Page 11 of Warrior’s Lady

She had no illusions about why someone wanted her dead. But why now? She'd been relatively unprotected for days after her father died, as well as when she'd sought shelter at the abbey.

Why did whoever wanted her dead wait to strike just when she'd started to believe she had a chance to start over?

Rhiannon and the others rode through the iron gate of Lee Castle as the sun painted the horizon a deep scarlet. The first of the stars winked overhead and the ground reflected the creeping shadows of dusk.

Rhiannon's body ached from an untold number of bruises she'd no doubt received when she'd been slammed against the sides of the cart, and her temples throbbed in rhythm with the beat of her heart.

As they progressed through the bailey toward the keep, Lord Lockhart's mood darkened until it matched the impending nightfall.

The castle servants streamed from the door, lining up along the bottom of the stair to the keep as if following some ritual of greeting their lord upon his return. It was something that had never happened at her father's country house.

Lord Lockhart reined to a stop before them and dismounted. An older woman, most likely his chatelaine, stepped up to his horse to receive Violet who had fallen asleep on their journey. "Place her in the nursery, and prepare the room next to it for our other guest."

The woman assessed Rhiannon without a hint of friendliness in her gray eyes.

Rhiannon held her head high, refusing to let the woman see how intimidated she was beneath the hard stare. The once fashionable gray traveling gown Rhiannon wore was covered with splatters of mud beneath the wings of a light woolen cape. Her hair was pulled back from her face and protected by a muslin cap trimmed with lace. The small gray hat that used to cover the cap had been lost at some point during the wild journey here.

Rhiannon dropped her gaze to her hands — her bare, work-roughened hands. She would have worn gloves had she had them, as a proper lady should. But when had she ever been a proper lady? Rhiannon swallowed thickly, certain at any moment the woman would send her away.

"Thank you, Mistress Faulkner. That will be all," Lord Lockhart's voice broke through the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over those assembled in the courtyard.

Without speaking a word, the woman nodded, then slipped up the stairs with Violet tucked safely in her arms.

"Milord," an older man said in a tight voice. He stepped forward from those gathered.

"Bertie," Lord Lockhart's dark mood faded, and a smile brightened his face. "You are looking much improved. Your injuries worried me when we left—"

"How could you?" the man interrupted.

Lord Lockhart's frown returned. "Explain yourself, Bertie."

"How could you bring that woman into this castle in anything but irons?"

Rhiannon felt her face pale beneath the older man's glare. Her breath stilled in her chest and the world around her wavered.

"How could you bring a Ruthven into this castle?"