple with every movement of the cloth.

Owen came to help her stroke it flat with a practiced hand. The pretty blonde sauntered over to watch, her clothes were threadbare, unlike the other ladies who wore good warm cloth cleverly sewn.

"Jenny," called Marie, "leave her alone."

Ferne crossed the chamber towards Marie, who held her ground, though her ladies scattered like startled sparrows. "If I cut the cloth, could your ladies sew it for me, Marie?"

"No, they have better things to do." Marie's dark eyes flashed wrathfully, but she spoke with a nervous edge to her voice. "I hear you are skilled with a needle, get on with it yourself."

Ferne went to Duncan and held out her hand. With reluctance, he gave her the large shears.

She smiled encouragingly at him, the only relative she had ever met. If she made a friend of him, he might be persuaded to tell her stories about her mother. "First, I will make something for you, Duncan. There is a green to suit you. It's my favorite color."

The Celt shifted uneasily at her friendly words. He let her take the shears to the table, where she showed him a bolt of green wool.

"Marie, will you measure Duncan," asked Ferne, "or do you prefer me to?"

Marie wavered, tempted.

Ferne ran her hand over the linen cloth. "Ladies, I am in desperate need of a few chemises. If I cut them, I do hope you will oblige me by sewing them. There's some very pretty cloth here. Enough to make something beautiful for all of us. Why don't you choose?"

Only Owen rushed to do her bidding, his eyes dancing at the thought of new clothes.

No one else moved.

Marie and Duncan stood together in whispered conversation. The man was deep in love, it was plain for all to see.

The ladies cast sideways glances at Ferne, wanting to look at the cloth but fearing to touch it without Marie's permission.

Ferne lifted a roll of sky-blue cloth and held it in front of Jenny. "This color suits you. Everyone will get new clothes. There is enough here to clothe us all." The temptation she offered brought the ladies a little closer to the table.

Marie called out, "Come, let us leave Ferne to her task."

"Marie!" protested Duncan. "You are meant to help Lady Ferne. She can't sew all she needs by herself."

He blocked the door. "Think how it will look to Jarrad when he returns, if she has nothing ready."

Marie pushed against Duncan's chest, her hands clenching, her voice low, "I cannot do it. He should never have brought her here. I wish she had never been born." She lowered her voice and spoke to him in Gaelic.

Duncan answered in a torrent of Gaelic, his words drowned by Marie's sobs. At last he gave way and allowed the lady to leave. The sound of her retching on the stairs induced the other women to follow, only Jenny lingered until Duncan spoke to her sharply. He closed the door behind her.

Ferne put down the roll of cloth. May heaven preserve her! Marie had just wished her dead in front of Duncan. His fierce scowl made Ferne retreat until she bumped into Owen.

"It would seem, my lady, that the only woman willing to bear you company was the one who wishes to be my lord's whore. No doubt she wants to be your friend to have another chance at him." Owen danced about like a child promised a treat. "A word of warning, Duncan, you had better smile at our lady. She is taking your frown amiss."

Her elbow in his stomach closed the fool's mouth.

There was only one chance, the shears on the table. The fool knocked them onto the floor before she could grab them. They landed handles down to bounce under the bed. Ferne threw herself to the floor to slither after them.

Owen knelt down to peer under the bed.

"My lady, come out. I swear you are in more danger from the draught that sweeps this floor with its icy breath, than from Duncan."

The fool bent lower and gave a sudden shriek. He shouted in a nasal voice, "Help, Duncan, she has me by the nose. Mother of God, protect me! Pull me back! Pull me back, before she tears it off."

Ferne glanced round the curtains while the fool pretended she held him by the nose. When Duncan strode away from the door to aid the fool, she ran quickly as fast as her feet could carry her towards it.

Duncan had locked it!

Ferne swung around, the pointed end of the shears ready to strike.

Duncan skidded to a halt, scant feet from her when he saw what she held in her hand.

Let him beware. She'd stab him if she had to.

"Open the door, Duncan," she ordered.

"Where are you going, my lady? Give me the shears or I'll have to take them from you."

The fool stepped closer. "Who is going to win this battle? Think well, good combatants, for whoever wins this fray loses the war. If you try to take my lady's weapon away, she'll never forgive you, Duncan. If you make the smallest cut into her skin, you'll have to answer to my lord. My lady, if you stab Duncan, you'll burn in hell for eternity."

"God will not punish me for saving myself," she said in her quiet voice, brandishing the shears with a hand going numb from her tight grip on them.

The fool simpered and pouted. He mimicked her voice. "I am so afraid, and yet I cannot bring myself to raise my voice. Woe is me. Alas! Alack! I am so meek and mild."

"I am not meek or mild, I just can't shout. I've not been able to raise my voice since Black Angus strangled me in a raid. Duncan is going to kill me, isn't he? So he can rule the Isle of Demons with Marie."

"Then stab him and get it over with, my lady. I apologize for my lack of tact and will hold him down for you to show my good will. Cut quickly and get it over with."

A swift blow to the back of Duncan's knees sent him sprawling to the floor. Ferne pressed her back against the door to escape, but the Celt's face brushed her skirts as he fell. Owen leapt gracefully on Duncan's back to bend his head painfully upwards.

Strange, how easily Owen won the fight. His long legs and arms clasped the Celt in an embrace he couldn't break, try as he might.

She must cut Duncan's throat, now, while he couldn't move. Duncan's red, contorted features filled her with dismay, his panting breath resounded in her ears. She had to kill him before he killed her.

Her hand trembled. She couldn't do it. She could not kill.

"Don't let go of him, Owen. Hold him tight." Ferne twisted the blades towards her heart. She was going to have to explain to God in person.

She closed her eyes. A terrible pain burned her wrist. It snaked up her arm to sting her shoulder, almost wrenching it from its socket. With a strangled screech, Ferne opened her eyes to see Owen standing before her, holding the shears.

Duncan rose to his feet, so close to her she could smell the damp wool of his garments wet with his sweat.

He stumbled backwards, never taking his eyes from her. "My lady, I would never kill you. Never. You are Lord Jarrad's wife, and I have sworn to be his loyal vassal. Even if you were not his wife, I could never kill a woman. Lady Ferne, pray calm yourself, you've naught to fear from me." The Celt wiped his face. "Good God, Owen! The lass preferred to die rather than kill me!" He rubbed his neck in pain and wonderment.

Ferne prayed her inability to speak was not permanent. She leaned against the door to catch her breath.

Owen led Duncan away from her. "My lady, if you want Duncan killed, I'll do the deed for you but if you kill yourself..." Owen waggled his head in mock sorrow. "Well, I've no wish to find out how many pieces Lord Jarrad would chop me into."

There came the sound of hurried footsteps outside the door. Marie's voice called, "What is going on in there? I heard someone fighting. Open the door."

Owen flew over to the door on his long legs, mischief writ on every line of his face. He swung Ferne away from it and hunkered down to speak through the keyhole.

"My lady, forgive poor Duncan for he cannot open the door. My lady Ferne found a weapon under the bed when she was hiding there from Duncan. Now she has it at poor Duncan's throat and I fear, if I try to stop her, she'll slash him most horribly. Should I try to stop her, my lady?"

"Do not touch her! I knew this would happen!"

Duncan called out, "No one has a knife at my throat, Marie. Calm yourself, I'll open the door."

Ferne stepped in the way, she held out her hand palm up.

Did the man think she'd let him open the door to a woman who wished her dead? Not a chance. The three of them were going to stay in the solar until Jarrad returned. If he ever returned.

The Celt looked at her nervously. Let him be nervous, she hoped she terrified him. Ferne stepped in his way when he tried to go around her. She gestured with her hand.

"What do you want, Lady Ferne?" he asked.

Owen answered for her, grinning from ear to ear. "My lady wants the key, good Duncan. If you want to please her, give it to her."

Duncan took the key from his belt and handed it over. Ferne haughtily stalked towards the big bed. She hoped she got there before her legs gave way and dropped her to the floor.

The fool called out piteously, "Lady Ferne has the key now and won't give it back, my lady. What should I do?"

Ferne pulled the curtains closed on the side facing the door. She stepped out of sight to scramble up to lie on the bedcover. Her head was swimming and her throat felt as if she had drunk lye. It took all her strength to release the curtains. She rested her head on the pillows, out of sight.

What if she'd torn something in her throat and she never spoke again?

What did it matter? As soon as the door was opened, Marie and her army of Celts intended to kill her. They were as bad as Scots! Celts were Scots, Scots were Celts. It made her head spin.

Marie shouted through the door, "Don't touch her. I'm going to send for Jarrad. He cannot leave her here. Warn her that if she touches Duncan, I'll have her torn limb from limb."

"A most reassuring sentiment," mocked the fool "A threat sure to make my lady feel quite at home and safe enough to take the knife from Duncan's neck."

The Celt called to Marie, "For the last time, no one has a knife at my neck. Are you mad to make such threats? Don't send for Jarrad. If you'd just sewn the lass some clothes like he asked you, we'd not be in this mess. If anyone cuts my throat, it'll be him."

The door thumped as the lady pounded her fists on it in a fury. "I will not have her here. When Xavier arrives, I'll give her to him. I hope he drowns her. Let them both die by his hand."

Both? Did Marie mean to have Owen killed, too?

"Silence!" thundered Duncan. "One more word and I warn you, Marie, when I get out of here I'm going to put you over my knee and tan your backside! What a thing to say!"

"I mean it!"

A clanking sound grew louder and louder, rattling up the stairs till metal thudded against the door.

Duncan gave a heartfelt sigh. "If that is you, Father Rab, you can take the chains away for the lass has done nothing wrong."

A high, reedy voice answered from the other side of the door. "She needs a penance, she does. A day or two to save her soul. If she apologizes, maybe less."

Ferne covered her eyes with her arm. They were all mad. Only Duncan was trying to protect her. Duncan the Celt. Her uncle!
Chapter 14

Jarrad gazed at Morag, searching her face for some resemblance to Ferne. The curve of her cheek and the color of her hair, but her daughter had a goodness about her that showed she knew what it was to live with people she loved. While Morag at thirty-four looked as beautiful as ever, her red hair swept up and bound with golden clasps, he knew she'd trembled on the verge of disaster all her life. She reacted with cunning and murderous fury given the chance, and now he stood in her way to save her.

She was paler, but that was not unusual since she had not ventured outside these last few months. Her chamber walls were lined with tapestries, some were gifts, others made by herself. Under the window a table held a child's tunic she was embroidering with a ring of birds.

"You look well, Morag."

"How fared the bedding, my dear Jarrad. How fared my daughter? Did she weep or rage? Did she bleed much?"

If the lady's tone had been caring, Jarrad might have answered her, but the disdainful amusement on her face didn't move him to reply.

"Damn you, Jarrad!" She gave a little laugh. "Do you think I don't care for her welfare?"

The lady's mood changed like quicksilver. He knew better than to react to her barbs. Anger and laughter were the two sides of her fear.

He shrugged. "You didn't care enough to fetch her in all these years."

"Do you think me hardhearted? They are like wild dogs these Englishmen. If I'd brought her to live with me, they'd have used her to claim the Isle and wage war on me. I had enough trouble with your delightful sister and Duncan."

He smiled at that. "My sister sends her greetings and good wishes for your health."

"Oh, do give her my love when you see her next. Tell her it glows green in the night and has the power to summon boggarts to dance on her eyelids while she sleeps."

"It's over. Stop warring with words."

"I know what they call me. I wish I was a witch." Morag clasped her hands together. "Is he here? Has your brother arrived to take me away?"

"No, we expect him soon. Don't worry, Morag, it's safer this way. He has sworn to take you to safety, far from the Isle of Demons."

"But he trades with infidels. A convent in Scotland is all I have need of."

"You must go with him. The King does not suffer rebellion in his realm, yet rebellion seethes here beneath the surface. It's not safe. I won't have you die a traitor's death because some idiots decide to challenge Henry."

"May I at least meet my daughter. Please, Jarrad. I have not begged a man for anything for a very long time, and then it was for your life. Forgive me, if I am ill-used to it. Let me see her once, please. You owe me this much, do you not, Lord of the Isle?"

"'I owe you safety, as much as I can give you, but I can't let you advise your daughter on anything concerning me or the Isle of Demons. You must trust that I'll do my best for her and for you."

"I want only to bestow a mother's love on my daughter. Doesn't she wonder about me? Have you told her I exist?"

"Xavier will be here soon, Morag. You can take nothing with you of value. No rings, or trinkets, or tokens. Nothing that can say where you are from." He pointed to the ring on her finger, and said in a whisper, "A gift for your daughter."

Morag gave him the ring without a sign she'd heard him ask for it.

"I doubt many infidels have heard of the Isle of Demons," she sneered. "Does Xavier mean to sell me? What price would I fetch?"

"He has sworn an oath to take you to safety. He cannot sell you, or injure you, or punish you. Trust me, I paid him a high price for your safety. Xavier is proud of his reputation for finding the right slave girl for his clients. With you, he must find the right man to keep you safe and give you a chance for happiness."

Morag stared up at him in disbelief. "Happiness! You are mad!" She tried to hide the shiver of fright in her voice. "Xavier means to kill me, and you are a fool if you believe his lies. I only ask one thing, let me say goodbye to her. I beg you, on my knees."

Jarrad caught her arms to stop her from kneeling. "Don't beg, Morag. Go from here as you lived, with bravery and cunning. You have a chance for happiness, take it." He touched her forehead and whispered, "You are not thinking. I am giving you a chance to learn all you wish to know."

In his usual voice, he said, "Only a man can protect you and keep you safe. If a rumor is spread that you are dead by Xavier's hand, he'd not correct it and neither will I. You must disappear."

"He means to kill me."

"No, he plans another fate. He won't be kind, but you will escape with your skin intact if you offer no violence to his feelings." One chance was all he had to give. "Be polite to him, Morag. Beware of him. Don't make him insist on your good behavior." He gave his last warning, to give her hope. "Xavier threatens and often it seems as if he keeps his threats, but sometimes he does not. The problem is in knowing which is the lie, and which the truth."

Jarrad kissed the lady's hand. "I have paid him to do this for me. If it buys you a chance at life, I'll think it worth the price."

He left the solar only half convinced he'd persuaded her to do his bidding.

Morag waited until Jarrad's footsteps faded away. She locked the door.

A man stepped from behind the hanging tapestry. He limped to the fire to warm himself.

"You should have let me kill him, Morag. He means to be the death of you, or have you a wish for harem life?"

Morag laughed in a way sure to annoy the man. "My beloved James, I have missed you so much. Your wit, your handsome face, your kindness. Tell me again how my daughter saved your life."

"Nay, you have heard it often enough. Jarrad will not let you meet her, he's no fool. Let me bring her to you."

"Ferne is locked in the broch. How do you propose to get her out, my dearest cousin?"

"With a noble rescue. It works every time. And I will throw in the pleasure of meeting you." He bowed over her hand to bite it lightly.

She didn't react to his touch, just removed her hand to wipe it on her skirt. "Take care you don't harm Marie, or you will have the entire du Terrenord family at your throat."

"I doubt they can take the Isle of Demons."

"King Henry will do it for them. The rules of the game have changed. Can you fight England, my handsome James? Or fight Normandy, or Anjou, or Aquitaine. Look after your estates in Ireland. Henry plans an invasion with the pope's blessing. The Isle is only a stepping stone."
Chapter 15

Ferne hid in the bed until the scent of the midday meal wafted up through the floorboards. Her limbs had recovered from their wobbles. She must be getting used to being frightened to death and soon she'd laugh bravely, and smite like men did when danger threatened.

She peeked through the curtains.

"Do we starve here like the cowards we are?" asked Owen. He rubbed his stomach and shifted his long legs to ease the ache in his buttocks from sitting on the hearth.

"Nay, let the lass sleep. I've no wish to find myself between warring women again. That wee lassie hasn't a hope in hell of winning. She's such a quiet, timid, little person. She'll never manage to take precedence over Marie without Jarrad by her side."

"I'd wager you are wrong." The fool cracked his fingers gleefully.

"You're on, lad. A barrel of whisky says Marie will conquer, and make the little lass wilt faster than a rose out of water." The Celt stood up to rub the back of his neck. "What will Jarrad do when he returns and finds me here? I have no mind to end up like you, with no balls."

"'It's not Jarrad you must watch out for, it's Xavier. God forbid I ever get into his grasp again. If I thought Lady Marie had the power to make Jarrad give me back to him, I'd kill myself first."

"Shush, the lass might hear you. He'd not harm a woman, would he?"

"Harm them? He buys and sells them. He always has a comely slave with him to use as his mistress. When he tires of her, or when she grows big with child, he sells her and buys another."

"I don't believe Jarrad means to use Morag ill. She doesn't deserve such treatment. Many a cruelty was done in her name that she knew nothing about. I have nothing ill to say of her. I know her well. She'll spit fire and brimstone, but she—"

Ferne opened the bed curtains. "Do you know my mother, Duncan?"

"Aye, my lady, everyone knows her. Morag was raised here." He stopped, as if he remembered something. "I knew her well," he said with a muttered curse.

The fool slapped him on the back. "Too little, too late. My lady has a fine intelligence." He added in a penetrating whisper, "just like her mother."

"Does my mother live far from here?" asked Ferne. She sat on the edge of the bed, feet dangling with her toes twitching in excitement.

The fool laughed. "Note, good Duncan, that my lady does not ask if her mother lives, but merely if she resides near or far from here. How do you answer?"

"You must ask Jarrad," muttered the Celt ruefully. "I have said enough, my lady."

"Then I will answer for you. My lady, your mother lives near enough, yet far enough. Somewhat like the moon, which is to say, near enough to see, yet far enough away to make it impossible to set foot there."

"Does Lord Jarrad visit my mother? Is that where he is now?" Hope rose in Ferne's breast. Jarrad had told her to prepare clothes so he could take her to see the Isle. He'd said she could have something of her mother's.

He must intend to introduce her to her mother!

Owen shrugged. "I cannot say exactly where Jarrad is, my lady. If word has reached him that you are hiding in here like a frightened mouse, with Duncan to bear you company, then I expect he's on his way back to grace us with his presence. His mood will not be good. You might see the color of Duncan's blood without going to the trouble of cutting his throat yourself."

Ferne leapt lightly to the floor. If Jarrad returned and she had clothes, she could go to meet her mother. She tossed the key to the Scot. "Open the door, Duncan. Tell them to wait for me. You must escort me down to dine when I have dressed." She went to the table to sort through the rolls of cloth.

"My lady, you have no time to make clothes," said Owen. "Let's declare victory and send for food, before I starve to death."

"No one eats until I am ready. Duncan, tell them they wait for me."

The man nodded. "Aye, my lady, a fitting punishment."

The fool moaned and rubbed his stomach. "You are not thinking, my lady, it takes time. We shall not dine this day. A thin man needs to eat, lest he fade away. Maybe Duncan can survive on his fat but I cannot."

Ferne chose the cloth of gold. "What do you say, Duncan? Will you swear to protect me from my lord's sister."

The Scots scowled fiercely, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. "I am yours to command, my lady. Bread and water for any woman who does not treat you with the proper respect due Lord Jarrad's wife."

Ferne smiled at him. "Tell them to await my arrival for dinner, I'll not keep them waiting long."

The fool jumped around with glee. "You cannot make one now, can you? Can you, my lady?"

Ferne linked her arm in his. "Good Owen, where is the surcoat? I have need of it."

Owen's face dropped. "You cannot wear a surcoat to dinner, no matter how beautifully embroidered." The fool was reluctant to part with it.

"If I give it sleeves and underskirt of gold cloth, I can. Get it for me, there is no time to waste. At least it will keep me warm." She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "I promise not to spill anything on it."

Ferne laid out the cloth of gold. She had no need of patterns for she kept them all in her head. It was but a few minutes work to cut what she needed. The sewing took no longer as she basted with long stitches. By the time she put the final touches, hot water was being carried up the stairs by the kitchen boys.

She could hear Duncan shouting in the great hall below as she washed. None of the ladies ventured up the stairs to offer help. It didn't matter. Ferne dressed and tied her hair up, weaving strands of cloth of gold through her curls.

She was ready.

Owen went to fetch Duncan to escort her down to the great hall. The Scot had washed and brushed his red hair, so it stood straighter on his head. She gripped his arm and held her head high.

He patted her hand. "There is naught to worry you below, Lady Ferne. I have put the fear of God in them and reminded them of their manners."

"The women must help me sew. If Marie refuses to assist me, then her women must, and I'll not have her sit next to me. She must move down the table." Ferne hesitated at the doorway.

Duncan whispered, "Marie refuses to dine with you. She retired with a headache. Can you believe the silly woman actually sent for Jarrad. She might be the death of me yet." His grunt of disgust showed how annoyed he was with Marie's behavior.

He led her to the lord's chair and pulled it out for her. She sat down. He took the chair next to her, with Owen sitting on her other side.

Soon, everyone was busy eating silently.

There seemed no safe topic of conversation. Ferne enquired how far away the English town was on the Isle of Demons.

"Far, my lady," said Duncan, "Twenty-three miles away at the other end of the island. Many people live there, most of them are Saxons with a few Normans, and a scattering of Irish. There's a sheltered port, much larger than ours. It's a fine place for traders, or it once was."

Owen piped up slyly, "Duncan never goes there, my lady, but I have visited the fair city. It is just as windy, cold and miserable as this place. Its people are equally warlike, for they have been fighting the people here these twenty years or more, until my lord stopped them."

"How did he stop them?"

"I think he promised the men whores from the East, my lady. That and the promise of King Henry's protection from the Norsemen, from Somerled, and from the King of Scotland. The men have already fought off the Irish once or twice, so we may as well add them to the list of enemies who covet the Isle." His long face grinned at her. "In all honesty, my lady, the men would have no use for whores from the East, if they'd had their lungs plucked out by those savages who rule all the islands north of this one."

The fool lowered his voice to a penetrating whisper, "Duncan has been promised a fine whore. One who knows all the secrets of the harem. My lord has gone to fetch her for him, but the ship has been delayed by winter storms, or maybe it sank." Owen glowed with happiness at the thought. "Maybe my lord waits in vain."

Marie entered the great hall, stepping out from the buttery doorway. "Quiet fool! Xavier will arrive soon, and you must thank heaven he no longer owns you, for he'd take none of your nonsense, nor indulge you as Jarrad does. I for one will be very glad to see him and to have this over and done with."

"What will be over and done with?" asked Ferne.

How much power did Marie have? Could she persuade her merchant brother to remove a troublesome bride she detested? What was going to be over as soon as Xavier du Terrenord arrived?

Did the Terrenords intend to end, once and for all time, her claim to the Isle? There was no safety for her in Marie's words.

"God help me!" The words rushed from her mouth before she could stop them.

Owen grabbed for her knife and slid it across the table away from her. "My lady, what's the matter? Why distress yourself over Duncan's whore? I assure you he doesn't lie awake at night sighing for a strange, dark-eyed beauty."

Ferne was not foolish enough to be distracted by Owen. She forced a calm smile. "I am hungry for dessert, has everyone finished?" She looked round to see them all staring at her. "Then let the second course be removed and the next brought in."

The fool whispered in her ear. "What ails you, my lady? Have you taken my words amiss?"

"It's a pang of homesickness, nothing more. Sing me a funny song. Amuse me, Owen."

Owen rose to sing. He joked and mimed so outrageously that she laughed, and promised to make him a tunic fit for a king.

Dinner drew to a close with Marie standing before the hearth, declining a seat at the table. She ate a piece of bread and looked better for it. If there was one thing a pregnant widow needed, it was a husband. And what better husband than her lover, Duncan? The man watched Marie with sorrow and love written on his face.

As the dishes were being removed, a bell began to ring.

Duncan rose to his feet. "What the devil? Excuse me, my lady, I am wanted."

Ferne nodded graciously, not feeling very much like the Lady of the Isle when it was Duncan's back she nodded to. The pretty blonde woman smothered a giggle, which turned into a shriek when Owen suddenly appeared behind her to tug sharply on her hair.

"What is going on, Jenny?" cried Marie.

"She set the fool on me, my lady," replied Jenny.

"Ignore them both. They will be dealt with later."

Owen mocked both the women with quivering legs and lips, mimicking fear at the threat.

Marie grew angrier. "I shall beg Xavier to deal with you, fool. Let me warn you that if anything happens to Jarrad, I'll see you returned to Xavier permanently. He'll know what to do with you."

Wilder and wilder went Owen's gyrations, until he drew his dagger and stabbed at himself with willing hands at his unwilling flesh.

Ferne expected to see his blood run, but each time he struck his body leapt out of the way. He danced with great leaps and grotesque flinches as he stabbed and missed, and stabbed again.

To hide his tears, he laughed and jeered, "You are fools! Fools! Everyone of you!" He fled up the stairwell, muffling his sobs on his sleeve.
Chapter 16

"Xavier won't give his permission. He has chosen a husband for her." Duncan shifted uneasily on the low stool in front of the fire in the hall.

Ferne tended his sore neck and encouraged him to confide in her by not pushing him with any questions. "You must gently move your head every now and then, and take care not to lift anything heavy. You are keeping it too still, which makes all the muscles tighten more painfully." She kept a wary eye out for Marie, who had spent the last days watching her from a distance, while keeping her women close to her.

"Marie is afraid to cross Xavier," said Duncan. "When she got his letter, she tried to jump from the tower. I stopped her and then we decided to take what happiness we could." He sighed into his hand. "I'm not sorry for it. Jarrad assures me he can protect her, whatever happens."

Ferne kneaded his shoulders. "Even if Xavier du Terrenord dislikes the marriage, surely it's better to be married than not?" She felt his muscles tense under her fingers. If he went off to worry and brood, she'd never get Marie the husband she needed. No wonder the lady behaved as she did, she was out of her mind with fear.

The Scot didn't hear her. He stared across the hall towards the door, then shouted to his men in Gaelic. They hurried to take their posts.

Marie appeared two steps away from them. She caught Ferne by the arm. "If you cause Duncan's death, I shall have you killed."

Ferne shook her off. "Don't be silly. I was rubbing his neck, not trying to strangle him." If anyone had given Duncan a death sentence, it was Marie. Refusing to marry him only made the problem worse.

Duncan seemed turned to stone. He stared towards the door of the great hall as if he had been struck with an apoplexy. Ferne turned to see who was there. She prayed it wasn't Xavier du Terrenord.

Jarrad stood at the far wall of the broch with half a dozen of his men.

Relieved, she ran towards him. "My lord, I hope you haven't returned because of me?"

"Why wouldn't I return to be with you? I see that Duncan still lives. Did he prove difficult to kill, little one?" He looked around. "Where is Owen?"

"He's upstairs, drinking and singing sad songs to himself." Ferne gathered her courage. Something had to be done to give Marie's baby a father.

Jarrad twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. "What were you doing with Duncan?"

She took a deep breath. "I have decided to marry Duncan to M—"

Jarrad gave a roar of anger. He swept her aside to sprawl on the floor. His sword shrieked from its scabbard. Sparks arced to the damp rushes.

With one stride he stepped over her legs towards Duncan.

Ferne scrambled to her feet. She ran after him to lunge for his arm. His sword wavered in front of her face. She ducked her head and held on tightly to his wrist.

Marie stood in front of Duncan, hindering any defense he might have made.

Ferne stumbled through the rushes, unable to get her feet properly under her.

"He is loyal," cried Marie. "I swear it! She lies! Whatever she said, she lies!"

Ferne threw herself in front of Jarrad's legs. He stumbled. The sword swung as he braced himself to fall. The edge of it slid across Ferne's upper arm in a stinging salute.

They fell entwined.

The golden sleeve stained dark with blood. It ran down her arm like warm water to flow over her hand.

Ferne clenched her teeth and hung on to his arm like a terrier when he rose to his feet. She had brought him to a standstill, but that only delayed Duncan's death.

"Forgive me, my lord husband, for I phrased my words amiss. I meant to say that I have decided to marry Marie to Duncan." She let go of him to staunch the flow of blood. "You can't really think I'd want to marry him myself? As Lady of the Isle, I order your sister to marry Duncan. And Duncan to marry her. All you have to do is make Marie agree to take him as her husband."

Duncan's men stepped back at a sign from him.

Ferne knew the life she'd saved was not Duncan's. She babbled on, "Did you know, my lord husband, that Duncan is related to me? I am happy to have found my family, if it pleases you to let me claim them?"

The tension in the hall eased.

Ferne dared not turn to see what Marie was doing, but she hoped the lady was still defending Duncan by shielding him with her body.

"Marie loves Duncan, so if it pleases you I want them to wed." She leaned closer to whisper, "Marie really must marry before the baby begins to show. When your brother arrives, you can blame me for marrying them."

"You are brave, little one." Jarrad ripped the sleeve from the surcoat. "Marie won't marry Duncan because she fears to cross Xavier." He gave a mournful sigh at the sight of her wound. "What were you doing with Duncan?"

"He has a sore neck I was tending. Owen wrestled with him to amuse me, so you see it was all my fault that he got injured." She backed away as Jarrad advanced, still chattering on, "Necks strains can be difficult to treat. Duncan can't lift anything heavy or it might never heal." She bumped into a trestle table. "Why are you following me?"

"Let me see your arm." He called to the nearest woman, "Jenny, get soap, hot water, needle and thread. Quick as you can."

Ferne called out, "Strong lye soap, not scented." She let Jarrad pick her up to sit her on the trestle table. It gave her a good view of Marie weeping on Duncan's chest.

"Compose yourself, Marie," said Jarrad, "If you are too scared to marry Duncan, go and get ready to leave. Tomorrow, you go to Baron Welford."

With a gulping sob, Marie said, "I take Duncan to be my husband."

"I take Marie to be my wife," roared Duncan.

Ferne gave a cheer with the rest of them. She noticed that Marie had not been asked to promise any kind of obedience to her husband. That vow was reserved for English brides or daughters of women who slashed men's faces.

At least the happy couple could live openly as man and wife, without having to hide their love. If she suffered blame for urging them to wed, she wasn't going to have sleepless nights over it. Not when there were so many other worries to torment her. She hoped Marie might think twice before complaining about her or Owen to Xavier du Terrenord.

Ferne let Jarrad touch her arm as he pleased. She intended to be so perfectly obedient to his will, so dutiful a wife, that he'd take her to visit her mother. Now was not the time to ask him, though she longed to do it.

Her husband's hands were cold. Was it her? No, he'd traveled miles on horseback.

She refused to think he feared her, but she insisted on washing the wound herself. The lye soap gave its familiar bite. "I can sew it myself, if you'll just hold the end of the thread for me."

"Do you think you are the only one who can sew a wound?" Jarrad washed his hands. He took the needle and thread from Marie's shaking grasp.

"Hold still, Ferne," he said, "this won't take long."

"I'd rather do it myself." It wasn't disobedient to explain it to him. "It hurts less if I do it."

"You can't sew your own arm," he said with his quizzical smile. "Not unless you have another hand hidden somewhere I've not noticed."

A joyful cry came from the stairwell leading to the solar. "My lord has returned." The fool hiccupped his way into the great hall. "My Lord of the Isle has come back to me." He fell to his knees in the straw clutching a flask to his thin chest.

The fool was so drunk he could scarcely walk.

"Get up, Owen. Explain how my wife came to wander the hall without you by her side. Did I not tell you to guard her?"

Great sobs were his only reply.

"Owen, there is only one threat that makes you witless with fear, so hear this," Jarrad said patiently, "You are free. No one owns you."

Ferne resisted being forced to lie down on the table. The sight of her husband threading a needle did not inspire confidence.

"Lie down, Ferne."

No one dared make her obey him.

"My lord husband, if I may speak?" she asked, her voice drowned out by the fool's lamentation.

It was on the tip of Ferne's tongue to ask if Jenny could set the stitches when the woman deliberately slopped the bowl of water on the table so she sat in a puddle.

Jenny was another Ferne would see married off as fast as a husband could be found for her. Perhaps Alaric needed a wife.

"Give me the needle, please, Jarrad." Ferne held out her hand. "If I can't do it, then I'll let you do it."

"I can't resist the urge to see you try, little one." He gave her the needle and thread.

Ferne swished the needle in the soapy water left in the basin. The edges of a wound were usually numb, the upper arm not sensitive like lips or fingertips. Ferne set the first stitch with a practiced hand. "If you'd hold the end of the thread?" she asked politely.

He held it. She wove the needle under and around, then gently pulled to tighten the knot. "If you'd cut the thread? I find separate stitches work better." The rest were done with speed, slowed by his careful cutting of the thread. Only the last one eluded her. She gave him the needle and turned her arm to let him stitch what she couldn't see.

Strange, how much she felt the stitch he set. She always preferred to sew her own wounds. The one on her foot had been the easiest. The one on her thumb the most painful. She'd been unconscious when her head wound had been sewn. Twenty stitches on the back of her head, with the scar hidden by her hair. A gift from Black Angus, like her voice.

She insisted on washing the wound again after he'd finished.

Marie brought ointment to smear on the bandage.

"No, thank you, Marie," said Ferne, "I prefer to soak it every day in salt water." The bright yellow paste smelled like something from the kitchen. "What is in that?"

"It stops infection," said Marie. "Jarrad hold her still. She must have it."

"I don't want it. Salt water works very well. I have used it often. Jarrad, please don't make me use it." Why did he have to hold her so tightly?

Even Owen ceased his laments.

Let them listen. She looked around to see everyone staring at her.

"You must let Marie use the balm. It worked on my face, little one. You don't need to fear it will turn you permanently yellow, like I did."

Ferne laughed, a sudden gurgle of silly laughter.

Jarrad held her away from him, startled by the soft noise.

"I'm glad I amuse you, little one," he said with a smile.

What a beautiful mouth. Ferne studied his face, as Marie applied her ointment and bandage.

His hand stroked her back.

Marie tied the bandage on. "Is it too tight?"

"No. Don't try to stop me attending your wedding celebration, Marie. I intend to join in."

Jarrad held her while the table was cleaned. "It will be hours before they are put to bed. Are you strong enough to watch Celts celebrate? Be warned, they love to howl."

"Yes, but I think Marie and Duncan should be put to bed soon." She patted his hand and whispered, "Do you think Xavier will kill me for marrying them?"

"If Marie had written to Xavier to tell him she'd married Duncan, instead of asking his permission, she'd not be so worried now."

"What if he kills Duncan to make her a widow?"

"Xavier is a merchant used to weighing his actions. I doubt he'll find it profitable to kill Marie's husband."

"Will you threaten him, to protect them?"

Jarrad gave a low laugh. "I have already given him something else to occupy his mind." He pressed her closer. "Didn't you tell me I'm not to fight with family, that we must learn to live in peace?"

Owen sang out, "She knows, my lord. I let it slip by accident. Lady Ferne knows her mother lives on the other side of the Isle."

"Nay," said Duncan, "I forgot my tongue and so the lass found out."

The fool smacked him on the back. "It was my fault!"

Duncan gave him a great push back. "Nay, it wasn't!"

Ferne gave them both a glare. "No fighting!"

For no reason at all, Duncan laughed at her.

Only Jarrad said nothing. He gave a low, mournful sigh. "We'll talk later, Ferne. First we celebrate Duncan and Marie's wedding, then you can give me a curtain lecture."

She whispered back, "Perfect obedience won't allow me to nag you in bed. You are safe from me."

"I ask nothing of you, Ferne. When I need your perfect obedience, you'll know it." He stroked her cheek. "I shall listen, if it pleases you to nag or rage. I know you cannot shout at me."

* * * *

For the first time, Ferne left the broch to enter the courtyard. Marie had lent her clothes of blue silk, gifts from Xavier, to replace those ruined with her blood. The sea crashed at the base of the cliff and a sheltered walk ran towards the square keep. The curtain wall, with turrets guarding each angle, sheltered buildings along its length.

Ferne entered the new hall with Jarrad, glad to get away from the broch. It was brightly lit with candles on the tables, though the walls soared into darkness above the tapestries. It felt like a home filled with people, not a prison like the broch.

Small folk came to the celebration by the dozens. They'd swarmed around her in the courtyard, crofters and fishermen with their wives and children. The great hall was soon filled with noise and the panting breath of racing men.

Ferne sat on the dais to watch them run lengths to retrieve favors, then run back to swap them for a kiss. The women hid to make the game last longer, and many a wrong one was kissed in jest, even if it earned the men a slap. Alaric kissed Jenny every time he raced, though the favor was always given by one of the oldest widows. He was a great favorite with them and he always got their biggest cheer.

All the small folk watched Ferne out of the corner of their eyes. None of the men or women approached her. Some of the children made a game of racing across the dais to touch her skirts, as if to prove how brave they were.

Jarrad sat with her to dispense prizes with a lavish hand. Glass flasks of perfume, maple bowls filled with dried fruits, lengths of brightly colored ribbons, and bronze bowls fit for a king.

When Owen recovered enough to play along, Jarrad left her with a sigh. "If I don't help him, he'll break his neck. Now you'll find out how foolish I can be. It amused Xavier, for a time, to make me his fool in place of Owen. Let's hope I have not forgotten how."

Sacks of grain were piled higher and higher as the men competed to see who could jump the highest. After young Robert won the prize for height, the sacks were placed side by side to measure the length of the jump. Owen kept adding more until everyone laughed and waited eagerly to see him leap.

With a gesture, the fool invited Jarrad to leap first. Taking a run at it, Jarrad flew into the air, and stayed there, hovering above the sacks, his feet a man's height from the floor. Gasps of fright turned to howls of laughter as the fool tried to pull him down from the dark knotted rope dangling from the beams.

In the end, Owen leapt up to stand on Jarrad's head, to push him slowly backwards and forwards until they swung in a great arc above the sacks. Jarrad jumped clear of the sacks. Now the fool began to twist and turn in the air, to the amazement of all, and it was Jarrad's turn to try to coax his fool to the ground.

Alaric, Matthew and Thomas all tried to catch Owen as he swung by them upside down. He knocked them away and the audience waited with baited breath to see what he'd do to their lord. No sooner had Jarrad turned his back than the fool let go to land lightly on his shoulders. Jarrad turned, pretending not to know where Owen had gone.

He appealed to the children to search for his fool. He looked here and there. He lifted a sack to peer under it, while Owen danced lightly over his back. At last, Jarrad shrugged and offered to jump the sacks again.

Ferne cheered with the audience.

Owen balanced carefully on Jarrad's shoulders.

A space was cleared to give Jarrad a run at the sacks. He loped far too slowly with his fool leaning into the air above him. A few strides from the sacks, the fool leapt down to run beside his lord. Jarrad gathered speed. He flew into the air to turn a somersault. Ferne held her breath. Jarrad landed on his feet with Owen beside him, with a look of great relief on his long face.

The crowd cheered noisily.

Ferne applauded the clever trick. The sacks were cleared away and the dancing began.

The music whirled in her head. She watched the Celts dance, while Jarrad talked to Duncan and Marie. None of them mentioned Ferne's mother and she dared not raise the subject.

Why had Jarrad not mentioned that her mother lived on the English side of the Isle? Marie and Duncan ruled the Celtic half of the Isle. Did Morag, a Celt, rule the English half? Duncan had said things were done in her mother's name that she knew nothing about. Awful deeds. Had her mother been a prisoner, a useful puppet ruler, until she'd been rescued by Jarrad?

Ferne sipped the sweet wine. Then why keep it secret?

* * * *

Ferne awoke with a start. She lifted her head from her arm.

Owen paced the great hall lost in thought. A few men littered the floor, overcome with whisky or ale. The fool stopped every now and then to stretch his muscles. Matthew and Thomas waited at the entrance with the doors ajar, watching the revelers in the courtyard.

A voice beside her spoke with a lilt she recognized. "My lady, how may I serve you?"

"How fare you, Boone?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Close to you and happy for it, my lady. I bring you your mother's blessing before she dies." He sat beside her chair, hidden from Owen by the tablecloth. "If you can get out of the broch, I'll take you to her."

"Tell my mother, I long to meet her. I'll beg Lord Jarrad to let me go to her." She dared not call attention to Boone's presence. He could best any of the drunken men here, and she'd not risk Owen's life by pitting him against a man who must be armed.

"Morag knows her fate," said Boone in a hoarse whisper. "This is your only chance to speak with her. She is going to be killed for slashing his face when he was a boy."

"That's not true. Jarrad never blamed her for it."

"Terrenords neither forgive nor forget. Jarrad doesn't want her death blamed on him. His brother is on his way here to kill her, under the guise of taking her to safety."

"You must leave, Boone. If anyone finds out—"

He interrupted with a sharp tug on her sleeve, "Your mother gave you to me in marriage. Come with me now before she is murdered by the man who rapes you every night."

Ferne felt her blood turn to ice. "He does not."

She knew the law. A betrothal was a binding contract. It couldn't be broken, not even by a wedding to another man. If Boone spoke the truth, she was not married to Jarrad.

"Will you consent to be his whore tonight, now you know the truth?" His glittering blue eyes never left her face.

"You don't understand. I have vowed perfect obedience to Lord Jarrad's will. If I break that vow, I'll burn in hellfire for eternity."

"You'll burn, if you knowingly play the whore for him. Go to the jakes, I'll meet you there. You are not married to him, your mother betrothed you to me. It's binding. By all the laws of God and man, you are mine."

Ferne dared not argue with him. The venom in his voice scared her.

"Meet me at the jakes," she said. "Go quickly before you are found out."
Chapter 17

Ferne watched Jarrad shed his clothes. The chamber in the broch felt like a haven now. He had to be her husband, not Boone. She worried and fretted, and forgot to admire his chest when he leaned over her.

"Are you asleep, little angel?" he asked.

Ferne sighed and drew back the bedcovers to let him join her. "No, I asked Owen to bring me back because I couldn't stop thinking about my mother. I wanted to weep in private." She had to tell him about Boone and hoped he'd not rush off to do battle, not with most of the men too drunk to aid him.

"And so it begins." He got into bed to gather her into his arms. "This is my first curtain lecture. Be gentle with me."

"Are we married? What if my mother had betrothed me to someone else?" She could think of nothing worse.

He thought carefully before he answered.

Ferne waited for him to speak. She stroked his chest to encourage him.

"Morag left you in the Baron's care, I saw her give you to him. The Baron looked startled. I think she'd avoided him before that day. He accepted her gift of a wailing baby and walked on holding you. Before he had gone many steps, you were soothed, content to be in his care. She gave you to the Baron, and he gave you to me in marriage."

"But what if she betrothed me to him before you married me?"

"Morag cannot rule your life, especially as she never claimed you." He gave a low sigh. "Until now, Ferne? Has she now, when it suits her purpose? What happened? Did someone approach you tonight?"

"Yes. I don't know his real name. He has Duncan's blue eyes, they are an unusual color, and he has black hair. He walks with a limp from a tossing he got in my home." She rubbed her cheek against his chest. "I think he's a madman. Could my mother have betrothed me to him?"

"Perhaps she had no choice, but she had not the power to do it." He smiled down at her. "Your description fits many of the men here and most of them will limp by morning, if not from the dancing then from the leaping and the wrestling. I want you to stay in the broch. No visitors are allowed here."

"But how can I point him out? He might kill you. I've seen him fight, he scares me."

"You are safe with me."

Ferne tried to hide her laughter.

"What amuses you?"

"Jarrad, you are safe with me, I am safe with you! It's everyone else I'm worried about. I wanted to meet my mother. I needed to see her, to speak to her, but now I am afraid of her, of what she might do." She laughed and cried at the same time. "Now, I'm as crazed as Boone."

He wiped away her tears. "He might be James MacBoone, but there is an entire clan of MacBoones to choose from. He is Morag's cousin and Duncan's friend. If he is the man who thought himself your husband, it is a pity he still lives."

"What are you going to do?"

"What would you have me do? Find him and kill him? Scare him away? Banish him? Send him home to Ireland with his horses? No, don't answer. I must do what I must do. Boone has his fate, as I have mine. Now is not the time to act, he knows this place far better than I do. Let Duncan and Marie have this night in peace. Tomorrow, I'll warn Duncan and start a search."

"I don't suppose Boone is still waiting by the jakes for me."

"He won't trust you again. Stay in the broch, little angel, it may not be luxurious but it's safe. He'll guess that you have told me about him and he'll be miles from here by now."

Ferne raised her head for his kiss. "Don't worry, I'll be perfectly obedient."

She moaned an invitation minutes later, warm and wanton.

"You have a wounded arm, Ferne." He drew away from her. "I have always valued friendship over obedience. My brother's slaves are obedient. It is not something I prize." He moved to sit with his back against the headboard.

Ferne followed him to nestle close. She stroked over his body to find him ready to make love.

He moved her hand away. "You must rest."

"I can't. I ache and I need you to help me."

He held her by the waist and lifted her up to straddle his thighs. Ferne edged forwards until her breasts brushed against his chest. She kissed his shoulders, his jaw, and gently bit his lips.

He raised her to enter her slowly, letting her slide down on him with gasps and kisses, until he filled her as much as she could take.

Her hands roamed over his chest where her lips could not reach. Every curve and hollow delighted her.

Ferne rocked back and forth on her knees to ease the ache. She wanted more, yet there was no place inside her to take all of him.

"My husband." It was barely a breath, but it comforted her to call him that.

He held her by the waist. "What did you say, my angel?"

She shook her head. "My husband, I want more not less."

He moved them so she lay on her back, spread wide by his knees. "Keep your arm away from me. I am only doing this to help you sleep." He rumbled a laugh at her giggles. "Why am I amusing? Not that I object to laughter in our bed, it's just not something I ever expected."

No, because he'd not expect it from Morag's daughter. Ferne caressed all the parts of him she could reach. He responded by gently stroking inside her warmth, deeper and deeper until she writhed about him. "Don't, I can't! No. Don't stop! Why did you stop?" She eagerly welcomed him back. The long thrusts impossible to enjoy silently as he took her to the heavens.

She moaned softly, gripping him in a way so sweet and deep that she almost fainted at the sensations. Pleasure, high and piercing, made her tremble. She lost herself in his world of passion. One with him, she moved in a dance of love, mindless, heedless. He moaned, holding her by the hips to end it with fierce strokes that brought her to ecstasy.

As she tried to catch her breath he lay down beside her, glistening with perspiration.

She kissed and licked along his shoulder, until he drew her into his embrace.

"Did I hurt your arm?" His voice tickled her ear. She shook her head with a smile, but his mood turned somber. "We have trust between us, don't we, Ferne?"

"Yes, my husband," she said, not really knowing what he meant.

When she stirred in his embrace, he moved her to lie on top of him. "I'll never let you go, not while I live. When I thought you had chosen Duncan, it drove me to madness."

She struggled to raise her head, to explain. He loosened his hold to allow her to whisper in his ear.

"Marie loves Duncan. I only like him."

He nuzzled her neck. "I love you, Ferne. No, do not say anything about love to me. I don't want you to love me. Live with me, content to be my wife for as long as I live." He got out of bed and went to the chest by the wall. "I have something for you." The ring felt cold in his hand.

It gleamed as he slid it on her finger. "It's your mother's. She gives it to you as a token of her love."

"My mother sent me a ring?"

"Yes, but it might be wise to leave it here when you go below to dine. I hope you are pleased that I left her wearing all her hair and did not hack off a lock for you?"

She smiled at him. "I am very glad you did not! When you see her next, please, thank her for me. Tell her, I shall treasure her ring and pray for her." Ferne moved the ring from finger to finger, looking at it, turning it this was and that, keeping her thoughts to herself.

Jarrad held his wife until she fell into a deep sleep. He counted the moves still left to play. Not too many, the game moved swiftly towards its conclusion. He wore his bed-robe and went to hearth to sit in his chair and reflect on the risks he took in loving Ferne. None to his soul, she was balm itself. He had no regrets over what he had done, except the game ran too fast and his days of freedom were almost over.

A scratch sounded at the door. He went to open it.

"Come in, Owen," Jarrad commanded in a low voice. "Ferne is sleeping, be careful not to wake her."

Ferne rolled onto her wounded arm and woke up.

Her husband asked in a low voice, "How could you let Marie frighten you like that?"

The fool stripped and slunk to the hearth. He sat wrapped in his blanket with his back to the fire. Jarrad went to his chair and stretched his legs out to the warmth.

Owen whispered his answer, "It was easy, oh great lord, your lady sister is a woman, and I think her plea will move Xavier du Terrenord more than your edicts. She threatened to have him kill me."

"But you don't belong to me or to Xavier."

The fool muttered something under his breath, then he said, "What will he do with Morag, my lord?"

Ferne listened intently.

"Take her to a place where she can find happiness and comfort. How he does it is a puzzle he must solve honorably. He'll not kill her but nor will he be kind. If he takes her where I think he must, then he takes her where I cannot go. I paid a high price to have his promise."

The fool bestirred himself to move his bed nearer the hearth. "It doesn't trouble you, what he might do to her?"

"What would you have me do, Owen? Give Morag into King Henry's care? One rebellion in her name and she'd die a traitor's death. And if I can, by good fortune, keep the King's peace here, then captivity in a convent? But when she escaped, what then? A dungeon? Chained? A quick death or a slow one? Xavier is the only man I trust to take her away and give her a chance for life. I think he will not be able to resist giving her away as one of his whores. But who will he give her to? That is the question. Let's hope my guess is not wrong."

Owen said with a shudder in his voice, "It amuses him to give his friends women pregnant with his bastards. Xavier is only interested in turning a profit."

"You are wrong. Xavier needs to know where his children live, and that they are cared for."

"I wager she doesn't clear the harbor alive."

"He will not kill her."

"There are worse fates than death," grumbled the fool. His low bed creaked. He lay wrapped in his blanket staring at the flames.

Jarrad shrugged. "Go to sleep. Tomorrow, you will return with me to Port Creeve. Duncan and Marie can look after Ferne. We are lucky the harbor here has silted up. I don't want Marie to hear what Xavier says when he learns of her marriage. Do you think a reminder to my brother to mind his manners will help?"

Owen laughed and whispered, "I can help you teach him manners, my lord."

"No, thank you. Keep away from him, you only make him worse."

"He couldn't be worse, not even if he were the devil himself."

"Then remember he is my brother. I want him alive, not dead. The first of his ships has arrived, he won't be far behind."
Chapter 18

"Keep away from him!" Marie pointed a bloody hand at Ferne when she entered the broch's hall to see what all the noise was about. "I shall tend to Hamish's wounds."

Ferne retreated to the hearth. Father Rab snored in a chair with a tankard of ale next to him.

She shivered to see Boone beside the youth, with a look of sympathy on his handsome face, as if he had not wounded him to gain entrance to the broch.

Marie returned to washing the blood from the wound.

Boone limped towards the hearth.

Ferne looked around for Duncan. He was probably searching for Boone and had not warned Marie, thinking she was frightened enough.

Boone approached with a strange smirk on his lips.

Worry for his young companion seemed written on every line of his handsome face, but Ferne was sure he was to blame. All the blood was wet and fresh.

The youth lifted his head and moved to wipe his eyes free from gore.

"Lady Ferne, I must speak with you." He groaned and squinted at her.

"She is not to speak to anyone," said Marie, attending to her task. "If you have something to say, tell it now in front of me." She parted the young man's hair.

He winced under her examination.

"Ouch, Lady Marie, must you tug so? Lady Ferne, I beg you, come to me. I have a message from Lord Jarrad."

Ferne moved closer to Hamish.

Boone followed her. "I found him in Moresby, Lady Marie. Someone had hit him over the head. Lucky for him, I heard him moaning in the ditch." Boone smiled at Marie.

Ferne knew that smile well.

She wasn't surprised to see Marie take a step away from him. "James, you cannot stay here without Duncan's permission."

He looked puzzled at her words. "But I met Duncan this morning, my lady, and he told me to bring the lad here to you."

Marie stared at him thoughtfully. "You have the McKay blue eyes." That fact, so simply stated, sounded as if she damned him for it. "What were you doing in Moresby?"

Ferne growled under her breath. What use was there in questioning a madman? She silently urged Marie to get rid of him before he tried to kill them all.

"I was selling horses, my lady. The Isle is rife with the news of Lord Jarrad's marriage to Lady Morag's daughter. I thought it best to bring Hamish here, as Duncan told me to. It's closer than the English side."

"You must leave now, James. I'm sorry we can't offer you hospitality inside the broch." Marie's voice shakily masked her fear.

Boone bowed, his cheerful civility not lessened at all. He took Marie's fear as a compliment and limped towards the door.

Ferne quickly moved across the hall, away from Boone. He veered from his path. She darted back to the youth, hoping to keep the table between them.

Marie cried out, "Ferne, get away from him. You must leave, James. Only Jarrad can invite you in here."

Boone bowed low. "I only wanted to greet the Lady of the Isle. I am honored by your hospitality." He smirked and winked at Ferne.

She watched him go, uncertain what to do. If she called the alarm with most of the men out of the castle, Boone might slaughter the few remaining.

Guards opened the door. Ferne held her breath in case they challenged him and were killed for it. Let him go to be caught outside the castle. If Marie thought she plotted with him, it might mean her death.

The doors clapped like thunder as they closed.

Hamish sat up. "My lady, Lord Jarrad said he cannot return tonight because his brother has arrived."

Marie cried, "Lock the doors! That man must not be allowed in here again. One of you go up to the roof and watch to see where he goes." She turned on Ferne. "Traitor! You wear your mother's ring! Her tricks won't work here!"

"Jarrad gave me the ring," Ferne protested. She had forgotten to remove it, in her haste to find out what was happening in the hall.

"I know James MacBoone plots with you and your mother. If Jarrad dies because of you, I'll cut your throat myself!"

* * * *

Ferne let them argue over her, she knew who'd win.

"Let the lady have a fire, Marie." Father Rab picked up a log to place it on the cold embers in the hearth. "You've no proof she knew James."

"Jarrad said she cannot have a fire, not if she is alone." Marie's voice trembled as she spoke. "Xavier is here, Jarrad cannot return tonight." She kept her face a haughty mask of pride. "We all stay locked in the broch."

"Then stay with her," grumbled the old man. "It will be a damn cold night without a fire."

"I want her chained to the ring. That way she cannot escape to plot with her mother." She turned to wipe away a tear. "Give her a penance, Father Rab."

Ferne flashed a wrathful glance at the old priest. She didn't mind spending the night alone under the covers by herself, but she'd not be chained if she could help it.

"Nay," said Father Rab, "the lass has done nothing to deserve it."

"Do it," urged Marie. "James MacBoone plots with her mother. Now that Xavier is here, the traitors must move swiftly to take the Isle."

"Lady Ferne is not in need of it," opined the old priest. "She'll be fine here for a night alone."

"No, I order it done," said Marie. "I take responsibility for it."

Ferne waited for them to shackle her to the ring and leave her in peace. Only Father Rab looked back with regret when they closed the door to lock her in.

The hours passed slowly.

The few Celts below sang the night away. The sound of their mournful songs was better than silence in the darkness, even the screech of the bagpipes comforted her. She made a nest on Owen's bed with the covers, and curled up wearing Jarrad's bed-robe to enjoy the scent of him.

The irons around her ankles warmed slowly, while she prayed Boone was caught before he killed anyone. She couldn't bear to think of Jarrad's death. He'd wanted trust between them and told her he loved her. But she didn't trust him enough to believe that he truly loved her. He hoped to save Morag, using his brother to aid him. What had been high price he had paid his merchant brother to take Morag to safety?

To be Lady of the Isle was a dangerous position. No wonder Owen had warned her that she would prefer to be Jarrad's whore. Her mother had no husband now, but many men must have tried to marry her to own the Isle. She was a Celt trapped on the wrong side of the Isle, subject to who knows what threat, and yet Morag had managed to stay a widow. A clever woman and a dangerous one.

Marie feared her. Ferne hoped Duncan lived to enjoy his marriage to Marie. It was all her fault they'd married. She'd forced them into it. But surely it was better to be a pregnant bride than to have no husband and have to explain it to Xavier du Terrenord. Duncan would have died for that sin. At least married, they had a chance.

The noise Ferne heard was slight, like a rat on the roof, only it came from the wall. Such a strange noise in a solid stone wall. She could hardly hear it above the music and drunken voices raised in song.

Someone was creeping inside the walls.

Boone!

She turned her head to listen as the slight sounds circled the wall towards the garderobe. To call for aid was impossible. Ferne couldn't bang on the door. She untangled herself, taking care not to trip over the iron ring or the chain running under it. She lifted up the little bed and flung it as hard as she could against the door. It bounced short to slide across the floor.

No one heard it.

Creaks came from the garderobe, as if something was being pried free. Ferne couldn't reach the little bed to try again, not even by stretching her length on the cold floor.

She rose to try to pry the ring from the floor. It resisted her efforts. She stamped until her ankles ached.

No one heard her.

Boone was inside. She knew it. Inside. Behind the curtain.

God help her!

A dark figure emerged from the shadows. Ferne's heart thudded in fright.

Boone's face was ghostly in the darkness. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then spat on the floor. The scent of fresh blood clung to him. He limped towards her with a finger raised to his lips to signify she should not speak. Her stupid voice doomed her to obey him. No one was close enough to hear her.

"Don't scream, Ferne, I have come to take you to your mother. Come, wife. Come, quickly," he whispered.

She lifted her feet in turn to show him the shackles and the chain linking them that ran under the ring.

"Pray I can lift it, or you'll lose a foot." Boone laughed at his threat. "Do you have any preference which one?" It was the work of a moment for him to force the ring up with the hilt of his sword.

Ferne tried to free herself from his grip. The hand about her wrist tightened.

"I want to dress, Boone. I cannot go like this," she said.

He opened the bed-robe to look at her body. "I'm glad you are not fat with his child, wife. Your mother will give you a potion to rid you of any brat you carry."

Ferne grasped his wrists in an effort to close the bed-robe. He shook her off to whisper fiercely, "Come, Ferne, your mother will clothe you."

He gripped her by the upper arm. The stitches pulled out of the wound and soon the only warmth she felt was her blood seeping out.

They escaped through the broch's wall to climb in total darkness down and down, until they came out under the buttery stairs. Boone hissed threats when Ferne stumbled over her chains at the sight of a body in a pool of blood.

The castle was riddled with passage ways, some secret, some not. All those in their way were dead asleep, dead drunk, or soon dead.

* * * *

Ferne clung to the horse's mane to avoid being thrown back against Boone. He held her thigh with a bruising grip and handled the reins with his free hand. They traveled with a band of men, who whispered among themselves and could not contain their triumphant grins at her capture.

Boone laughed with them. She turned to see his teeth gleaming white in the moonlight. The wind blasted from the sea to scour the low hills.

The men stopped just below the crest of a hill, on the lee side, which gave a semblance of shelter.

Boone dismounted to haul her down. Ferne stumbled as she trod on the chain connecting her shackles.

The men's leader, a brawny black haired menace, rode close enough for his mount to brush against her. "Do it fast, James, it will be dawn soon. Will you be needing our assistance to hold her down? We'd not like her to spoil your pretty face." He roared at his own joke, showing teeth black with rot.

Boone cursed him. He pulled Ferne by the arm down the slope between the stunted trees. The noise of the wind dropped away, the lower they went. A river splashed in the valley. As they neared it the noise grew loud enough to drown out the clinking of her chains.

Ferne tried to wrap the bed-robe tighter around her body. Her blood felt warm where it oozed from the wound on her arm. It was armor she needed and a thick woolen cloak to go with it, not a bed-robe that tripped her with every step if her shackles did not.

"Where is my mother?" asked Ferne. "Is she here?"

"If she were here, I'd have to cut her throat," warned Boone. "You can't inherit the Isle until she's dead."

Ferne tried another tack. "Are we going to Port Creeve?"

"Aye, after I've had you. This is far enough. Get on your back and spread your legs."

"In the cold night air? It is surely too shriveling to do it in the open. I am a block of ice and any man would wilt at the attempt," she said, hoping to cool his ardor.

The flat of his hand caught her on the side of her face. "On your back, now!"

He flung her to the ground. Loose peat and old bracken filled her hands. Not a stone within reach.

"Spread your legs, bitch!" He kicked her feet.

Ferne did as he asked, then she raised her knees holding the chain taut between her ankles. With all the force she could muster she brought the chain down on his knee, hoping to dislodge his kneecap.

Boone leapt back. The chain skinned his shin. He cursed and hopped on one foot.

Ferne scrambled to her feet.

He caught her easily by standing on the chain. With iron fists he dragged her to a low tree and pulled a branch from it.

Blow after blow rained on her back and buttocks, the first smote her to the ground, the second burned like fire, the third felt as if she had been branded with a fiery iron, but the blows soon faded one into the other as their thuds shook her. She had seen men stand as if a whipping were nothing, and now she knew why. After a dozen strokes her body felt nothing but the dull thud of his blows.

As if he knew she was numbed, he turned her over to strip her naked, though she fought him with all her strength. A blow to her jaw made her see flashes of light.

She fell back stunned.

He stepped between her legs and knelt, spreading her wide, though he took care to keep the chain trapped under one foot.

Boone fumbled to free himself from his clothes. Her struggles must have excited him for he sprang forth despite the cool air.

She had only one chance, the branch he'd used to beat her.

Slowly she reached out her hand for it, but she could not reach it. The only thing that came to hand was a dead twig, broken off by the force of his blows.

She waited until he looked down to ram himself into her. With a swift motion she plunged the twig into his eye as far as it would go. She twisted it into his brain.

It was the same way Harold the woodsman had died. Ferne had tried to save him, but removing the twig had only hastened his death. She had wept for Harold, she'd not weep for Boone.

He knelt between her thighs and stared at her out of his one eye. Ferne reached up to topple him sideways. She extricated the chain from the tangle of his legs and tried to stand. Her legs shook too much. She'd killed a man, a mortal sin, though he deserved it and she was not sorry at all. But she'd burn in hell now, whether she kept her vow or not.

She crawled away, dragging the bed-robe after her, too shaken to walk. If the other men came looking for her and found what she'd done, they'd do their worst. She shuddered to think how long it would take her to die.

From high above her, screams and shouts echoed down the valley.
Chapter 19

Ferne lay low in the dead bracken as the run rose to show no sign of Boone.

She had killed a man. Killed him dead. Not that he wasn't still breathing. She could hear his gasps when the fighting died down. But he was as good as dead. Her mother would never forgive her. Even God might agree that a previous betrothal took precedence.

Ferne clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. She was doomed. She'd killed a man and she wasn't sorry for it. Sinners had to repent their sins to be forgiven. She'd burn in hellfire for murder.

Mist rolled down the hillside to cover her in fine beads of moisture. The bed-robe glistened with tiny pearls, which turned lighter and brighter as the sun rose.

Her back ached with tight spasms. Her jaw was swollen. Her forehead had a lump on it. She added them to the list of her injuries.

The battle noises stopped.

No one wanted her, no one cared about her. Even her mother had sent a madman after her. No one in the whole world wanted her. The Isle was what they wanted.

The dogs were the last straw. Their baying grew closer and closer until Ferne struggled to her feet. She tried to roll her sleeves around her hands in the hope of defending herself.

"She is here! My lady is here," called Owen. He loomed out of the mist just above her, gripping the collar of a baying hound.

"Hold!" shouted Jarrad.

Owen tied the hound to a shrub. "I think your lady wife cannot run, my lord. She has been beaten."

"Alaric, hold the dogs. Stay back," commanded Jarrad. He appeared above her on the slope. He looked feral, his hair and clothes coated with glistening mist. He sheathed his sword and circled the trees to get near her.

"Don't touch me, Jarrad du Terrenord, I going to burn in hell for eternity and it is all your fault." Ferne took a step away. He looked furious with her.

Owen moved behind her to block her retreat.

The fool tried to wrap his cloak about her.

She flung it off with difficulty. "S-stop, Owen," she said through chattering teeth. "I am going to get as cold as I can, before I die and burn in hell for eternity."

Both men leaned down to hear her words. Jarrad gripped her by the elbows. "Where is he?"

She stared back at him in as belligerent a fashion as she could manage. "Who?" she asked. Her back hurt too much to shrug her disdain.

"Your lady wife says she is going to burn in hellfire," said Owen. "What has she done?"

"Where is he, Ferne?" He tried to control his fury.

She sneered a laugh in his face. "Don't you trust me?"

His hands tightened on her elbows. He lowered his voice, "Forgive me, little angel, I didn't guard you well. What did James MacBoone do to you?" His voice vibrated through her in time with her shivers.

Owen knelt to remove her shackles with a key he took from his tunic.

Her feet were numb. Her ankle screamed a warning.

She growled at the fool.

Jarrad released her but her attempt to hop away from the men ended with her stumbling over the fool's foot. She winced with pain. The spasms in her back increased until she could scarcely draw a breath.

"Where is he, Ferne?" Her husband blocked her path. "Damnation! I mean, tell me if it pleases you to tell me, little one. I want to tear him limb from limb with my bare hands."

"He didn't touch me," she said through gritted teeth, "except to beat me."

Jarrad stroked bits of dead bracken from her shoulders. "As he is not with his men and not with you, I can only ask you where his body lies?"

"I am too dangerous a wife for you." She winced at his touch on her cheek.

He gently cupped her face. "I'm sorry I didn't protect you from him."

"Count yourself lucky you are not wed to me, oh great Lord of the Isle." Ferne mocked him with Owen's affectionate title. She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. "Boone displeased me, so I killed him."

He gently stroked her cheek.

If she'd been able to throw herself into his arms, she might have done it.

"Forgive me for what happened."

He bent his head and kissed her lips, as if to reassure himself she would let him.

She pushed against his chest. The wound on her arm complained. "Give your commands to someone who is not already damned, Jarrad du Terrenord. It is impossible to burn for eternity twice. I am doomed, so I may do as I please, and it pleases me to tell you we are not married." He'd not want her now he knew her capable of murder.

Jarrad reached out a hand for Owen's cloak, to wrap his wife in it with his fool's help.

His wife's gentle voice began her litany of complaints. His relief at finding her alive, made him smile as he listened to her.

"You let your sister tether me like a criminal. And now, no doubt, you think I went willingly with that madman. Yes, it is every woman's dream to be dragged from her home through a noxious hole, clad only in a bed-robe." She looked up at him suspiciously. "Don't you dare laugh at me! I refuse to love you. I refuse to let you touch me. When we are in hell together, I shall take consolation in seeing you suffer with me."

Jarrad held her gently. "Tell me more." He touched his lips to her ear and her shivers grew worse. He drew her towards him with the cloak. She stiffened and gave a faint cry.

"My lord, your lady wife has been beaten. Don't touch her back, I beg you," cried Owen.

"Forgive me, little one. May I carry you?" Her expression of horror persuaded him not to try. "No? Then walk with me, you need warmth and your wounds tended. Come." He held her hand and gestured to Owen to assist him.

"I am not going with you. We are not married I tell you. My mother gave me to that madman and I killed him. I had to kill him to stop him from—" She tripped on a wayward tuft of grass and would have fallen if he had not held her up.

Owen grunted his disgust, then mimicked her voice. "Oh woe is me, I killed a man. Alack! Alas! Pity me!" He mimed a swordfight. "Men kill men all the time, my lady, and don't worry about burning in hell for it."

Jarrad held her shoulders carefully. "Morag never gave you in marriage to James MacBoone. She might have asked him to bring you to her, but that would have been his last day on earth. Morag is no fool. If he had you in his power, then he'd have no use for her."

"Think, my lady," said Owen, "what use would your marrying him do her? She made no pledge for you, so know this, you are married to my noble lord and master. And he is not likely to let you go, is he?"

Jarrad reached down to gently test the back of her thighs. "Can you sit, wife? Owen grasp my arm."

They made a chair from their arms and scooped her into it. Poor Ferne could not lift her arms to hold on when they hoisted her between them.

"I am not your wife, even if we are married. I am your prisoner. You don't trust me and never will. No fire! Locked in the broch! You won't let me meet my mother! Not that I want to meet her now!" A sob escaped her. "Whatever you tell me to do, be warned, I'll do the opposite."

"Then hate me to your heart's content, Ferne. Hate me and curse me, and deny me the comfort of your body next to mine. Refuse to kiss me, flog me until you ache from it, and never let me see you writhe sweetly under me aflame with desire."

She growled at his words. He had no intention of denying himself the comfort and pleasure of her body.

Owen laughed out loud. "I told you, my lady, it's all my lord ever thinks about."

"You lie, Owen, for he thinks of many other things. How to keep me content to be his prisoner is not least of them. Let both of you be warned, I'll not submit meekly again. I have given my soul into the devil's keeping and Lucifer has rewarded me with freedom. I can do anything I like now, because I am going to burn for eternity." Tears ran down her cheeks.

Jarrad shuddered at the sight.

He stopped climbing the slope. Owen flexed his arm under her to slide her down to stand between them.

Jarrad held her chin gently. "Where is his body?"

Ferne pointed down the hill.

"Let's go and make sure he is dead, Owen. I doubt my lady wife has strength enough to kill a man."

They lifted her and made their way carefully downwards. The slope was more difficult to descend, burdened as they were. Ferne tried to persuade them there was no need. She didn't want him to see what she had done.

Finding Boone proved difficult.

Jarrad was about to order Owen to go back and get the hounds when he saw a trail of flattened reeds. He followed it, sword in hand, to search the reeds and the river bank.

Nothing.

He called to them, "Boone probably drowned in the river. He was not killed by you, Ferne. He crawled in and drowned himself."

"Listen, my lady," said Owen in a mock whisper. "You must once again meekly submit, though you might be able to train my master to enjoy you fierce instead of gentle. Get ready to fall to your knees and thank him from delivering you from hell's torment."

Ferne tried to pry away his restraining hand. Her jangled feelings didn't permit her to feel joy at being saved. Now she had to worry about being damned by that awful vow. "Will it amuse you, Owen, to see me fail to keep my vow of perfect obedience? He is sure to ask something of me that I will fail to do."

"My lady, don't slither to the devil on your belly like a slug on a slimy trail of imperfection. Tell yourself you, and you alone, know what my master wants. Don't all wives think they know best? Don't we all think we know best?"

"He can't want to be married to me."

Owen laughed. "He doesn't know what he wants, my lady. He never expected to love you."
Chapter 20

They kept away from villages and made their way by less traveled paths ever northward until they came to the English half of the Isle. The sun was high by the time they reached the castle on the hill overlooking the harbor.

Ferne limped up to the solar. Her back barely permitted her to climb the stairs but she didn't want to be carried. Lined with tapestries and with fine furniture, the chamber was scented with perfume. A lady's place of refuge with a bible on a table and a golden cross on the wall.

He let her warm herself by the fire while he washed quickly in a bowl of water. He dressed in fine clothes, like a lord. Fern knelt by the fire. She thanked Owen for the mulled wine he offered. She sipped it, glad of its warmth.

Jarrad dismissed his fool.

He knelt in front of her. "Are you warm enough to bathe now? I dare not insist you do it until you are warmer, for fear you'd react like a scalded cat again and accuse me of trying to boil you alive."

He touched the marks on her face with gentle fingers. "You will bathe in front of the fire with your mother to tend your wounds. I can give you only this one meeting, don't beg me for another. We are on a path that I cannot step away from. It is my fate to do this. I chose it and if anyone suffers, let it be me."

She didn't understand him. "May I ask her questions?"

He answered with a smile on his lips. "Ask, listen, do as you wish. Love and trust must be freely given." He brushed his lips over hers and slid his hand into the bed-robe to caress the swell of her breast.

"Do you command me to love you and trust you?"

"Ferne." His tone demanded she meet his gaze. "I shall not ask anything of you until I must do so to keep you safe."

"Then keep me safely by your side. Keep us both safe, and sin with me if it pleases you."

"It pleases me to be the man you desire, little angel, in this you command me."

A knock sounded at the door. His smile died, he whispered in her ear, "Try to comfort Morag."

But comfort was impossible for Ferne to offer the lady who stared down at her while the bathtub was dragged towards the hearth.

Jarrad left them, but not alone. Female servants watched with interest this meeting between mother and daughter. The bathtub was filled and a linen tent placed over it to keep the air warm and moist.

They helped her into the water.

Ferne ordered the malodorous bed-robe burnt. She leaned forward and raised her knees to pillow her head.

Her mother did not touch her.

The two servants made noises of distress when they saw her back and her arm, which brought Morag closer to see. She bade them hurry at the task in a nervous voice.

Ferne let them wash her but she refused the offer of stitches for her wound. Its edges would not knit together now. Sitting was uncomfortable so she knelt to let them pour water over her.

When at last Ferne's hair was rinsed and rubbed until it didn't drip, they dressed her in a fine robe of blue wool and placed a cap upon her head. The clothes were her mother's. Ferne thought they looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. And if anyone had to choose which one was the elder, it did not help that Ferne straightened her back with an effort and walked with a limp.

Morag sent the women away. "Do you hate me, Ferne?"

"No, Mother. I must thank you for leaving me with Baron Welford. I don't doubt you saved my life."

"Then let me give you a mother's warning, do not trust Jarrad. I marked him. He tells himself he doesn't seek vengeance, but I am doomed. I know it."

"I don't think he means ill by you."

Morag laughed, a strange mirthless sound. "Did he tell you that?"

Ferne nodded. "Truly, he means you no harm. He fears King Henry's punishment of you if a rebellion is made in your name."

"He is a du Terrenord," sneered her mother. "Do not trust him. Do not trust any of them."

"How can you accuse him?" asked Ferne. "When he has suffered so much without complaint and still speaks of you with affection."

"Affection! Don't be foolish, my child. He wakes at night in a cold sweat when he dreams of me. His one thought is to control me and put me forever out of his way."

When Ferne opened her mouth to argue, Morag's eyes flashed a warning. It was a likeness between them. Ferne thought it the only one she had seen so far. Many times she had used that expression to quell her foster sisters.

"He wants to give you a chance for life. Would you prefer to be locked in a convent or dungeon?"

"My daughter, have you met Xavier du Terrenord?"

Ferne shook her head.

"I met him only once," said Morag. "He gave me a jeweled casket and told me it was a gift from his father and himself. He warned me that only his father's command stayed his hand, and that if he ever met me again to expect a lingering death."

"No wonder you fear him."

"My heart pounded in my breast. I was young and foolish then. His words were nothing, Ferne. Do not fear a man's words, fear his deeds. Inside the casket was a tiny heart. They had killed my infant son, your brother, and had given me his heart."

Ferne's eyes filled with tears. She fell to her knees and wept with Morag standing over her.

"Do not weep, my daughter, learn from this. Do not trust the du Terrenords, they are cruel men. When Jarrad returned to the Isle, I warned him away, but imagine my surprise when he brought me news of my son. Safe, loved and protected. Is it true? I know not." Morag insisted Ferne stand to face her. "I dared not try to stop Jarrad from taking over the Isle and I dare not refuse to go with Xavier."

Ferne grasped her mother's hands. "But if my brother is alive and well, then they are not as cruel as you feared."

Morag shook free. "He is more likely dead. When I am killed, I'll know the truth." She fumbled with the neck of her chemise to pull out a golden chain with a miniature portrait attached. She lifted it over her head and placed it around Ferne's neck.

"Jarrad gave me this. He says it is my son. I wish you never had been found, Ferne, but I give this to you in the hope that if your brother is alive, you will do your best to aid him."

With anxious eyes, Ferne peered at the little painting. To her great relief, the young man was not Owen. To have brought her brother back to Isle of Demons as a castrated fool would have been too cruel a jest. Ferne shuddered at the thought.

But Owen might know what had really happened. If she showed the portrait to him, he might let slip some information.

"If my brother lives and I can aid him, I'll do all in my power—" Ferne got no further with her speech.

A slight sound from the door made Morag place a finger to her lips.

"Go to Jarrad now. Beg him to let me stay here. I'd be no trouble to you. Let me stay as your servant. He need never see me. I beg you, plead for me. I am not brave enough to endure being in Xavier's power."

Morag bent her head and pleaded until Ferne could stand it no longer.

"Calm yourself, Mother, I'll go to Jarrad and ask him to come to you. Maybe if you meet Xavier in my husband's presence, you'll see he is not the monster you suppose."

Eagerly, Morag went towards the door. "Go to Jarrad, ask him for me. He is below. Go, I beg you."

Ferne was ushered through the door, which was shut and locked behind her. The alacrity with which the bolt slid home gave her pause. She began to doubt very much that the man waiting below was Jarrad.

Trust. She had asked Jarrad to trust her and in return she must trust.

Slowly, she circled down the stone steps in a calm, dignified manner as befit the Lady of the Isle. Her heart showed her cowardice by its rapid beating.

Around the last turn was a small gallery with a window. Jarrad stood with his back to her as he looked out at the sunset.

Relief flooded her. It gave her feet wings. She sped towards him and stopped as he turned.

The man's face was unblemished, his nose straight, his cheeks lean and sculpted. His lips and jaw were Jarrad's. His face was exactly as Jarrad's would have been had Morag not erred all those years ago.

As eagerly as she had run to him, so did her feet now try to put some distance between them. Xavier du Terrenord's expression held none of Jarrad's warmth.

"Morag, forgive my tardiness, I was delayed by storms." Even his voice was like Jarrad's. He spoke with the same inflections, in comforting deep tones. "You are looking haggard, I'd not have known you."

Perhaps his words were less than polite, but his touch on her injured cheek was light.

Ferne drew back, not wanting to be so close to him, not wanting to be touched.

He followed her, his fingers skimming lower until he grasped the portrait hanging from the golden chain. "I had this painted in Genoa. Let me warn you now, Morag. If you so much as dare to look me in the eye, your son will meet this fate."

He drew his knife and scratched across the portrait, erasing the face.

Ferne watched Xavier's hands from beneath her lashes. The chain bit into the back of her neck as she pulled away from him.

"Where do you think you are going, Morag?" He sheathed the knife and twisted the chain around her neck. "You have heard your name for the last time. From now on, you answer to slave and you must call me master."

He seemed disappointed she made no objection. The chain was so tight around her throat that Ferne dared not provoke him. "Come, slave, I have much to do before dawn."

He stepped away and tugged on the chain for her to follow him. "I did not hear your reply, slave."

Nausea swept over Ferne, in an instant she was bent over heaving and shaking. If Xavier had not let go of the chain, she'd have broken her own neck. There was nothing in her stomach but mulled wine, but that did not stop it from trying to climb out of her throat with every heave.

It was minutes before Ferne felt able to stand upright. Her throat was tight and painful, speech was impossible. The hand on her shoulder gave her a little shake.

"Come, cowardly slave, you can vomit as much as you like when we are aboard ship."

As if he knew she was unable to answer, he simply linked his arm in hers and made her go with him.

Owen watched Ferne being led away. He wiped the sweat from his face and urged his shaking legs to hold him. Only fear of being discovered had kept him from joining Lady Ferne in a vomiting chorus.

Xavier du Terrenord had made a mistake. An error grave enough to get him castrated and killed.

If only he dared do it! A tear of pleasure moistened Owen's eye. Revenge, some measure of it at least. Sweet vengeance would be his!

His long legs carried him swiftly to the jakes. He took his place on the nearest hole cut into the long wooden seat. With moans and groans, he rubbed his belly.

He slyly eyed the other occupants, a thin watchman and an old man. Both turned to see who was making enough noise to wake the dead.

"I have such cramps, forgive me," said Owen. "I am guarding my lady Ferne and cannot tarry at this task." He mimicked a man in dire need until he was certain they'd not forget him, and then he mentioned the setting sun so they could be a witness for time as well as place. Witnesses for why he had missed Lady Ferne being abducted by Xavier du Terrenord.

He returned to the tower steps and went up to knock on the door. He called a greeting when there was no answer to his knock. "My lady Morag, I am to escort you back to your chamber. Open the door, or I am to send for my lord." He listened carefully with his ear to the door. "Lady, open the door, I beg you."

Owen was sure Morag listened on the other side of the door. He turned to stamp his feet down a few steps. He gave a horrified gasp and called out. "Is my lady dead? It cannot be! How can that be, Alaric? Her throat cut, you say?"

The bolt slid back and the door swung open.

Morag rushed out. She stumbled on the stairs.

Owen caught her arm. "Where is Lady Ferne? What have you done with her?"

He searched the room quickly, just to be able to say with truth that he had. In a few strides, he caught Morag descending the stairwell. "You have sent her in your stead, have you not, Lady Morag? A more monstrous mother I have never met."

"Is Ferne dead?"

"Nay, my lady, but after this day's work you may be. I go to rescue her. If I hurry, I may be able to save her."

"Ferne is in no real danger." Morag recovered quickly from her fright. "All she has to do is say who she is and he'd not touch her. I just need time to get away."

"Get away? My lady, they will kill your son. How can you run?" asked Owen.

"She knows of him. Ferne will save her brother. Let me go, please, do not take me to Jarrad."

"I have no time to take you anywhere. I go to the harbor, but I must send word to my lord and master, if I dare stop to do it." He pushed her one way, while going the opposite. "You might escape. Good luck, my lady." He stopped to make a sweeping bow. "You have not half the brains of your daughter," he jeered.

Owen ran with long, easy strides down towards the harbor until he caught sight of Ferne and Xavier du Terrenord. The lady stumbled as she walked and winced when he gripped her arm. She had not told who she was, that was certain. Maybe she couldn't speak. It would be better if she could not. His dagger itched to play about Xavier du Terrenord's body and no one was going to stop him.
Chapter 21

The ship wallowed as it rode at anchor. Xavier du Terrenord gave orders through the open cabin door.

Ferne sat on the floor with her back to the wall. She watched him walk effortlessly over the swaying deck to light an oil-lamp hanging from the low ceiling. She looked away before he could catch her eyes on him.

The bed was covered with furs. A table was bolted to the floor under the lamp, with a stool under it.

She made a testing noise, a hum, just to see if she could risk speech.

He turned towards her at the sound. "If you are going to vomit again, slave, I suggest you wait until you have something in your stomach."

Ferne bowed her head lower and tried another small sound.

His boots came nearer. He kicked her foot.

It was a gentle kick as kicks go, but it jarred her injured ankle. She winced and pulled her knees closer to her breast to give him more room to pass.

He crouched down to her level and reached under her skirt for her ankle. It was a reflex to shove his hand away. One she regretted as soon as she'd done it.

He raised his hand to strike her, and then seemed to think better of it. Instead he took her wrists and pulled her to stand in front of him.

"What happened to you, slave? Why are you in this miserable condition? Your value is less than worthless." He ran his fingers over her face, down her arms, up her back, around her neck and down towards her breasts. Ferne folded her arms to protect herself.

"I fell down," she said, her voice creaking.

He whispered in her ear, "I fell down, master."

Now was the time to say who she was, to reveal her identity. Her folded arms were pressed against his chest. His handsome face was so close, the movement of the boat made her forehead touch his chin. The rasp of his bristles hurt her wound.

His knife pricked her neck before she realized he held it to her throat.

"Do I end your life now, slave, or do you call me master?"

"What do you intend to do with me, master?" she asked.

He listened intently to her voice.

She gave a shudder of relief when he sheathed his knife.

"I intend to remove your clothes and have my physician tend your wounds, then you will be fed lightly. Afterwards, you will be given a choice. You may share my bed or be shared by my crew."

"Jarrad promised me you'd not harm my mother. Surely forcing her to play the whore for your men or yourself is harming her?"

"At last, Lady Ferne, reveals herself to me. I am shocked." He gave a graceful shrug of surprise. "Now, what is it my saintly brother calls all his women? Now what was it? Does he call you, little one? Or does he only call his whores that?"

Xavier du Terrenord stepped closer to press her against the cabin wall. His hips pinned hers, but it was her sore shoulders she tried to keep away from the wall.

When she made no answer, he bent his head and spoke, so close his breath warmed her ear. "You will call me, master, until my brother comes to claim you. If he doesn't want you back, then you suffer her fate. Your bitch of a mother failed to gain control of you and raise the Isle against him. You have failed in your treachery."

"I am loyal to my husband."

He whispered a word in her ear, "Master."

Ferne lifted her chin. His knife touched her neck.

"My lord husband will come for me, master. He needs me to claim the Isle." She kept her voice calm.

"Good, you remind me I have not much time to spare for dalliance."

Dalliance?

He lifted her to sit her on the table, and then hesitated when she winced. At last, he said, "Remove your clothes, slave. Of course, you refuse. I threaten. You cry." He smiled coldly at her. "No, Morag's daughter doesn't weep. She rages, in so soft and gentle a voice it makes a man hard just to hear her speak. Is that the effect you wish to have on me?" He raised an eyebrow and waited for her to answer him.

Ferne shook her head, afraid to say anything at all. Her stomach wanted to rebel again. She fought the urge to vomit.

To her relief, Xavier moved away. He opened the cabin door to shout his orders in a foreign tongue.

Soon, she heard footsteps. Dark men entered with covered trays. They bowed out without looking at her.

Xavier removed one of the cloths to reveal bread and bowls of fragrant liquid. He broke off a small piece of bread and offered it to her.

Ferne ate some of it. It was freshly baked, scented with grains of paradise, with a sweet crust. Her stomach said a prayer of thanks and settled instantly. How often she had sent to the kitchen for bread to calm a new bride's queasy belly.

She carried Jarrad's child! A feeling of joy soared through her. Jarrad could not doubt the child was his. Joy and relief brought tears to her eyes. She smiled to herself and gave a soft, slightly hysterical, giggle of delight.

Xavier stared at her as if she were demented. "Why do you laugh, little one?"

Ferne ate another bite of bread to give herself time to control her emotions before she answered, "Take me back, Xavier, master of the seas, before it's too late."

"How much do you think Jarrad will pay to get you back?" He leaned over the table to unfasten the laces of her overdress.

As if to reward her for not trying to stop him, he offered her another piece of bread. She found she had lost her appetite. What did he mean to do to her?

She slid away from him to try to get off the table. "You cannot hold me for ransom. Jarrad cannot pay you to get me back. In truth, he doesn't need me to rule the Isle, not when it is King Henry's protection the people want." She added a hasty, "Master," when his hands held her in place on the table.

"My surgeon is waiting outside the cabin. Shall I ask him to enter now?" asked Xavier, ignoring her words.

She shook her head.

He took his time pulling her bliaud down, to trap her arms at the elbow. Slowly, he began to unlace her chemise. The air felt cool on her breasts as he exposed her. She dared not fight him.

Bruises from Boone's grip discolored her from shoulder to elbow. Blood glued her sleeve to her arm where the wound on her arm had bled anew from Xavier's grip. The cloth crackled as he removed it.

Her breasts did not interest him. The wound on her arm caught his attention. "Who did this to you?"

"It's nothing, no more than a scratch." At his warning gaze, she explained, "Master, I tripped Jarrad when he was running with his sword drawn."

"And then? Tell me more, little one. Who died?"

Ferne jumped when he reached around her to unfasten her cap. She felt a wave of relief as her hair tumbled down. With a shake of her head, her breasts were hidden.

"No one died. Jarrad had misheard me, that is why he charged. Then he fell over me and his sword nicked me." She turned to look at him and was surprised to find him silently laughing.

"It wasn't funny at the time, I could have been killed." She frowned at him. "I think my husband was sorry for it afterwards, because he agreed to let Marie marry Duncan."

Wrath leapt into Xavier's face.

Ferne hurried on, "Marie deserves a husband she can love after being married to Black Angus McKay. I see no reason for you to take the marriage in dislike, master, not when you allowed that monster to torment her for years, while doing nothing to aid her."

He wrapped her hair round his hand to force her to lie on her back.

Fire blazed up through her shoulders. Too late she remembered Jarrad's warning to treat his brother with respect. Perhaps she had rebuked him, but he'd deserved it and she had remembered to call him master.

Ferne fought against him. If she had to lie on the table like a roast ready for the carving, she wanted to lie on her stomach, not her back. Spasms of intense pain made her try to climb or fall off the table.

He turned her over and held her down with a warning hand on the back of her neck.

"Don't panic, you cannot really think I am going to rape you." He gave a low chuckle, which sounded like Jarrad. His family had a strange sense of humor! "You were curious to know what I intend for your mother. You now suffer her fate. It is this, you will be pampered and perfumed, the hair on your body removed. You will be dressed in a revealing costume and given as gift to an old friend of mine. I shall tell him you are a whore from the East trained in a thousand way to pleasure a man, and I shall leave you to please him or not, as you wish." He brushed her hair away from her back and made sympathetic noises. "Jarrad's arrival will stop this game at any stage, but I must warn you, we are under way and I doubt he can catch us."

"My mother makes a poor gift for your friend, master."

Xavier's hand rubbed the back of her neck in a soothing way. "Lie still, Ferne. My physician must treat your back."

Ferne jumped to feel someone else's hands removing the rest of her clothing. She had not heard anyone enter the cabin. She shivered at the touch of fingers on her back. To distract herself, she asked, "What happens when my mother won't do as she is bid, master?"

Xavier didn't answer.

She shuddered as liquid was sponged on with a light touch. "Master, you send her to her death. And permit me to say, you are not likely to keep your friend." Ferne hesitated. "Oh, he is not a friend, is he? You intend to give my mother to your enemy! What of your vow to take her to safety?"

Xavier returned to stand beside her. "He will be in awe of her, afraid her talents will overshadow his. He will think she is a gift of great price and treat her like a treasure." Ferne didn't doubt he thought it a splendid trick to play on both of them. He said kindly, "Lie still, little one. Jarrad arrives when he arrives, and there is nothing more to do here but have your wounds cleaned."

He stroked her cheek. "Who did this to you? I know it wasn't Jarrad. He is foolish where women are concerned, too grateful for their favors to beat them, too eager to please. Did you find him so? Or are you going to tell me he did this by accident?"

"James MacBoone beat me." Metal scraped on metal as if a blade was being sharpened. Suddenly, Ferne felt the sting of it on her lower back. "MacBoone kidnapped me and I killed him, though Jarrad says he drowned, but I had killed him first, even if he was still breathing." She babbled on, "Jarrad doesn't like other men to touch me. Be warned, it's really better if you let me go."

He moved away from her. "It is strange to be warned by your touching voice. Tell me more."

He returned to wrap something round her legs. "Don't kick poor Ali. He is miserable enough in these northern seas." A warm cloth slipped up her body to her waist. She muffled a sob of relief.

"You have a tree of splinters in your back, Ferne? Who tended you? They did you no favor, leaving you like this."

Ferne let his question go unanswered. She had no wish to bring his wrath down on her mother's head.

"My physician is a Saracen and knows no tongue but his own. Whimper if he hurts you, the sounds of pain are the same everywhere." Xavier offered her some more bread dipped in honey.

She opened her mouth.

He was a strange mixture of kindness and cruelty.

"May I see what he removes, oh great master of the sea?" she asked politely.

The slight stings were nothing to complain about.

Ferne peered with interest at the splinter Xavier held for her to see. How could her mother have left her like that? Didn't she care if an infection set in? No doubt after sending Boone to do his worst, her mother saw no need to worry about splinters festering in her back.

Xavier showed her more until Ferne turned her head the other way. The stings were growing in number.

She raised her head. "Use lye soap to clean the wounds."

Xavier offered her another piece of bread dipped in honey.

She politely ate from his fingers. It was calming to think that she had lots and lots of splinters to be plucked out. It would take a long, long time. With luck Jarrad would rescue her before Xavier had time to ask more of her than this.

Exhausted, Ferne closed her eyes.

"The drug worked, master, she sleeps."

"Finish quickly. I want her plucked before my brother arrives."

"Lord Jarrad may not appreciate your joke, master."

Xavier stroked Ferne's cheek. "If Jarrad were not my brother, I'd keep her."
Chapter 22

Owen listened from his hiding place in the adjoining storeroom. He knew this ship well. Every hair on his body stood erect with remembrance. He waited for the physician to leave and prayed Xavier du Terrenord had not wits enough to lock the door.

He crept out to try the handle. The door to the cabin swung open. Swiftly he stepped inside, his knife ready. He took the time to bar the door, certain of his skill in the fight.

Lady Ferne lay on the bed, her costume finely transparent. She moved as one waking from a heavy sleep.

At the table, Xavier pored over a ledger, pen in hand. Not exactly the scene of seduction Owen had hoped for.

"My lady, my lady," he shouted, "I have come to save you!"

Xavier leapt to his feet. "What are you doing here, imbecile?"

Owen grimaced and flashed his knife. His breathing was so rapid it threatened all his plans for vengeance. Fear kept him braced against the door.

"Owen, is my lord husband here?" asked Ferne, sleepily.

"He is on his way, my lady. I could not wait for him, lest this foul debaucher of innocents have his way with you. But, fear not, I intend to deprive him of those parts he treasures most."

The stool caught Owen on the hand that held the knife. He clung to the handle, too eager for blood to feel pain.

Xavier leapt for him, dagger drawn.

A scream brought Ferne quickly to her senses.

She leapt to Owen's aid, then stepped back when she realized the scream came from Xavier du Terrenord.

He writhed on the floor in agony clutching his broken wrist to his chest. The bones were cruelly displaced. "You insulted a princess! Idiot! They wanted you, imagine what they'd have done to you. My punishment was the least they'd allow, along with an enormous bribe to save your worthless life."

Owen picked up Xavier's blade to test the edge.

Xavier snarled, "I should have let them have you!"

"Owen, you cannot do this," warned Ferne. "I beg you, think what you are about."

He grinned at her like one possessed. "I avenge your honor, my lady. Shut your eyes if you do not like the sight of blood. Block your ears with your fingers, if you do not like the sound of screams."

Ferne fell to her knees beside Xavier. "You will start a war, Owen. You will break Lord Jarrad's heart, for he loves you the most of anyone in the world. You are his friend. How can you force him to execute you?"

A powerful kick from Xavier made Owen jump gracefully out of range, but he had forgotten about the low ceiling of the cabin. His head hit with such force he stunned himself. In the few moments it took him to recover, Ferne subdued Xavier by holding his broken arm in a warning grasp.

"You might faint from the pain, Xavier, hold still. Believe me, you cannot win a fight with Owen. Not even with two good arms. You've no chance against him now." The man stilled under her words. He knew she was his only hope.

Owen staggered towards them.

"Hold him down, my lady, and I'll love you with all my heart and soul."

"No, you won't! You love Jarrad and you must not harm his brother no matter how just your cause. I'm sorry, Owen, I cannot allow you to do this." She tried to look sternly at him but he was mad with his desire for vengeance.

"My lady, he means to ravish you. I will deprive him of the means to have his way with you." The fool lunged with a knife in each hand.

Ferne rushed to cover Xavier's groin with her hands. The knife flickered in the lamplight to almost graze her fingers. "Stop it, Owen. God give me strength!"

Owen lunged again.

Ferne suffered a scratch on the back of her hand when she covered Xavier's face. She covered each target and made Owen retreat by knocking at the nearest blade with her shoulder. He dared not injure her.

The fool ranted beside her mad with frustration. "You cannot cover all of him. I shall cut his heart out and give it to your lady mother. At least one in your family knows how to seek vengeance. Your mother would urge me on, not try to protect him. Have you been seduced by his face and his honeyed tongue?" He struck at Xavier's heart.

Ferne rushed to position her hands and scared Owen off with a squeak of alarm. She could not scream at him. She tried to talk to him, "I didn't know he had a honeyed tongue, Owen. As for his face, I find my lord husband's face far more beautiful."

Owen snorted his disgust. He raised both knives to aim between her straddling hands.

Ferne caught at the blades. The fool jerked back to watch her blood drip on Xavier's chest. "You are mad, my lady! He deserves to die!" He stared at her hands in dismay.

"You cannot kill your friend's brother," she warned him. "You cannot set brother against brother or make your lord an outcast in his family. Keep back, Owen!"

The door opened and the sea breeze changed the air inside the cabin.

"Owen!" Jarrad's voice blasted from the doorway.

"He raped your lady wife, my lord, give me permission to strike him dead!" shrieked Owen.

"My brother has no taste for rape. And he still lives." Jarrad put his hand on his fool's shoulder and said kindly, "Have you forgotten what happened to the last man who tried to force himself on Ferne?" He took Owen's knives from him, and kept him by his side with an arm round his shoulders.

Ferne removed her hands from Xavier's body. She patted his shoulder and would have left him to the ministrations of his physician, but he grasped her hands to examine them. They were only scratched. "Command me, I am yours. Wish for something that I can give you and it is yours."

"Don't punish Owen for what he has done." She looked up at Jarrad to find him silently watching her with a look of great sadness.

He made no move to approach her, just gave a smile of thanks at her choosing to save Owen.

Xavier sat up to cradle his broken wrist against his chest. "You don't ask me to be kind to your mother?"

She was not so foolish. "Master, you have already made promises to Jarrad concerning my mother. I cannot love her more than he does."

"I'm glad you didn't waste your wish on your mother." said Xavier in a menacing voice. "Owen, take Jarrad away. You know the place." He paused and added in a voice that froze her blood, "You can try to save him from the worst of it, if you think him worth the trouble."

Ferne saw Jarrad's sudden stillness. She recognized his response to his brother's threat. He refused to be moved by it. Jarrad neither demanded to know what he had done, nor tried to argue his innocence.

Xavier asked him, "Did you bring Morag?"

Jarrad unbuckled his sword and gave it to one of Xavier's men who stood behind him. "Yes, Lady Morag is safely stowed. You gave your word, and it seems I have no choice but to be here to make sure you keep it."

Xavier staggered to his feet. "A pity you didn't use your wish to save your husband, Ferne. Now, I must put myself to the trouble of punishing a traitor, or should I leave that to King Henry?"
Chapter 23

Ferne brushed against Xavier's cabin walls now hung with silk as the ship danced in the firth with the retreating tide. Lamps swung to and fro in a sickening manner. She told her uneasy stomach to be quiet. The scent of spiced food wafted in every time the door opened. Her transparent clothing seemed normal now. None of Xavier's men had stared at her when they'd brought her here, nor when they darted in and out with plates and goblets.

The table had been lowered to a foot from the floor. It was set for five. She was seated away from the door. New sounds from the hull, the knock of wood on wood, and the creak of someone climbing on board.

Moments later, Xavier opened the door. His broken wrist was encased in a golden cuff, with a matching one on the other side to disguise his injury. "Come in, Merlin, we are glad you could join us."

The man bowed his head as he entered. The scent of lavender and of smoke from a peat fire came with him. "Master," he replied in a languid voice. He remained standing by the door. His clothes were old and worn, and padded for warmth. Even without rich clothing, he looked like a lord. Silver glinted in his dark hair to show he was long past youth but not yet old.

"Ferne," said Xavier, "I want you to meet Merlin. Ferne is Jarrad's wife."

Merlin bowed with no more than a glance at her.

Xavier pointed to a cushion on the floor beside her. "Sit, my old friend." He took his place at the head of the table.

"If it pleases you," Merlin said in his odd way, as if the words were in no hurry to leave his mouth. His knees cracked as he lowered his body down to the cushion.

Ferne heard Jarrad in those words. Where was he? Her one attempt to ask Xavier had ended with him insisting Jarrad was teaching his slaves a thousand tricks. When she tried to demand to see him, Xavier had asked, do you want to hear him scream? She'd not dared approach him again.

They were four days sail from the Isle of Demons. She'd been allowed to see nothing of the isles they stopped at to load and unload cargo. Her mother never made a sound that she could hear. Owen didn't appear. The crew were strangely silent and wary, ignoring her presence unless ordered by Xavier to escort her up for air or back to her cabin.

Gold plates laden with richly spiced food were placed on the table. Goblets were offered. Ferne's contained watered wine. She saw that Merlin didn't drink from his and he didn't say a word of conversation. He was there, it seemed, against his will.

"The boy is a scholar," said Xavier. "Latin, Greek, French, English, Spanish, Arabic and that heathen tongue of the Gaels."

"What did you expect? He is bright and I love to teach," said Merlin. He ate the exotic food after Xavier had tasted it. Did he expect to be poisoned? Suddenly, he sighed with pleasure and ate with enjoyment. "The lad has sense, a good head on his shoulders. He has only a boy's judgment because he has seen nothing outside the glen since I brought him home."

So that was what Xavier had done with her brother! He'd given him to Merlin to raise.

Xavier hefted a package from under the table to give it to his guest. "Books for you, some scrolls, and a few letters." He clapped his hands. "And you must choose one of my women to take with you."

"I'd rather have my freedom," Merlin drawled.

"You know you have it, for as long as you stay in your glen."

"Thank you, Xavier, you are too kind. Don't think you can forget me and leave me here to rot. If you don't bring me goods to trade, remember, I know where to get them and how. Even if it is over your dead body." The slow drawl gave a humorous edge to Merlin's threat.

The door opened to perfume and the rustling of silk. Morag entered, painted and perfumed, dressed in transparent garments that covered but hid nothing at all. She looked frightened and younger than her years. Jenny followed, her flowing blond hair covering her to the waist, but she had a strange dull look on her face as if she walked in her sleep.

One of Xavier's servants ushered them in. As the men watched, he guided first Jenny to a cushion across the table from Xavier. While pretending to help her sit and arrange her clothing, he lifted the draped cloth aside to give a better display of female parts in such a way that it made the glimpses seem accidental.

Merlin heaped his plate with food. The women were of no interest to either of the men.

Morag refused to be aided to sit. The servant retreated to sit behind her. It was then Ferne noticed the leather thongs bound about her mother's elbows. The servant pulled the bonds tight and released the top veil to reveal Morag's breasts. Her nipples were painted a warm red, her body slender with breasts surprisingly full. Her face showed no emotion. She looked at the table, searching for a weapon with flashing turquoise eyes.

"Merlin, which one do you want?" asked Xavier. "Neither one is very skilled to tell the truth. Jarrad's had little time to instruct them. To be honest, they are whores of not even a hundred tricks. Choose one."

Jenny gave a gasp of surprise that Xavier quelled with a look.

Merlin sipped his wine before he answered, "Neither, though I thank you for thinking of my pleasure. My manhood lost interest after writing that book of a thousand tricks with you. It left me with nothing to offer a whore of even one trick."

Xavier took the goblet away from him. His servants silently cleared the table and removed the cloth. "Would you like me to demonstrate how wrong you are?"

Merlin slid away from the table to answer swiftly, "No, master."

"Then choose one. Ask them questions, if you wish."

"Could they wear more clothes?"

"I'll have them stripped naked so you can examine them, or shall I do it for you?"

"No, master, though I thank you for your kind attention to my meager needs. Let your whores decide which one wants to come with me to live in a poor clan constantly at war with its neighbors. Where keeping warm and fed are more important than knowledge or honor."

"Don't be a fool, Merlin," chided Xavier. "You can finish her training and sell her as a whore of a thousand tricks."

"All the men I know are ravening beasts, not worthy of your perfumed whore. Besides, I doubt she'd survive the cold."

Jenny broke into sobs. She flung herself on the floor in despair.

Xavier gave a quick nod towards the door. His servant carried her out, leaving Morag unattended. Ferne watched her cover herself and remove the restraints quietly and efficiently.

"It seems the choice is made." Xavier raised an eyebrow as if daring Merlin to disagree with him.

"If it pleases you, master, but I can't help thinking that any gift you give me has a price attached that I cannot afford to pay."

Her mother folded her arms across her breasts. She stared at the wall above Merlin's head with icy disdain on her face. Ferne did not doubt her mother was capable of murder. Not that she was any different. It was all very well to be saintly when safe, but Ferne had not hesitated to strike to protect herself. She doubted very much if Merlin would survive the night, if he stood in Morag's way.

"Before you go," said Xavier, "I have a new slave to show you. Handsome enough and educated enough to gain me a high price in the markets of the East." He called, "Bring him in!"

The young man groaned as he knocked against the cabin door.

Morag sprang to her feet.

Two of Xavier's men carried in the youth, naked as the day he was born. His black hair was tied back by a leather strip. When his back hit the table, he opened his blue eyes to see Morag leaning over him. He moaned and lapsed into unconsciousness.

Merlin smote his hand against his forehead. He shook his head as if to clear it. "For God's sake! You can't sell my son!"

Xavier gave a sly laugh. "But he isn't really your son, is he? You can have him, if you can get him ashore. But I doubt very much if you can carry him."

"What the hell was in that wine? Do you never play fair?" Merlin braced himself against the wall, gripping the silk to help him rise. It was clear he had no strength in his limbs.

"I'll help you," said Morag, her voice rasping with emotion. She tried to drag the boy to his feet.

Merlin helped her. They hooked the boy's arms about their shoulders and made for the deck.

Ferne followed them, stopping to take the parcel of books and scrolls with her. A servant held her clothes to stop her from getting too close.

They'd never get the unconscious youth up the ladder.

The cool air from the hatch above revived Merlin.

He stopped Morag's attempt to lift the boy onto her shoulders. "Madame, he weighs more than you do. If you'd be so good as to go ahead of me, I'll hoist him up." Merlin staggered under the weight of the naked youth. He strained up every step, his neck muscles corded, sweat dripped from his hair. When his head and shoulders were out of the hatch, his legs began to shake. Morag pulled the boy from him with a scream of determination. They landed with a thud on the deck. Merlin climbed the last steps.

Ferne raced up the ladder after him with the parcel.

Xavier was already on deck, amused at his joke. He didn't interfere. He just watched Merlin trying to work with Morag. She dragged the youth towards the rail of the ship to collapse beside him, unable to lift him over the side. With half her skirt trapped under him, she tried to roll him over.

Merlin helped her to her feet. He knelt to lift the boy. "Madame, if you'd hold him bent over the rail until I'm ready to catch him. Just let me climb over the side first." Merlin swayed as he clambered over the rail to the rope ladder dangling to the dark water. "The water is very cold. Let's try not to swim back in the dark. Can you see the fire on shore? Yes? No?" He gave a groan of exasperation. "Madame, if we don't know where the shore is, we will be taken out by the tide, with Xavier. Please, look for the fire, my eyes are not as young as yours."

Her mother pointed to a distant glimmer of light.

"Good! Now hang on to him while I take his weight on my shoulder."

The ladder down to the small boat swayed perilously as Merlin climbed down, carrying close to his own weight. For a moment, Ferne thought he had no chance. With a sigh of relief she saw him lay his son down and stumble to hold onto the ladder.

Ferne gave her mother the books. "He wants them, why not take them for him?"

Morag bent over the rail to drop the parcel to Merlin. He knelt to stow it under his son's head.

Ferne watched him stroke the young man's hair from his face and check his breathing. He looked up to call out, "Madame, it was a pleasure to meet you. I thank you most heartily for rescuing us. If there is anything I can do for you, just let me know." He waited in vain for an answer. "You are welcome to come with us, if you wish."

Ferne looked around for her mother. A sack writhed on the deck where her mother had been. Two of Xavier's men lifted it up and threw it into the water.

"A last gift, Merlin! Godspeed! Here is your whore of a thousand tricks." He shouted into the darkness, "Let her drown if you don't want her."

Merlin slid into the water to retrieve the sack. The air inside it billowed then deflated as Ferne watched in horror.

Her mother screamed once.

The craft with the unconscious youth drifted along after Merlin.

His knife flashed and her mother's frantic hands grasped his arms.

"Don't try to climb in from the side, or we will all drown," warned Merlin. He shouted into the darkness, "Thomas! Do not approach! Wait till the cog is out into the firth, then come to pick us up."

Ferne could hear him muttering, "Of all the foolhardy idiots! Were they really stupid enough to think they could take the ship! May as well put one's head in a noose, but that is youth for you, no sense at all. If you'd allow me to get in first, then I'll get you in?" He climbed in, careful to spread his weight on both sides of the small craft.

Morag ignored his outstretched hand. "I can swim. Pass me the rope, I'll pull you to the shore."

"There is no need to exert yourself. Let me get you in before the current sucks you under." urged Merlin. "There is no reason for anyone to die." He took her hand to haul her on board.

The ship nudged the small craft as it was driven forward by the river's current and the wind.

Xavier came to stand next to Ferne. "It's time to go below before you catch a chill."

"You tried to kill her!"

"I gave her something to be grateful for, to stop her from killing him," said Xavier. "What would you have done with her?"

"There is no reason for her to kill him." Now Morag had her son, would she start a war for the Isle of Demons to give him his birthright? Even her mother couldn't hope to win against Henry. "I'm sure she doesn't go around murdering on a whim." The words came out with more confidence than truthfulness.

"It's a habit with your mother. Can she resist the urge to kill? I don't know but I take my promises seriously, Ferne. I was to give her a chance for happiness. Merlin is a good man, honest, educated, trustworthy. Your mother speaks the language of the highlands. She is not a slave, and she can try to make a life for herself with people who look like her and who think like her. She is young enough to bear children and find happiness in raising them. Merlin is a lonely exile who needs a friend and a wife." He stepped away from the rail. "My debt is paid, my promise fulfilled. Don't expect any more kindness from me."

Ferne watched him point to one of the masts. She gave a gasp. How long had Jarrad been fastened there by an iron collar round his neck? He was bound so high that he stood on his toes to not hang himself. The muscles in his legs were knotted with cold and cramps. He watched her with eyes slid sideways, his head held high in an unnatural position by the wide metal ring.

"Your husband is being stubborn. Get him to obey me or you can rot together."

She said lightly, "You told me Jarrad was busy teaching your slaves the thousand tricks."

"I lied. The only one he must teach is you. Persuade him to do it, or not." He bowed to her and drawled, "As it pleases you."

Jarrad's body flinched from her touch. He held his position on his toes by great effort.

"Ferne?" Jarrad's voice shivered. "I thought I saw you ascend in a flash of light, just like an angel."

"I bring you glad tidings, Jarrad. You have to agree to teach me the thousand tricks or we both freeze to death here." She felt for a part of him she could warm in her hands before she chilled. She held his cold rod and cupped him, though she took care not dislodge his precarious stance. Her hands caressed him, stroking and warming him, while she shielded him from the wind. "Is Owen here," she asked.

"He escaped," he said in a dry rasp.

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to regret it, my angel."

"Do you agree to teach me?"

"A thousand tricks? That might take a lifetime."

"Even longer, I have a very bad memory."

"I shall not make a whore of you, my love." His legs buckled as his leg muscles knotted.

She knelt to massage his calves until he regained control. Then she rose to take hold of him again to warm him in her hands.

"Come, Ferne," called Xavier. "Unless you want to stand there all night holding him by his yard." He took her by the shoulders. "He is going to die anyway, what does it matter how?"

She shrugged him off. "It matters, master! You don't help him survive by doing this to him."

Xavier said kindly, "Let go of him, and I will let you stand next to him to persuade him to obey me."

Ferne let go with a last caress. Buckets of sea water poured over her and over Jarrad. Whipped by the wind and deathly cold, she resolutely stood in front of Jarrad with her teeth clenched.

"You have one week to teach her the first hundred, then you demonstrate her skills to me," said Xavier." Do you agree?"

She pleaded, "Agree, my lord husband."

Xavier gave a crow of laughter. "He is not your husband, slave. You are Jarrad's whore and shall learn to act like one."

A roar came from Jarrad, "Guard your tongue, Xavier! Do not insult my wife!"

Ferne carefully rested her cheek on his chest.

"I can do anything I want to her while you are chained like a felon to the mast. Agree, or die there."

"Ferne is my wife," Jarrad said with a shudder.

"You are forgetting that slaves cannot marry without permission."

Ferne looked up at Xavier. "I am not your slave."

"And what do you say, Jarrad? You have sold yourself to me twice. Once for the price of Owen's freedom. And again to win Morag a man capable of pleasing her. Do you want to renege on either of our deals?"

"No, Xavier." Jarrad stared at his brother. "But when you ordered me to give my oath of allegiance to Henry of Anjou, I gave it. Now I serve him and he wants the Isle. I am his to command on land, and yours to command by sea. But he is a king and you are a merchant." With a drawl in his voice, he said, "I must obey my liege lord and live by his rules, not yours."

Xavier laughed in a way that made her blood run cold. "Flog him," he ordered.

She had no pride, she could only beg. "Please don't flog him, master." Her voice quaked so much she sounded like a bleating ewe.

"Get out of the way, slave."

"Ferne, he will flog you," warned Jarrad. "You must get out of the way." They shivered together in the wind. "If ever there was a time for your perfect obedience it is now. Do what you must to save yourself. Saving me is impossible."

"Prepare to strike," ordered Xavier.

"Don't you dare!" shouted Jarrad. "Anyone who touches my wife will become my mortal enemy! Xavier, you know I cannot escape my fate, no matter how angry it makes you. You cannot shield me from Henry's wrath, because he rules most of our world. If his anger doesn't worry me, why should it bother you? Let Henry decide who owns the Isle and who shall rule it. You can't really think I want it. This is all part of a game that must be played out to the end."

"You are a stupid fool to risk your life," said Xavier. "Will you do as I command, while on board?"

Jarrad shuddered his answer, "The first hundred, master."

"You have three days, and then you show me what she has learned. For every mistake she makes, your face is cut open. Teach her well, brother, or you'll be as ugly as you think you are."
Chapter 24

Ferne snuggled closer to Jarrad. Even with extra blankets and warm potions, his body felt cold. The sound of water sliding along the hull, and the creaks and groans of timber masked their whispers.

She lay on top of him to warm him. "What are we going to do when Xavier wants to watch us make love?" She held his face between her hands, knowing she'd do anything to save him from being cut.

"Little angel, I cannot want you to act the whore, not even with me." He gave a great shudder. "Xavier threatens and sometimes he punishes. Not like our father, who always does what he says he will do. Never hope for mercy from him."

"Then, when we refuse, Xavier won't punish us?" she asked hopefully.

"Alas, we cannot know when he means what he says, or when he has lied. But I have made him very angry by risking my life. For some strange reason he loves me, perhaps because he lives in endless exile, and I was the only family member who ever sailed with him. His visits to my father are never pleasurable and he avoids going to meet him, though he can never know exactly which port is home."

"How long were you together?"

"Until I was old enough to serve Henry." He kept his cold hands away from her back, so she held them to warm them. "I was a miserable little boy who expected to die by my father's hand, because I had allowed myself to be scarred by a woman. Luckily, Xavier had some sympathy and never took me home."

"He won't punish you!"

"He might, but he'd do it carefully. We have a few days of peace. I think Xavier is going to visit Somerled."

"Is Xavier going to sell me to him, so he can claim the Isle?"

"No. That would ruin all his plans." He paused to listen to footsteps above them.

She gave a squeak and pulled the covers tighter around them. "Why would it ruin his plans?"

"Because, if my brother puts you in danger, I'll have to stop him."

"How?" She hoped he wasn't going to suggest murder.

He turned on his side to hold her. "The only way to stop Xavier is to persuade him it's not profitable. Or I could kill him."

"Killing your brother is not right. Don't you find him a strange mixture of kindness and cruelty? He wanted me to stop him from punishing you. He wanted to flog you, then stopped when you threatened him. Baron Welford never stopped, not for anyone or anything. He even flogged a corpse."

His lips warmed her ear. "If you want to fear a man, choose Henry. Xavier torments with threats, Henry punishes. There is a difference, I admit it."

"Will it torment you to teach me the first hundred tricks?"

"Three days to learn one hundred tricks? Do you think he wants to keep us busy while we sail to our fate?" He lifted his head to kiss her. "It's been so long, I might have forgotten them."

"We could make them up.

"Xavier will test our knowledge. He wrote a book with Merlin when they were youths. It was a task my father set for them. Neither one took much pleasure from it. Father liked to mock their efforts and I was glad I was too young to be of use. After the first hundred the tricks become more amusing. In those days, Xavier had a sense of humor."

Ferne stroked his scarred cheek. "What will he really do, if we refuse to do his bidding?"

"He might mark my face, because he thinks that is what I fear the most."

"What is number one? Quickly, I must learn them all!"

"Don't you see, he doesn't believe I'll obey him in this. Strangely, he thinks you need to pity me. You must have shown him your soft heart, and now he works on it. I don't want your pity, Ferne. Make love with me because you want me, not to spare me from Xavier's wrath."

"I do want you."

"As I want you, but I want more than lust. I felt the attraction between us when we first met. When you grasped my shoulders and looked at me, I thought for one brief moment that I was not scarred." He laughed at her mock guilty expression.

"I truly meant no insult."

"I know. Let's make love because we are in love. We don't want days of frantic scrambling, with tears and forgetfulness, until at the end of them you don't remember your own name. Let's do this to please each other, not to please him. After all, we have no intention of displaying our skill."

"I don't have any skill."

"You have every skill I need."

"Teach me."

"It is easy to remember what number they are. Let me show you how." His kisses warmed them both. "The first is very simple, as I enter you I use my prized possession and place it in your perfect place. Many men never progress past one, yet live happy lives with joyful wives. Raise one of your knees that is two, I rise up and place your ankle on my shoulder, that is three." He gave a low laugh. "Forgive me for not demonstrating it. I am afraid this place is too cramped for me."

Ferne guessed, "Then the other leg raised is four and five?

"Alas, no. Left or right leg, it makes no difference. My father despised all attempts to cheat him with repetition."

"It is going to get very complicated, isn't it? Long before we reach a hundred."

"What does it matter, if neither of us intends to show our skills to Xavier?"

"I might have to show him, if he marks your face. I owe you perfect obedience, remember that. If you ask me, I must obey you or I'm doomed to eternal damnation."

"The truth is, I don't believe women can obey, so I don't expect it of you. You can't break a vow I don't expect you to keep, not even if my life depends on you obeying me. In fact, you must not keep your vow, if I don't expect you to keep it."

"You are making my head spin. Then why did you ask me to vow perfect obedience?"

"The vow was Father Rab's idea, he didn't ask me if I wanted it. He was never Xavier's slave, doomed to obey his every command. Think, instead, how it cannot be my will to have you suffer or play the whore for Xavier. Ferne, you are going to think of your vow often in these next days." He gave a mournful sigh. "I have only one command, save yourself! Live! And if you bear my child, think of me sometimes and know you have my love for eternity."

"I think I do bear your child."

His eyes filled with tears. "I wish I could live with you forever, my love.

"But why can't you? Is the King going to execute you? Does Henry think you stole the Isle to keep for yourself?"

"He'll not think that when he meets me, but I live and die by his command. And," he gave a sad sigh, "he did not command me to take the Isle. The opportunity arose and I had to take it, or leave the Isle to its fate. I couldn't do that. Marie was there, and Morag was likely to be killed for making war too well, though she had nothing to do with most of it."

"The Isle is the King's now, surely he will let you live."

"If I could stay alive with you by wishing it, I'd live until your last breath."

"Then tell me why your brother thinks you cannot survive?"

"Henry has a temper, and Xavier heard him bellow his rage." He shrugged. "Remember, I am from a merchant family and I am willing to pay to get what I want, even if it costs me my life."

"You want to save everyone but yourself."

"I want to please you." He laughed at her answering growl.

"Don't you want freedom?"

"No man is free. Not Xavier, not Henry. Not me."

Ferne sighed. He wasn't going to save himself. "Shall we jump overboard to swim back to Merlin's home?"

"And be traitors to Henry, so we can live with those dreaded Scots?" asked Jarrad. "I'm glad you had only an hour in his company!"

She laughed with him, but asked seriously, "What if my mother kills him?"

* * * *

Morag cried out, "Don't touch me, I am your mother." She stumbled over a heap of seaweed left by the high tide. The rising sun cast long shadows on the beach.

The youth dragged her among the sand dunes to hide from anyone out on the water. "Hush! My mother is dead." His hands groped under her cloak to twist in the fragile tissue of her clothing. "Teach me all your tricks. My father has no use for a whore, he prefers books to women."

"I am your mother. You were—"

Merlin's voice came from the top of a dune. "Let her go, Angus. The lady is trying to tell you I married her on board ship, while you slept drugged out of your senses."

"You married her!" cried Angus. "One of that man's whores! What possessed you to do that?"

"Because she is not a whore," Merlin said patiently. "Remember, when I told you about little Graeme, the baby Xavier brought to me that died? Well, this lady is his mother, come in search of him."

The young man shrugged an apology. He helped Morag to her feet. "My apologies, my lady mother, did you not know all these years that the bairn had died?"

Morag turned away. Her son was dead! All the years of grief and hope, stirred by Xavier telling her Graeme was dead, and Jarrad assuring her he lived, turned to sorrow. Tears ran down her cheeks, her child was dead.

Merlin held her cloak closed to the wind. He sent his son away with a warning, "Angus, mind the clan. No wars and no wenches. Heed your uncle. I should be back inside a month or maybe two."

Angus gave a hoot of laughter. "Are you going to kill Xavier?"

"For teaching you not to be foolish? You were lucky to escape with your life. I shall thank him for you."

He led Morag towards the sea and made her walk with the noise of the wind and surf masking her sobs. "Weep, it is good for you and if anyone asks my son, he will give witness you believed him, as everyone in the clan believes me. That is my reward for rarely telling lies."

The lady walked beside him, afraid to question him and hope again.

"Xavier really has the luck of the devil, or so I thought when he arrived with your son. A fine bonny boy, just walking, smiling at everyone, being carried by Xavier as if he were the proud father.

"We met at the port where I trade and he gave me your son to raise. The bairn's arrival was a surprise to my wife, we'd just adopted twins whose parents had died. Her nephews from a sister. My wife had offered to let me have children with a consort, but I had no interest in complicating my life with another woman." He glanced at Morag and gave an apologetic cough, as if he'd just realized she was another unwanted complication. He said in apologetic tones, "My poor wife was ill with the dropsy that killed her."

He walked on in silence until Morag began to struggle to keep with him. He slowed his pace to let her catch her breath. She'd have followed him until she dropped from exhaustion, to find out the fate of her son. He couldn't risk being overheard. "Forgive me, Morag, I am old enough to wander in my thoughts and forget my audience. The twins and your son were almost the same age. The twins were not identical, though they both had black hair and blue eyes. Your son fit in with them as if he'd shared the womb. Unfortunately, one of them died of the sweating sickness as soon as we were home. He is buried beside our kirk. My wife was taken ill with them, and when she recovered I told her your Graeme had died, not her nephew."

"Did you tell your wife what she wanted to hear?" Morag carefully didn't ask him if he had lied.

He was glad she showed some sense, despite Xavier's warning to the contrary.

He turned back the way they had come. "Did I tell her the truth? I don't think so. Their nurse had died of the same illness and I had no great skill at distinguishing one small child from another, but I'd noticed that two of the boys had similar blue eyes. One was your son, but which one of them I didn't know and still don't." He shrugged and gave a mournful sigh. "Except Angus is the warlike one, do you think that proof enough?"

Relief made her smile at him and shake her head. They walked companionably over the path through the dunes towards the stunted trees trying to hold back the wind. "Did you tell Xavier my son was dead?"

"Yes, and he shed tears over him. Really, he needs a stronger heart for the life he leads." Merlin gave a low chuckle at her expression of disbelief. "The story is he has banished me for illegal trading, but I'd had enough of serving his father and was glad to return home. Xavier helped me get away, while promising dire punishment if he caught me trading again. Then he brings me gifts to trade. I had bales of goods from the cog before I was given you, though the gift of yourself was received against my will. No insult intended, I assure you."

Morag looked at him hopefully. She didn't know if she could believe him or not, wondering if he told her the truth or what she wanted to hear.

"Have you clothes for me to wear?" she asked. "I can't remove this cloak, lest everyone assumes I am one of Xavier's talented whores."

"Do you mind being my wife?" he asked politely, as if lust had not touched him at the sight of her. "If you'd prefer a convent, or another country, I can arrange it, but if you want to stay to decide which lad is your son, you'd have an easier time as my wife." A lure to persuade the lady to stay with him, but would she take it?

"Thank you for your kindness, Merlin. I will be honored to be your wife."

Yes, the lady had sense. It was far better to be his wife than to wander adrift in Scotland with no one to protect her.

He offered her his arm. "Good! The news we married last night has spread through the clan, not that it binds you, if you change your mind. You'll like your son, whichever one he is. Both are fine young men, with more elegance than Angus showed this morning."

"Where is Graeme?" Her tears forgotten, though they still wet her cheeks, the lady now lived with hope in her heart.

"Graeme went with Xavier, who is on his way to Lancaster to deliver Jarrad to the King. The lad goes to learn to be a monk in France. He takes after me, with a love of learning, and not much interest in war or women. Shall we go after him, so you can meet him? I must confess I want to be there to comfort Xavier, if Jarrad dies."

Morag stopped walking. "Dies from what?"

"My apologies, my dear lady, I thought you knew. Some nonsense with the King, I don't know more than that. We must be there for your daughter, to aid her in any way we can." He tugged her gently along. "Don't dry your tears. You have just heard your son died, and now we are going to visit the poor wee soul's grave and pray at the kirk. Then, off we go to Lancaster."
Chapter 25

"Hush," whispered Jarrad. "You are not supposed to find this amusing."

Ferne held her breath. His lips kissed her inner thighs. The warmth of his mouth at her most wicked place made her collapse in a heap in front of him on the cabin floor. "I can't balance when I can't think. Are you sure this is only twelve?"

"It's an amazing sight for a man. Try again. Let me help you balance."

She raised her legs in the air, lifted her torso and balanced on her shoulders. Slowly, her legs opened.

He knelt in front of her to slide long fingers into her wetness. "Hush. I have to do this."

Kisses tasted her, his tongue swirled to send her from laughter into passion. She gripped his fingers with the only part of her knowing what to do, not daring to move for fear he'd stop. She fell over at last when her body soared so high she did not know which way was up.

He lifted her to lie on top of him and entered her carefully. She met his silent thrusts with her mouth hidden against his chest to mute her cries of passion.

At last, she lay silent in his arms not wanting to talk to him, fearing what she might say. No one wanted to discuss their death unless it had to be faced. She was not going to mourn him while he lived. She wanted to love him and hold him, even as far as death, if her presence helped him.

The door opened without warning.

Ferne flinched.

Jarrad pulled the bed clothes over her.

Xavier looked down at them. "Forgive my interruption of your pleasure. What number do you study now, Ferne?"

Jarrad stood up, naked and glorious. "My wife is busy remembering. What do you want, master?"

"Jenny is going to be given away soon. I need you to teach her the hundred." Xavier shrugged in a careless way. "I can do it myself, if you are too busy with Ferne?" He smiled ruefully. "It's your choice. Do you mind, Ferne? I have no patience with virgins. I can warrant no one will enjoy it."

Ferne saw Jarrad's stillness. Did he mean to rebel? She'd not interfere with his decision. "My lord husband does what he wishes to do, master."

Xavier gestured towards the door. "Go to her now, Jarrad, before you catch cold."

"I'd rather dress, master, my nakedness is too much of a threat to a virgin."

"You don't have time. She is being prepared for me now."

Jarrad pushed Xavier out of the way to leave the cabin.

Ferne wrapped herself from head to toe in a blanket.

Xavier stood by the door, watching her. "I lied," he confessed. "It seems I don't have the power to comfort, like Jarrad does. I simply offered my shoulder for Jenny to weep on. She took my sympathy for a threat and now, no doubt, pours out a tale of woe in his ears. Do you think he'll kill me for it?" He tapped his fingers on the door frame. "We have arrived. You must get ready to meet the King."

* * * *

Ferne looked towards the coast. A white mist obscured her view, but she could smell the bay with its miles of mud and sand bars. It smelled like home when the tide was out.

Jarrad escorted a weeping Jenny on to the deck. He had been allowed to dress and looked a lord once more in the du Terrenord colors.

"Xavier!" he called. "Do you know who Jenny is? She was shipwrecked on the Isle of Demons. Her father is one of the King's men."

A few strides brought Xavier close enough to stroke Jenny's cheek and ask her in a sorrowful voice, "Did you or did you not agree, of your own free will, to come with me?"

The frightened girl sobbed, "I did, but I changed my mind." Jenny shook her head. "I don't want to be a whore." She clung to Jarrad's arm. "It was my only way to get off the Isle."

Xavier smiled down at Jenny but his eyes were hard. "You could have asked my brother," he said gently. "He cannot resist saving women, even those who deserve no pity." A squeak of terror was his only answer. "You, my dear Jenny, deserve pity and I give it freely, but Somerled is waiting for my gift."

Jarrad persuaded Jenny to let go of him. "You never meant to give her to Somerled. Admit you wanted her for yourself. You always had a weakness for blondes and Jenny is beautiful. If you never try to please a woman, how can you be surprised when they shrink from you?"

Xavier said to Jenny with a humble expression on his face. "If you'd told me you had family, I'd have gladly aided you to find them."

Jenny looked doubtful, but she did no more than curtsy her gratitude and shrink from him.

Xavier gave a shudder of anger. "My brother can persuade women to love him, when he tries. How fortunate for him!" He shook his head in mock sorrow. "Obviously, Jarrad, you did not do my bidding." He pointed to a block of wood on the deck. "Place your hand there. Now!"

Ferne ran to Xavier. "You cannot maim your brother." Was this one of his threats? The pain she saw in Xavier's face when he looked at Jarrad, made her fear the worst.

"To save my brother's life, I would do it. Would you rather have him die?"

"Maiming him won't save his life!" She patted Xavier's chest to get him to look at her. "Listen to me, Owen was training Jarrad to fight a foe he knew. There must be hope! If you maim your brother, you will die by Henry's command."

The crew surrounded Jarrad, forcing him towards the block of wood. He stilled in that strange way he had and stared out over the water towards the coast. The mist burned away slowly as the sun rose higher in the blue sky.

"The penalty for disobeying me is what?" Xavier put his uninjured arm on her shoulder. "What should it be, Ferne? Name it! Name something that will save his life."

She had no idea how to save Jarrad from King Henry. "There is nothing you can do for him. Jarrad has his fate, and he must face it or be forever a hunted man. His choice is to live or die with honor."

"Or I could simply kidnap him, and take him away. Sell him somewhere no one will find him. Shall I pretend he died from the plague?" He took her to stand in front of Jarrad and left her there.

Ferne whispered, "Is it too far to swim to Scotland?"

He held her in a warm embrace. "And leave Jenny to Xavier's mercy?"

"Won't he let her go?"

"Not if he means to keep her," Jarrad warned. "The further she is from home, the more likely she is to want the safety he offers." He kissed her forehead. "I don't know my fate, but I must go to the King to give him the Isle. My perfect obedience is to Henry, my liege lord."

Xavier's voice sounded behind them. "When you are ready to lose your hand to save your life, it shall be done. Shall I make it look like an accident? Let's wait until we make port, then I'll maim you in front of witnesses to your foolishness."

"If you look over there, brother, you will see this part of the game is over and the last moves are about to begin."

Warships lined the deep channel from the bay. They loomed out of the mist bearing the King's standard.

Xavier gripped the rail. "Then return Owen, and we are even."

"No. I freed Owen and will defend his right to be free with my life. If you meet Henry, remember he has his royal dignity, so you must lessen yours." Jarrad called to Jenny, "Get your things, you are coming with us." He grasped Xavier by the shoulder. "Remember, you are only a merchant now."
Chapter 26

Boone squinted with his one good eye as he watched Morag smile at a man. He adjusted the bandage hiding what was left of his blind eye. That was a sight he never expected to see. The fool guided the two in, speaking in such joyful tones it made Boone want to strangle him.

"We made it! Give thanks! Always give thanks when you have survived a sea journey. The King is waiting for us. Why he wants Ireland, I can only guess." The fool capered around. "Jarrad is here, I can feel it in my bones. Hurrah! Hurrah!"

"Hush, Owen. We made good time." The man held out his arm to Morag. "My lady, I hope you are not too fatigued by the journey."

Morag said joyfully, "I'd travel to the ends of the earth to meet your son."

"Then I can only hope you are truly interested in understanding him."

"What do you mean?" she asked

The fool took Morag by the arm to pull her along. "I can smell dinner. Let us not be late. I care not if it is fish and bread, just let it be in my belly."

"Wait, fool. What do you mean, Merlin?" asked the lady.

"He means, my lady," said Owen, "that he hopes you want to find out who this son is and what he wants from life. For all you know, he wants to be like the librarian laird and is not like you. That is to say he is a reader and not a warrior. Not that you have killed anyone recently, as I can attest if I have to bear witness, though I'd rather have to bear dinner."

He leapt high to sniff the air. "Don't expect much in the way of dainties. Henry cares not what he eats. Let's dine before I die from hunger."

Boone watched them go. They'd all die soon enough, and not from hunger.

* * * *

King Henry watched Jarrad like an angry fox. His flushed countenance almost masked his freckles, and matched his bloodshot eyes and his red hair. The court listened at a safe distance, waiting for the axe to fall. The King's anger was held at bay by his surprise at being told of the conquest of the Isle without any cost to his crown.

"My liege," said Jarrad, "the Isle of Demons accepts your rule. The English prefer a male to rule them, and a King who wars with Scotland is readily hailed as their ruler. The Celts are not loyal to Scotland, but they acknowledge a firstborn's right to rule, even if female, if only because it gives them a chance to marry her and rule. When I found out what they planned, I thought it best to marry Lady Ferne and take the Isle for you. The Celts who plotted to kidnap her have fled to Ireland. The rest have English wives or no taste for war."

King Henry smote Jarrad on the chest. "You married Lady Ferne without my permission!"

"My liege, it was never my intent to usurp the lordship of the Isle, but there was no other way to do it without an army."

"You show your merchant blood, Jarrad, when you prefer to negotiate instead of fight." Henry's anger cooled, he saw the advantage of so easy a conquest. He glanced at his waiting courtiers, who carefully did not meet his gaze. "Ralph of Hereford has my permission to challenge you for the insult to his family. I thought you'd run away to escape him!"

He warned, "If you thought taking the Isle was a way to win my favor, or if you see it as a bribe, just be glad I have not taken offense and removed your head from your shoulders."

Jarrad bowed. The truth was worse than the King's accusation. His reason for taking the Isle had nothing to do with adding to the King's lands. But Henry wanted the Isle and was clever enough to not foment trouble there by executing him. Not when all the King had to do to be rid of him, was wait until he fought Ralph of Hereford.

"May I introduce Merlin to you, my liege?" asked Jarrad. "The Laird is eager to thank you for your interest in his treatise on justice."

The scholar King gave a shout of triumph. "He is here? How did you persuade him? I have often urged him to visit me."

"He is recently married to Morag, who is Lady Ferne's mother. It was she who persuaded him to come with me."

"That woman is not allowed to show her face. A woman who has murdered three husbands should be burned to death. That is the law. Is Morag with him?"

"No, my liege, she is not." Jarrad quickly changed the subject to one Henry held dear. "Merlin has made a study of the alphabet, with a view to making it more legible."

"A fine hand he writes, it can be read by candlelight. Bring him to me after dinner." Henry dismissed Jarrad with a nod and a warning. "Watch out for Ralph. I want your head on your shoulders if you can keep it there. What will be your next gift? Ireland?" He laughed at his joke and dismissed Jarrad with a nod.

Lancaster castle was full with the King's court and petitioners begging for justice. Jarrad made his way out of the crowd, into the courtyard, where he had left Xavier guarded by Owen. A strange idea for both of them.

"Whoremaster!" shouted Ralph of Hereford, the King's champion. His thin body twitched with eagerness to kill. "You die by my hand, Xavier du Terrenord." He lashed out at Owen, who danced out of the way. Ralph sneered, "You are not my brother! I disown you! You are an insult to the family and my honor. You should have died fighting, not let them castrate you."

"Bastard!" shrieked Owen. "You sold me to him for a sword of Damascus steel."

"Worthless scum!" shouted Ralph. "You were supposed to escape, not go with him. I'll kill you, after I kill the du Terrenords."

"You didn't want to share your inheritance. I wanted only the pittance our father left me. You wanted rid of me. How was I supposed to escape when you'd knocked me senseless?" Owen tried to hide behind Xavier.

"You weren't supposed to drink the whole flask and fall on your head, you stupid fool." Ralph flicked a knife at Owen's face. "Why don't I make you as pretty as your master is?"

Jarrad caught Ralph's hand. "Your quarrel is with me. My brother is a merchant, not trained in the art of combat and you cannot fight Owen. The only one you can fight with honor is me. I accept your challenge and will meet you at dawn tomorrow."

"You die tomorrow," sneered Ralph. "I'll carve your flesh until it hangs in shreds."

"And I will give you a chance to do it. Tomorrow."

Jarrad led Xavier back to his ship through the crowded town. They walked arm in arm with Owen following them, keeping a wary eye out for his brother.

Xavier said with a frown, "So all my worry about Henry was for nothing. How good a fighter is Ralph?"

"As good as Owen, but he is more murderous in his intentions."

"What will be the outcome?"

"I cannot win. He meant to challenge me before I went to marry Ferne. I had almost persuaded Henry to let me use my knowledge of the Isle on his behalf, before I had to fight Ralph. But in the end the King didn't trust me, he thought it only an excuse to leave the court and not fight."

"Come away with me."

"No. There is no honor in running away."

Xavier said hopefully, "I have gifts for the King and his Queen."

"Give them, but don't expect an audience. Henry has a love of scholars and will talk to Merlin for hours yet." He let go of Xavier's arm when they reached the docks. "Don't linger here. Don't even think of vengeance. Ralph is the King's champion. Just think Xavier, if I won then it would be my task to slay all of Henry's dragons. It would be a dog's life for a du Terrenord."

"This is not a court battle! Come away with me, as my brother not my slave. We can trade the world over and not set foot anywhere Henry rules. Why does the King allow you to be killed uselessly?"

"It's just a fight. It is not supposed to end with my death, but Ralph is so fast that I'll be dead before anyone can stop him."

"Come on board with me," urged Xavier.

"Never. You have your fate and I have mine."

"You are mad!"

"And you are a merchant. I live in a different world from you, one where I give obedience to my liege lord. The Isle is quiet and belongs to Henry. Morag is safe. Ferne will have Hollingham, unless Henry insists she marries, but it will never be to Ralph. He is half mad, and only good to murder legally those who stand in Henry's way. Owen will stay with Ferne, to protect my unborn child and help raise him or her. There is nothing for you to do here, Xavier. Promise me, you won't try to scourge England, I am not worth it."

* * * *

"Mother?" A youth stood by the door to the cabin on Merlin's ship. His cropped black hair stood up from his forehead, and the shape of his face reminded Morag of his father. The resemblance was even stronger now than when he was a child, but unlike his father his face was kind and peaceful.

"I am Graeme, your son, aren't I? I can see recognition in your eyes. Do I look so much like my father?"

Morag let her tears fall. "Do you hate me? I loved you from the moment of your birth and never stopped loving you and praying for you."

He kissed her cheek. "Don't weep. Everyone tells me you are a fearless warrior. You are going to make me think them liars."

"I didn't know you were alive."

"I am very much alive, Mother." He sat beside her on the low bed.

"The Isle of Demons belongs to you, Ferne doesn't want it. I want to give you your birthright."

He knelt on the floor in front of her. "I am going to be a Benedictine monk. Xavier has agreed to take me to France."

"Don't go with him. He is evil. He told me that he'd killed you!" She wiped her tears away with a steady hand. She despised being a watering pot and tears were never useful in this world.

"I'm alive, so Xavier cannot be as hard a man as you think," said Graeme. "I've heard he loves his brother and only banished Merlin to save him from a life he hated."

Morag saw there was no gain to be had in arguing with her son. "Why do you want to take holy orders?"

He smiled like a saint. "To save your soul."

She had no patience with saints. "Your father killed many times the number of men that I killed. I only protected myself."

"I will pray for you both."

"Is this Xavier's doing?"

"Mother, I have always wanted to be a priest. To read and write, to think and pray, those are my pleasures."

"Marry first, have children. Decide later."

He rose to kiss her hand. "Goodbye, Mother. You can write to me and visit me, if you wish. If not, I will see you in heaven."

* * * *

"By God's Blood!" called Simon de Gravis as he sat on a bench in the tavern below the castle walls. "I'd swear to hack your limbs off, if Ralph hadn't got there before me. Henry promised me that Isle! Now that he wavers about it, I shall have to wait for you to die so I can marry your widow. You are a damned strange friend." He laughed and offered Jarrad a tankard of ale.

Jarrad raised it to take a long drink. "The Islanders are not called demons as a joke. They'd have cut your throat for the exercise and wondered who you were afterwards. Do I have to point out that you can't speak either of their languages? You should thank me for taking the Isle for you."

"For me? You don't want it? Come now, Jarrad, confess you want to be Lord of the Isle."

"Henry decides who rules there. If you marry my widow, you must treat her well and raise my child as if it were your own."

"Shall I take her from you now?" offered Simon.

Jarrad laughed. "After I am dead is soon enough."

"Introduce me, lest the lady decides to murder me when I try to take your place."

"Simon, try not to lure her away before I am dead, or I shall meet you and hack your worthless parts from your cooling body."

"Your brother has offered me a whore of a thousand tricks to forgive your insult to my honor." Simon reddened at the thought.

"He doesn't have one with him," said Jarrad.

"Xavier swears he will bring me one from the East, laden with gifts, perfumed and eager to please." Simon laughed uneasily. "Do you think she'd like me? I'd feel like a clumsy oaf beside her."

Jarrad had seen enough nervous men, who would be content with a placid wife, to offer some advice, "Why not get married? Xavier never gives whores to newly married men."

Simon choked on his ale. "Nay, I'm not that desperate. I have to wait on Henry to find out what he means to do, after you are dead." He shrugged and changed the subject. "If Henry were really angry with you, you'd be in chains now."

"He is looking forward to seeing me fight tomorrow. Make sure Ralph doesn't go after Xavier when I am dead. I fight on his behalf."

"God's Blood! Very clever of you to save your brother! Two for the price of one." He slapped Jarrad on the back with sympathy. "You have no chance against him, I am sorry to say. Ralph looks as if a wind could blow him over, but he is fast as the devil. He hasn't lost a fight yet."

Jarrad got up to go. "Watch over Ferne when I am dead. Stop Xavier from taking her away, if you can."
Chapter 27

Owen waited at the harbor. He leapt out from behind a bale to prevent Xavier du Terrenord from boarding his ship.

"You've got to stop him, master." Owen quaked at being so close to his enemy.

"Jarrad cannot be controlled. He is as hard to rule as you are, fool. And don't offer to sell yourself to me, there is nothing I can do against the King. Besides, I'd rather not have you back, not even if you were made of solid gold."

"I have a plan, master. My brother is a glutton, and when he starts to eat, he cannot stop." Owen followed Xavier on board. He had half a mind to break Xavier's other arm, except he needed him. "I want food, dainties from your stores, lots of them."

"Take what you want. It might be your last meal," warned Xavier.

"And if I save Jarrad's life?" Owen rose on his toes to stare down his nose at Xavier.

"I swear to fill your belly for eternity," promised Xavier.

"With choice food, not molten lead." Owen waited for his answer.

"With choice food. What a high opinion you have of me."

"And drink?" asked Owen.

"And drink," agreed Xavier.

"Not poison." Owen laughed and twirled about to show his disdain.

"I have never killed anyone with poison. Get on with it, before I change my mind!"

Owen skipped away with a mocking bow. He whistled and shouted to Graeme to bring the cart closer. He'd bought fruit tarts and meat pies from the vendors and anything else likely to tempt Ralph to gluttony, but the dishes from Xavier's cook were the way to make his brother open the door and feast.

By the time they were on their way to Ralph's quarters, the sun was sinking low in sky. Owen sorted all the jars, pots and flasks around him to place the most mouthwatering ones closest to the door. "Brother Ralph! Dearest Ralph! I've brought dainties to celebrate your victory." The cold stairs to the tower chamber would soon be lined with lesser men who slept where they could. He needed to get inside with all the food before he was robbed of it.

He squeezed a honeyed fig under the door. "Try that my fine brother. You haven't tasted the like in England."

The door opened. A foot kicked the fig away.

Owen scratched himself idly, as if he did not fear what Ralph might do, and plucked another fig from the pot. He ate it with relish, and reached for a handful of dates. "They are sweet and delicious. Stolen from Xavier du Terrenord's private hoard. Try one." With his other hand, he held up a jar of fragrant jelly. "Dip a date in this and tell me you are tasting the fruits of paradise."

"Is it poisoned?" asked Ralph.

"Would I eat it, if it were?" Owen ate with reverence and moans of sensual delight.

"Yes, you might because you are a fool."

"Even fools like to eat." Owen opened a dish of chicken fragrant with spices. The scent from it made Ralph's nose twitch. "Do I dine alone, or do you invite me in? I have stewed rabbits, all manner of fritters, cheese and quince dumplings, tubs of honeyed fruit, and a lake of rich custard to drown a host of fruit tarts. I have birds of all kinds, seasoned and stuffed. Food fit for the King, if he had any interest in eating like one. There is enough for both of us."

Owen gave a sly smile as he helped Ralph carry the many assorted containers into his chamber. They would not all fit on the table, so Owen lifted the lids from the warm ones first.

"Take this, brother." He held out a golden spoon. "The Gods on Olympus dined on such dainty fare. I stole the spoon, you can have it. I have another one for me." He shoveled up a great spoonful of meat ground with spices, with a rapt expression.

Ralph took the offered spoon and the dish for himself. He elbowed Owen away from the table and began to eat with smacking gulps and loud sighs of pleasure.

Owen rushed to open another pot, to take one spoonful and let his brother take the rest from him. Ralph was welcome to sate himself many times over. The more he ate, the slower he'd be in the morning.

* * * *

Jarrad held Ferne close to his heart. "We have to stop, it's almost dawn."

"No, the sky is still dark." She sighed and nibbled his shoulder. "I begin to think of plotting with Xavier to kidnap you to keep you safe. There must be a way you can win?"

"Sometimes, all that remains is hope. I'm sorry, my love. I wanted to help you escape another raid. To give you a refuge where you'd be safe under Henry's protection." He kissed her eyelids. "I wanted to help Morag leave the Isle and to let her meet her son, if he lived. I wanted to leave her with a man to protect her, who would never abuse her. I wanted to put the world to rights before I died. Will you look after Owen for me?"

"Where is he?"

"No doubt, he is making peace with his brother, to find a way to bribe him or in some way to stop him." He gave no sign he expected Owen to succeed.

"Won't Owen try to kill him? Not that brothers should try to kill one another." Not unless it kept her husband safe.

"Owen knows his brother is the King's champion. He can't kill him or drug him. Even though he plays the fool, Owen in no fool."

"Yes, but I can't stop hoping Ralph falls down the stairs and breaks something. Even if it is with Owen's help."

"I have often wondered, when I bought Owen from Xavier for my freedom and my birthright, if it were not some elaborate plot to give me a friend. We were often flogged together for our sins. That is when I learned to never flinch, and never try to explain. A slave has no rights, except silence."

"You never thought you paid too high a price for Owen?"

He laughed and rolled onto his back, taking her with him. "Owen in exchange for my birthright? In those dark days, my father had sentenced me to death for not killing Morag, after she marked my face. If Xavier had not somehow, accidentally, sailed away with me, I would have been long in my grave. Years later, when I belonged to King Henry, my father decided I might be useful, though I have never given him reason to think it."

"You don't think these are dark days?"

"My love, no day I share with you is dark."

Ferne placed his hand on her heart. "I cannot bear to lose you. If only we could stay here together, forever. I love you. And your child shall love you, for the rest of our days."

"Forgive me, for everything." His kissed her gently, then stared sadly into her eyes. "It's time for me to go. I'll send Graeme to escort you when it's time. If I die, go straight to the King, and know I died with your name on my lips."

She helped him wash and dress. "Aren't you going to wear mail?"

"No, I need speed. Ralph will be weighted down with his. It might give me an advantage, if I can last long enough to exhaust him."

Ferne hugged him and prayed with all her heart it was not for the last time. "I love you, Jarrad."

"I will always be with you." He kissed her lips and rubbed a warm hand over where his child lay sleeping inside her. "I love you, my angel."

He kissed her cheek. "Don't say goodbye."

Ferne watched him go with a heavy heart. She dressed with care, knowing eyes would be upon her and not wanting to disgrace him in any way. Tears came and went. She fought for control of herself. She knew Xavier's surgeon surpassed her in skill and that he would be there in case there was any hope, but she had seen enough sword wounds to know a swift death was better than a slow and painful end.

At a knock on the door, she opened it to admit Graeme, to find herself face to face with James MacBoone. His fist at her throat shoved her backwards into the chamber. The door slammed shut behind him.
Chapter 28

"Fool! What do you think you are doing?" Jarrad held his sword in both hands to fend off his attacker. "You'll never get away with it. Everyone here can tell you are not your brother. Smite harder, before our audience falls asleep watching us."

Ralph smote harder. He burped a ripe stench from a stomach still laden with a feast that had not ended till dawn. He peered at his opponent through the slit in his helmet. "I am no fool!"

"That's true enough, you only act the fool. Leap about. Your brother is the King's champion, not the King's sluggard." Jarrad pressed his attack and was astonished to see his opponent fall onto his back and stay there.

"Get up!" Jarrad gestured for him to rise.

Ralph's sword whipped between them. Jarrad leapt back to save his hand from being parted from his arm.

"That's better. Get up before you fall asleep down there." Jarrad gave him room to rise.

With a belch worthy of a giant, Ralph staggered to his feet to attack. Blades sparked each time they met, but neither man could best the other. Their arms began to tire. Jarrad twisted his blade to send Ralph's sword into the dirt.

"Pick it up, Owen! Have you no sense at all? Half the knights here could win this contest with one hand missing. The King is going to be furious. Make it look real, I've no wish to see you flogged for trying to save me."

"I am not trying to save you, I am trying to kill you!" shouted Ralph. He picked up his sword and wiped the mud from it.

"Very convincing, Owen. You have his voice but you are fighting as if you have done nothing but eat the night away. Not that your skill could ever pass for his." Jarrad closed in. "Fight or make Henry laugh. God knows you can do that better than this!"

"Maggot ridden bastard! I am not a fool! God strike you down, if I cannot!" howled Ralph.

* * * *

Graeme guided Morag to Ferne's door with reluctance. He knocked and said, "I am sure she has already gone, Mother. You must not be seen in England, take care what you are about."

Morag shook her head. "Ferne sent a message to Merlin's boat asking me to meet her here. Maybe she is ill." She kept her veil over her head, not that anyone knew her in England. Something bad was going to happen, she could feel it.

"She may be heartsick," said Graeme. "They say Jarrad has no chance and the King only allows it because he needs Ralph more than Jarrad, now that he has the Isle."

"What?" cried Morag. "Is it a fight to the death? I knew something was amiss."

The door opened. Ferne stood with head bowed and a knife at her neck. James MacBoone beckoned them in. Morag stepped in front of her son to give him a chance to run away. Instead, he followed her inside.

"What a surprise to see me here!" Boone bared his teeth in a mocking grimace. "We've been waiting for you. Now, what game shall we play?"

Morag swayed on her feet. She felt sick, as she always did before she murdered. "I will trade you the Isle for my daughter."

Boone laughed at her. "You don't own it, Morag. Tell this bitch, she is married to me. Tell her, you gave her to me."

"I gave you to him, Ferne. I regret it, but I did." Morag scorned any man who thought a promise held good when it was made under duress. She gave a sigh and pretended to faint. She let her head hit a small stool first, before she landed on the floor with a thud.

Ferne tried to go to her mother, and cried out when the knife pricked her neck. Boone seemed to like the sound so much that she moaned and cried out without putting him to the trouble of cutting her again. He'd done it carefully. She knew he did not mean to kill her so painlessly.

"Oh, Boone, what are we to do? I'll be a widow, alone in the world. I'd marry you willingly now I know I was promised to you." Ferne leaned against him. To her surprise, he had difficulty keeping his balance. The arm holding the knife stretched out to aid him to stand upright. As if it were all the invitation her mother needed, Morag sat up and hurled a knife at Boone.

Ferne ducked. Did her mother not notice she was there?

Boone jerked out of the way. The knife missed them to bounce off the wall and clatter at their feet.

Graeme grabbed Boone's wrist and held on to keep the knife away from her.

Still trapped in Boone's embrace, Ferne scraped the bandage from his eye. With quick fingers she pulled the twig out, sure he'd drop down dead like Harold the woodsman had done.

Boone stared at her through his one good eye. His muscles strained against her brother's grip. The knife turned in his hand as he tried to cut and slash. Her body impeded Graeme's ability to twist Boone's arm to make him drop it.

With a wheezing gasp, Boone stopped breathing.

Ferne looked down to see her mother's hand at Boone's chest. His blood flowed to stain her hand red. Her mother pressed upwards with all her might until it seemed as if her hand would vanish inside the wound.

Morag withdrew her knife with a twisting motion. She stepped back so as not to stain her clothes and said calmly, "Always stab upwards in the belly towards the heart, if you cannot stab downwards from behind into his neck. Never stab downwards from the front, lest your knife glances off the ribs."

Ferne watched Boone fall to the floor. "I know how to kill, Mother. I've sewn enough wounds. I didn't have a knife. Besides, I was trying to kill him without leaving a mess."

"You should always have a knife hidden somewhere, along with a spare one, just in case. Keep them in your hose or in your bodice. Never be without a weapon," chided Morag.

Aye, it's true," agreed Graeme. "You'll never catch a clanswoman without a dirk or two hidden somewhere."

"He should have died from a twig in his brain. Graeme, please go to get some water. We have to clean the floor and bind him up, so we can move him without betraying what we have done."

Graeme went out to do her bidding. He closed the door quietly behind him.

"Do you think anyone heard us?' asked Ferne.

"No, they are all watching Jarrad fight."

"Good God! Pray I have time to reach him before the end."

A warm hand clasped her ankle. Ferne kicked to free herself. In an instant she was upended, dangling in Boone's grasp as he rose from the floor.

He lunged for her mother's throat but could not hold them both. Ferne landed on the floor with him beside her. She grabbed the stool and smashed it against his skull. She didn't stop hitting him. Not when he sank to his knees, not even when he fell face down on the floor. Not when a leg of the stool fell off. She didn't stop until she saw his brains and squashed them.

Minutes must have passed. Graeme returned with Merlin.

She tried to speak and found her lips were stuck to her teeth. Her arms ached, her fingers held so tightly to her weapon that she could not put it down.

Merlin tried to pry her hand open. "You can let go now. He's dead."

Ferne held on. "He's been dead three times that I know of. I think he's the devil incarnate. What if he wakes up again?" She came to her senses with a great shudder. "I killed him."

"No, I killed him," said Morag. "You hit a dead man, that's all. I put my knife in his heart."

"No, I killed him first," insisted Ferne. "And I'm not sorry for it."

"We killed him together," conceded Morag.

"Yes". They might burn in hell, but at least they wouldn't be alone.

Merlin helped her to rise. "Go to Jarrad, he might ask for you." He placed his cloak over her shoulders to hide the bloodstains. "Morag and I will clean up here and take the body away. Graeme will help you find Jarrad."

"Let's pray for all our souls on the way, and forever more." Graeme opened the door.

A distant roar made Ferne stiffen her wobbly legs to manage the stairs. It could not be! That awful sound must not mean Jarrad was dead.

* * * *

Owen watched the fight from his knees in front of the King's dais. Henry had a fondness for fools. A steady drizzle of rain began, which made the muddy ground slick and dangerous.

Why didn't Jarrad kill Ralph? Damn all du Terrenords! They were hopeless at killing. Their merchant blood led them to sell their enemies, not waste them. And where was Lady Ferne? He was supposed to be guarding her.

He gave a guilty shiver.

Owen waited until Jarrad had struck three blows in a row with no response from Ralph. He could hear a deep rumble of rebukes and realized Jarrad thought he'd taken Ralph's place. Well, he was loyal but not stupid.

He whispered, as if to himself, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the King, "Does Lord Jarrad think Ralph is me? He speaks my name and urges him to fight."

A shout of laughter came from the King. No one could say Henry didn't have a sense of humor.

"Go stop it, fool," called the King. "Before someone gets hurt."

"My lord!" Owen leapt to his feet and waved his arms high. "Your lady wife has been kidnapped. Help!"

He laughed to see how fast Jarrad wrested Ralph's helmet off to knock him out with a blow to his chin. Owen had a similar sensitivity. He leapt for joy, and turned a somersault to celebrate his lord's victory.

The crowd roared with laughter at Ralph's plight. King Henry joined in, slapping his thighs and guffawing.

Owen let Jarrad stride away to search for his wife. It wouldn't do to risk his wrath by confessing he had fallen asleep after letting Ralph eat everything, and he had no idea what had become of Lady Ferne.

Except there she was, running over the field, giving little screams with every breath. Her brother, Graeme, tried to stop her from approaching, but the lady wept and did not see that the body on the ground belonged to Ralph.

The lady fell to her knees to run her hands over his brother. Ralph woke up with a start when she reached his groin. He knocked her hands away and sat up to vomit.

"Sir Ralph, it's you!" cried Lady Ferne. "Owen, come to help him."

Did the lady have eyes in the back of her head? He'd rather not approach Ralph so soon, but at least Jarrad couldn't fault him now for losing her.

He approached cautiously to hear her say, "Keep still and quiet. Drink only small beer. You must not fight for at least a month or you might never recover properly."

"There is nothing wrong with me, Lady Ferne," grumbled Ralph. "It's kind of you to care what becomes of me, after I killed your husband."

The lady paled and began to shake.

Owen protested, "Nay, you didn't kill Jarrad. Look, he is over with Henry. Though I doubt if royal congratulations on his victory are welcome right now."

Ralph wiped his mouth. He grasped Owen's shoulder with a sticky hand. "I've decided Jarrad can live. He tried to save you and worried only for you, not himself." He added slyly, "You can live with me, if you'd like? We'll eat like kings at his expense!"

"Thanks, but I dare not, for fear you'll sell me when you need a new weapon." He knelt with head bowed. "The King is coming. Lady Ferne, the King is here." He called so all could hear, "Don't kiss your husband in front of the King, my lady. Don't fondle him all over! I'm sure all his parts are intact. Have some respect for Majesty!"
Epilogue

Ferne hurried along the gallery with the view of the harbor. Two young knights followed her from a distance. A busy port meant strangers were often in the castle.

She greeted the man looking out at the sunset. "Xavier, there you are. Why are you hiding here?" She went on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, only to have him pull back from her with a shaky, respectful bow. "Are you counting your ships?" she asked.

He straightened up with difficulty. His face bore signs of violence, a blue bruise on his jaw and a wound on his brow.

Ferne repeated the words he'd used to her with a smile, "What happened to you, Xavier? Why are you in this miserable condition? Your value is less than worthless."

His eyes flashed in surprise, and he gave a ghost of a smile. "We were attacked by pirates, my lady."

"What happened to Jenny? Did your dowry find her a husband?" She would let him tell his story about pirates at dinner. "Walk with me," she commanded.

He limped docilely beside her. "She married Simon de Gravis, and is now big with child." He put out a hand to steady himself on the wall when they turned a corner.

"You must stay with us to recover your health." Ferne waited for his reply in vain. "Perhaps I'll find you a wife," she teased, as if that was an inducement for him to stay.

"My lady," he said, keeping his voice strangely humble, "I cannot marry without my father's permission." He gave a defeated shrug. "He has a private army to compel my obedience."

"No longer." Ferne assumed a sorrowful expression. "I have sad news. A letter came from Genoa informing us of your father's death."

"But—" he stopped.

Ferne saw the look of disbelief on his face. It warred with his need to believe her. She said gently, "You must be shocked at the suddenness of it."

"Yes, it's been a while since I've seen him. I had no idea he was ill," he said, in mocking tones.

"A sudden event. Quite tragic." She tried to look sorrowful as she lied. "Your father announced his own imminent death in a letter. Death was certain."

Xavier slowly shook his head. "Sad, very sad." He smothered his laughter.

"I'm glad you are here to comfort us at this very sad time." She stretched up to kiss his cheek. To her delight, he gave a chuckle and let her do it. "You are just in time to celebrate with us," she said.

"What do we celebrate?"

"Your arrival! Come, you'll feel better by the fire. You can sit next to Father Rab and compare your aches and pains."

Xavier offered her his arm.

She took it lightly, not knowing where he was injured. "We are roasting a swan in your honor. Although, if I were you, I'd eat the chicken stewed with pepper and grains of paradise. Swans are only good for show. Be amazed when it comes to the table with fire flaming from its beak."

She called to William to help Xavier into the hall, then went ahead to wake Father Rab from a nap, and warn him not to add a vow of obedience when Xavier got married. "Not perfect, imperfect, or any kind of obedience, Father."

"Aye, lass, if a lady is going to take her chances with Xavier, it's prayers she needs. Vows will do her no good at all. Is he abandoning her on the Isle?"

"Now, Father, don't believe everything Owen tells you. Besides, Xavier hasn't chosen a bride yet or courted her. Just be ready when he does."

She kissed her little niece and congratulated Marie and Duncan on the news of their second child, then went up the stairs to the solar.

Alaric opened the door for her. "They've been waiting for you, my lady."

Owen called a greeting from his cushion on the hearth.

Ferne removed her mother's ring and the ruby ring with pearls, to place them for safe keeping in an amber box on her writing table. She went to the bath to kiss both its occupants. Her little boy stood in the water, bouncing on his toes with glee at seeing her.

"Did you know I met your mother in a bath?" Jarrad held up their squirming son to her. "Harry, kiss your mother." He lowered the infant into the warm water. "Kick away, I'll hold you until you can swim." A shower of water splashed into the air. "Was Xavier any trouble, Ferne? I can tell from your face, you got him to agree to stay."

"No trouble at all, not really." She gave him a guilty look. "I just hope you won't mind, but I had to slay your father."

Jarrad laughed in answer and Harry giggled with him. "Poor father! Xavier must make his home with us until he is made a partner and can retire to live on land. No wonder he hates the sea. That's the seventh time he's been attacked by pirates. He's been a galley slave, ransomed three times, shipwrecked twice, run aground more times than anyone can count. I'll tell him he can use Port Creeve for his ships until father realizes his worth and stops treating him like a servant. What do you say, little Henry Owen? Can Uncle Xavier stay?"

Ferne blew noisy kisses at her son and reached for the soap. "Which one of you wants to be first?"

Jarrad held out Harry. "Our wriggling son, before he adds his own gift to the water, if he hasn't already. Take pity on me and wash him first."

"That depends on whether you intend to share your bath with me, great Lord of the Isle?"

"If it pleases you, my angel."

They washed their son together. Ferne wrapped the infant in a cloth and dried him in front of the fire. She kissed his belly to make him shriek with delight while she dressed him.

Owen held out his arms, "Let me hold my godson before you forget it's almost time for supper." He rose to take the child away. "You have only an hour. We go to entertain your visitors for you, don't we Harry? Remember to be kind to your cousin. There is no reason to slight her because she has the misfortune to look like Duncan. If you can't resist the urge, you can blow bubbles at her."

Jarrad let them go with a quiet warning, "Mind your manners, both of you."

Ferne locked the door. "You're my prisoner now, my love."

"An hour is never long enough," he warned. "I might have to delay supper."

Ferne removed her clothes. "Even if I promise to indulge you with any number you like, afterwards?"

"Can you stay awake long enough to sate me." He beckoned her into the water.

"My Lord of a Thousand Tricks doubts me?" She knelt between his knees. "But if I remember rightly, the first one to fall asleep last night was you."

"Forgive me, I was exhausted." He gave a mournful sigh. "The port is busy, now Xavier has brought all his ships here.

"You're forgiven." Ferne echoed his sigh. "Jarrad, I know you're not the least bit sorry and I am not fooled by your sighs."

"Good!" He began to wash her.

Ferne splashed him. "Jenny married Simon. Why do we get no news from England? Don't even think of rescuing her!" She washed his chest, lingering over the task. "I forgot to tell you, I received a letter from my mother today."

"I hope all is well with them?"

"She tells me Esme has started to walk. Merlin is proud enough to burst and the little one leads him around all day by holding onto his finger. They have news from Graeme. He has gone to Rome with a delegation from his monastery."

"Would you like to see Rome?" he asked.

"Let's leave travel to those brave enough to do it, I am as fearful of pirates as Xavier is. What use is Rome to me, when all I want to do is be with you?"

He rumbled an invitation for her to move closer. "You always make me feel as if I am your great treasure. Let me prove my worth to you."

Ferne moaned and sighed to make him laugh.

"Will I need the scarlet ribbons tonight?" he asked.

Ferne shook her head. "It's your turn to wear them."

"My turn? Don't we have a bargain? You wear them twice for every time I wear them?" He kissed her, lingering over the task. "I'll have to persuade you to keep your word." He looked for the drying cloths. "By the fire, if it pleases you, my angel?"

"It pleases me, my great treasure."

The End

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