Highlander Enchanted(4)
“I am the wife of Black Cade,” she proclaimed. “I assure you that he will not take kindly to you mistreating me.”
Surprise rendered Cade speechless. One of the men behind him covered a laugh with a series of coughs. “How come ye to …” He stopped, suddenly suspicious. An English noble appeared in his forest claiming to be his wife? It was treachery of some sort, one that left him unsettled – and wary. One Englishman had known where to find him, a fellow warrior Cade had befriended and adopted into his Highland army in the Holy Lands and then left behind in a Saracen prison.
Cade had not heard talk of the scarred knight, known as Saxony, surviving the ordeal. He had been too mad to know his own name when Cade last saw him let alone tell anyone where to find Cade. If Saxony had not perished, why did he send this woman to find Cade with a tale this outlandish?
“How did ye come t’be Black Cade’s wife?” Cade asked. “Are ye no English?”
“The King of England decreed it.”
“The English king has no power here, lass,” Cade said, unable to stop the chuckle that escaped. He had a wife, as ordered by the English king? It was better than any war tale he had heard regaled around the evening bonfire.
“Then the King of Scotland decreed it,” she said, gaze sliding away from his briefly.
“We doona listen to our king either,” Niall said.
The lass is hiding much, Cade assessed.
“Does Black Cade ken?” Brian asked.
“Of course he does. You cannot become betrothed without both parties knowing,” she replied.
Brian turned away, his laughter loud enough to draw the attention of the noblewoman. Her cold look was unamused.
Cade cleared his throat. “Ye have a name, Lady Cade?”
“Lady Isabel de Clare, daughter of Baron William. I have the writ sealed by His Grace’s hand announcing our betrothal.”
Cade’s interest increased. She spoke like a polished noblewoman yet wore the clothing of a young man: tunic, trews, overtunic and boots. An old bruise had not quite disappeared from one cheek, and the skin around her eyes and lips was tight. The daughter of a baron certainly never knew hardship and had no reason to dress in man’s clothing.
“Then ye are betrothed, not wed,” Cade clarified.
“There is no distinction between the two. Either way, ‘tis a fate worse than death for a woman.”
“Lass, the difference between betrothed and wed is the difference between a nun and a woman with four children at her feet.” Cade approached and circled her, imagining the feminine shape beneath the manly clothing. Her hands were delicate without any sign of callouses and her nails clean. Her hair smelled faintly of lavender. Her fur-lined cloak would fetch more than her horse. She bore some indications of wealth and others of poverty.
“As you please,” she said with effort. “Do you consider yourself to be a man of honor, m’lord?”
He paused before her. “Yea.”
The noblewoman leaned her head back to meet his gaze once more. He saw it then, something more concerning than an Englishwoman claiming to be his wife. Familiar shadows haunted her gaze. He innately recognized the suffering of another after his quest to the Holy Land. It was not solely what remained of his healing magic whispering to him. He had also spent nigh a year imprisoned at the hands of the Saracens and learnt what suffering was.
What did a woman of her rank know of great pain?
Pink rose to her cheeks under his steady stare. “Then I command …”
He bristled, not about to be told what to do by an English king or a woman.
“… request, m’lord,” she softened her tone, “that you treat me with honor. A noblewoman requires a level of consideration you may not be familiar with but which I will impart, if desired.”
“Praytell.” Cade took her jaw in one large hand and tilted her head to the side.
She winced without resisting. Her hands trembled, and she clenched them. “Wine, if you have it. Shelter from the cold, a pallet free of disease, and your protection.”
“’Ye seek much for a hostage.” Cade was uncertain when he last experienced interest this strong. The woman was vexing. She was tough yet vulnerable, scared and determined. Men ran or soiled themselves when they saw him on the battlefield or during his raids. The petite damsel afore him stood braver than almost every man he had ever faced.
“We can behave in a civilized manner,” she whispered, fear sliding into her tone for the first time.
In the brightening light of the forest, he was able to see there was more than one bruise marring her face. They were faded, and he began to piece together what was before him. “Ye are no’ accustomed to civilized,” he observed. “Ye have no purse, no trappings befitting a noblewoman, nothing to slow you down. Yer either fleeing someone, Lady Cade, or yer an imposter with a bard’s tongue.”
She flushed. Anger glittered in her eyes, and she lifted her chin from his grip. “I am not an imposter!”
“Then who sent ye t’find Black Cade?”
“No one sent me! I came to find him, as is my right, according to royal decree. This is all that concerns you,” she said firmly.
If ye had land, I’d wed ye before that MacDonald lass I’m all but betrothed to, Cade thought, looking her over again. She was spirited beneath the veneer of cold control she struggled to maintain. What was a woman with all the marks of rank and birth fleeing? And, more pressing, why did she think she was betrothed to him?