She wasn’t surprised. Whatever his reasons, the man she suspected to be the new Lord Anscombe was not someone who appeared to be indecisive or who made a habit of changing his mind. Normally, she liked an unwavering firmness of character in a person, and found it to be an unfortunately rare quality in several leaders—the previous king for one. Today, however, the unyielding decision had cost her the one place she had ever felt safe and at peace.
Bronwyn gave herself a mental shake, reminding herself that the new lord had not taken anything from her that she was not just about to relinquish in a few days and in fact had done her a favor. She was about to urge her horse to rejoin the group when a loud yelp followed by several half curses broke the silence. A second later a bedraggled Constance came into view. Leaves were in her hair and her short legs were squeezing the horse she was riding so hard it forced her plump body forward on the saddle, making her off balance. To compensate for the unsteady feeling, the old nursemaid had a tight grip on the horse’s mane with one hand and, with the other, clutched the leather reins so firmly that the poor animal could hardly turn its head or make adjustments to avoid most of the thick foliage on the path.
“Damn man, forcing me to do this,” Constance hissed. “And you, too,” she aimed at the horse. “Remember that I found a way on top of you and I won’t be getting off until I’m ready.”
“Well, I hope that is soon,” Bronwyn chuckled, causing the old woman’s head to snap around with such force she almost fell off. “Whatever are you doing, Constance? I thought you would want to stay with that new farmer you’ve been so keen on.”
Once the horse had stopped, Constance released the mane clutched in her palm and smoothed back her own crazed strays, which were now glued to the sweat on her forehead. “Oh, he can live without me for a few days,” she replied, trying valiantly to sound calm and serene and not the harried picture she presented. “Wasn’t so sure if you could, though. No one knows you like I, so I came to see after you myself.”
Bronwyn cocked a single brow and crossed her arms, mocking her. “Really? On a horse?” she asked, knowing how much her nursemaid hated riding.
“Obviously on a horse. How else could I catch up to you? And don’t look at me that way, I can ride. I haven’t fallen off once.”
“That’s because you’re riding Merry and she is too tolerant and too old to buck you off despite your grip and your seat,” Bronwyn chided, ignoring the old woman’s confusion as she looked down at her saddle. “Constance, you hate riding so don’t ask me to believe you are here by choice. I know you. If you truly thought I needed help, you would have perched yourself on one of the carts before it left. So get down off that poor animal and tell me exactly what really prompted this supposedly selfless stunt.”
Constance grunted and slid off the gentle horse’s back. She moved several steps away, took a deep breath, and released it, visibly showing a decrease in tension. “I had about as much choice in leaving as you did. Someone must have told the new master what I was to you three, so after I warned him about the North Tower, he ordered me upon this beast and bade me to catch up to you. The man shouldn’t be called Deadeye but Dead Fool.”
Bronwyn saw from the corner of her eye that the soldier still quietly and patiently waiting to resume their journey had heard the insult and was visibly shocked. “Constance, maybe you shouldn’t speak that way at least until the new lord and his friends have come to know you and appreciate your sense of…humor.”
The old woman glanced at the soldier Bronwyn had indicated and let go a loud, impertinent snort. “Worried for me, are you? You should be worried for that arrogant goose,” Constance instructed as she waved her arm back at the castle. “I told him not to climb that deathtrap of a tower, but he ignored me and ordered me here. I saw him standing atop looking over the battlements just as I left the gatehouse, damn fool. Even called him that and it didn’t make a bit of difference.”
Instantly the world around Bronwyn stopped and she was back in time. Screams filled the air and the thick smoke made it impossible to see. She could taste the dust filling her lungs and she couldn’t breathe. The North Tower had killed five that day, including her mother. And it would happen again.
She had to go back.
“You,” Bronwyn shouted toward Drake, still in shock after hearing Constance’s blatant and irreverent references to Ranulf, “catch up to the others and tell them that I will be joining them later.” Her voice rang out, authoritative and in command, leaving no room for discussion or disagreement. She then swung her horse around and urged it into a gallop in the direction of Hunswick.
Drake had been unprepared for the sudden change in Bronwyn’s demeanor from one of a gentle noblewoman to someone obviously well versed and comfortable in exercising power.
Seeing the confounded look on the young soldier’s face, Constance offered some advice. “You can try and follow, but you’ll never catch her. And even if you did, you would then have to explain just why you thought her welfare more important than that of her sisters, which trust me, you don’t want to have to defend. So if I were you, I would do as instructed and see to the safety of the group. For one thing is for certain, that doesn’t include her ladyship anymore.” Then she marched over to her horse, made a quick silent prayer, and struggled back onto the mare’s back, cursing all the while.
When she saw the dark pacing figure on top of the North Tower, Bronwyn’s heart stopped. She had been right. Deadeye de Gunnar was not the tall soldier but the brawny one, and he was oblivious to the deathtrap upon which he stood. The North Tower had been the last structure built and solely by nonmasons. As a result, the fir chosen for the floor beams had been cut too early. By the time the stone walls were complete and the floors installed, no one had realized how decomposed the beams had become.
She gave the reins a sharp yank and her horse immediately came to a halt a few feet away from the tower’s plinth. She threw her head back and stared at the menacing man glaring at her from above.
She had hoped her mere arrival would cause him to come down and rant at her for returning, but the new lord instead stood immobile, holding her gaze either unknowing or unbelieving of the danger he was in. “Get down from that tower now,” Bronwyn commanded.
Any other time, any other place or situation, she would have been conciliatory in her request. But this was a demand, and after months of running Hunswick, she had become accustomed to being obeyed when she used a certain tone of voice.
For a second, Ranulf wondered if he was having a waking nightmare. His angel had returned without warning, riding up to just below where he stood, and stared at him, seeing every flaw, every scar, every hideous feature that caused women to shrink away. But not her. She just held his gaze, unflinching, and then ordered him off his own tower. The woman was impossible. And she needed to leave. “This is no longer your home, my lady.”
“You think that is why I came back? For Hunswick? I’m here to save your life.”
Her dark eyes were glittering with anger and her waist-length curly hair had so many corkscrew tendrils that it bordered on unruly. Her raised chin made clear that she would not shrink from a challenge and the rigidity of her back caused the scooped neck of her bliaut to emphasize the swell of her breasts. He had never seen anything lovelier.
Ranulf took a firm grip on his resolve. He had to stay calm and rational if he had a chance of convincing her that it was she who would be yielding and not he. He had more to lose. “I don’t care why you’ve returned. But you will be leaving, either on your own power or by one of my men’s.”
Bronwyn shuddered at the dangerous softness in his voice. His lordship actually meant to haul her physically