Chapter Twenty-One
Braya didn’t carewho this castle belonged to—Englishman, Highlander, or the damned king himself! She wanted answers. Where had they taken Torin? If she and Mr. Adams were not prisoners, then why wouldn’t they take her to him?
She produced a knife she’d lifted from the table in the great hall and pointed it at them. “My friend needs a bed!” she shouted. “What kind of people are you that you cannot see when a man needs to rest?”
When the big, redheaded, scarred-faced Highlander called Amish came at her, she stabbed him. What the hell was she supposed to do? No one was helping. The priest was trying to help, but he wouldn’t give her any answers about Torin and she’d had enough.
Four men tried to grab her. Poor Mr. Adams tried to stop them. He’d been injured earlier with the other hulking Highlander who dropped out of the trees, so unfortunately he was of little help.
She wasn’t Torin, and she couldn’t fight off four men.
But she could avoid them and try to strike one at a time. She’d done it plenty of times in the games. She had never been pinned to the ground in any competition. It meant death, so she learned how to escape first, and then how to fight.
She saw an opening between the men now and ran through it. She was slight of build and light as a breath on her feet. She came around and sliced at one.
“That is enough!” a woman called out with authority.
Ah, finally, the hostess of this place. Perhaps now she would get some answers. The four oafs obeyed the woman when she ordered them to put away their swords and axes and moved out of her way. Braya wanted to see the woman who commanded such savage looking men.
She was with child, about six months in. She was breathtaking with a pale, clear complexion and a long black braid draping her shoulder. Her eyes were big and green and sharp as steel on Braya.
“Amish, go have Duncan look at you,” she commanded and, miraculously, Amish, the redheaded brute, went without quarrel.
The woman’s gaze never left Braya. “Who are you and how did you get into the castle?”
“We arrived with Sir Torin Gray. He was once in service to the Lord of Rothbury, your husband.”
“The earl is not my husband,” the woman said in a less authoritative tone. She sounded sadder. Deeply so.
Braya was sorry for whatever it was, but she wanted Torin and she wanted him now. “We were accosted on the way here by a fiendish Highlander who leaped out of the trees—”
“That one is my husband,” the woman told her with the slightest of smiles curling her lips.
“Oh.” Braya felt foolish for calling him a fiendish Highlander. “Are you a Scot?”
“Norman,” the Highlander’s wife said. “I do remember some talk about Commander Gray coming here and Lord Rothbury not wanting to see anyone after his wife—”
“Our friend, the good Mr. Adams, was injured by your husband.” She pointed to him now leaning weakly against the wall.
“—died giving birth to his son.”
Braya stopped and stared at her, stunned to hear such horrific news. Oh, she had no idea! The poor man. “We did not know,” she managed to say. “My best friend and cousin recently had a little girl. ’Twas a difficult birth. I do not know what I would have done if she had died.” Her eyes filled with tears. What would poor William have done?
The hall was quiet for a moment and then the woman spoke. “Katie, bring two men with you and get this man to a bed and then send for the physician.”
“Aye, my lady.” A mature woman with a gray braid beneath a barbet and headband stepped forward. She moved quickly, choosing two of the men to help carry Mr. Adams away.
Braya had to hope and pray they wouldn’t hurt him. But…some of them were Scots.
“Thank you.” Braya thought it more prudent to be nice than to fight. She would have no chance against so many. Where the hell was Torin? First he had disappeared, now Mr. Adams was gone. She was alone. She was no fool—besides, she didn’t want to fight with a pregnant woman. “I am very sorry about Lady Rothbury,” she said while the beautiful woman sniffed and wiped her teary eyes. “Was she a friend of yours?”
“She was my very best friend.”
Braya couldn’t imagine the horror. She wiped her eyes as well.
“I am sorry you were treated so poorly here,” the dark-haired woman said. “We have all suffered a great lose. You must forgive our terrible manners.”
“Of course.” Braya stepped forward, wanting to comfort her. “I am Miss Braya Hetherington of Carlisle.”
