Chapter Five
Torin raked hisfingers through his hair and pulled it all into a thin strip of leather behind his head. He didn’t like it falling into his face while he practiced. He closed his eyes and tilted up his face to the new dawn.
He was glad the night was over. For with it had come dreams of Braya Hetherington. Dreams of kissing her, laughing with her, of desires that were unfamiliar and unwanted. He had a duty to see to, a promise to a wee lad to keep.
He rolled up the sleeves of his léine and adjusted the belt on his hips. Was it already a bit tighter? It wouldn’t surprise him. The food served in the great hall was rich and filled with things that made a man fat and lazy. That was why he found himself on the practice field in the inner ward, alone with the crowing roosters.
Later, he would invite Sir John and the others to practice with him so he could discover how well was their defense. He didn’t put much hope in a good fight when he finally took down Carlisle.
He’d returned back to the castle late last night and most of the men had been asleep at their posts, open and vulnerable to attack. It had pleased him.
But not as much as what he’d heard Braya say about him earlier.
…my heart beat madly in my chest and my head felt light. I do not know if I would push him away.
She liked him. She trusted him. It was all he needed for victory.
He had followed her home last night. If her father was about to make some momentous decision, Torin wanted to know about it early, if possible, to better plan his defense. Also, it was good to know where the reivers lived.
From his position in the trees, he’d watched the huge younger man from the great hall, whom Torin assumed was her brother, storm out of the cottage. Torin wondered if she had told her family where she’d been and with whom, and this was their reaction.
Not long after that, the front door had opened and Braya stepped into the twilight. She’d worn her hood far over her face, but he’d known it was her. He’d followed her slight frame and agile steps to another lass’ house, and then shamelessly followed them and listened to what they had said.
He’d learned that her father wanted a public apology. It was better than wanting a fight.
What if he demands a kiss?Her friend, who was heavy with child, had asked.
A kiss. Torin had thought of it more than once, and was not opposed to the idea. Oddly enough, Miss Hetherington hadn’t sounded put off by the thought of it either.
It was exactly as it should be—if he were going to take her down.
Could he have her? Did he want her? She thought he wanted peace. He wanted war. An all-out, bloody battle. And he intended to win it.
I’m still unsure if he planned out the entire thing to make himself appear the hero to the guards.
Hell, she was intelligent and clever. He would have to use caution around her. She might be the one who stood in the way. What would he do if she was?
He had successfully infiltrated the castle. Now, he had three weeks to plan his attack. Three weeks until King Robert and his men arrived, whether Torin had prepared the way or not. He could do it. He would see them all dead, including the Hetheringtons if he had to. He wouldn’t let a lass stop him.
A rooster crowed again as he swung his heavy sword over his head. He brought it down in a chopping blow that spewed dirt around him. He jabbed it into one of the English soldiers who’d invaded his childhood home. He couldn’t remember their faces. He didn’t need to. They were all guilty.
He parried a swipe from the man who’d struck his older brother. With an effortless curl of his wrist, he flipped his hilt over and caught it again, ramming his long blade into the ghost of the English bastard that killed his father. He pulled it free and plunged it forward, in an arc of devastation that removed two heads at once. He heard his younger brother crying. Or was it his mother? His mother.Look what we have here, a tender little pigeon, he remembered an Englishman saying, and then lifting his mother and carrying her away. Torin stepped forward and swept his blade over his head, hacking it through his unseen enemies, laying waste to every last one—until he stood alone amid the carnage, having done what he could not do as a child. But nothing changed. It never changed.
He could go back in time and kill them all, but there would still be nothing left when it was over. He would never gain back his kin.
He would never have a family.
He straightened, drew in a deep breath that flared his nostrils, and balanced his legs again. Let the men sleep. Let them grow idle and unprepared for fighting. The defender had no defense. Carlisle was prime for the taking.
He turned at the sound of horse’s hooves clapping the ground behind him and looked up to see Braya seated upon a black horse and smiling down at him. She was alone.
The thought of her coming to kill him did not seem so farfetched, even though he knew why she had come. But why alone? Did she travel alone so far from her home often? Or had her father changed his mind and sent her? He kept his sword in his hand.
Hell, he didn’t want to hurt her. How had she gained his consideration? He hadn’t known her for a full day! She was deadly as an enemy, striking like a snake.
She tempted him to get bitten, to swoop in like a falcon and take her as prey.
“Miss Hetherington, ’tis nice to see you this morn.”
