Page 9 of Ena’s Surrender

She didn’t even look at it this time.

“Think of it as a present in honor of Saint Valentine.” He extended it toward her.

She lifted her brow.

He shrugged. “I heard a troubadour speak of it once. ’Tis in February, I believe. A day of love and attraction, where a man bestows gifts upon his lady of choice.” He bowed. “You are my lady of choice.”

Her braid had fallen over one shoulder and she tossed it back. “I dinna think ye make good choices.”

He continued to remain at her side as she left the busyness of the market to where the streets became wider.

“Why are ye here?” she demanded.

“I was hoping to see you.” He smiled at her. It was a partial truth. He had hoped he might see her while spying on the village.

The streets gave way to the grassy terrain where the huts dotted the landscape like lazy sheep spread beneath the sprawling blue sky.

“I dinna like the English,” she said vehemently. “That willna change. And I’ll no’ ever like ye, so ye can stop this foolish quest for my attention.”

Renault hesitated.

She was correct. It was a foolish quest. And he was no fool.

He knew why he was spying on the Scottish Middle March for the earl. Lord Bothbury did not hide his intentions. Ena would be more than a distraction when war erupted from the information Renault shared.

She would be a complication, one that could jeopardize everything he’d been working so ardently to achieve.

She glared at him and opened her mouth when a shrill cry cut the air. Renault snapped his attention to the right, in the direction of the scream. Fire danced a wicked jig over the thatch roof and plumes of black smoke curled up into the sky. He shoved the pie toward a shocked Ena and this time she silently accepted it.

Without another thought, Renault raced toward the burning house and the shrieks within.

4

Ena held the meat pie in her hands, barely registering the heat that bled into her fingers and palms. Renault ran at a quick pace and did not hesitate as he plunged into the flame-filled home. The thatch roof burned quickly and collapsed inward in great gaps in several areas.

The greedy fire licked down the walls—a simple wattle and daub construction of interwoven twigs overlaid with mud and whitewash, all dry and quickly devoured. The acrid odor of smoke reached Ena and billowed with vigor, filling the air with its destruction. Renault did not emerge from the hut. The screams within had ceased.

Tension locked around Ena’s chest. She took several steps toward the engulfed hut.

Suddenly, a figure emerged, a woman with a small child clutched in her arms. But not Renault.

Ena tried to liberate the breath she held in her lungs. She shouldn’t care. Renault was simply some bloody fool Englishman that ran stupidly into the fire. The angry, bitter voice of her youth demanded that he deserved to die. As all Englishmen did.

Except that he had run in to help others, regardless of them being English or Scottish. He simply went to their aid.

Ena’s breath gasped from her and the grip around her heart squeezed tighter. Where was he? She moved forward without thought, her feet bringing her closer to the flaming cottage.

The woman’s cries wailed louder as she paced in front of the open door of the hut, her clothes dirty with ash. Ena was running now, her legs shaky with urgency, that damn pie still held in her hands.

Renault burst through the open doorway, the limp form of a child in his arms.

The woman screamed and ran to him, but he kept pushing forward, forcing her to get farther from the hut. Only then did he kneel and carefully settle the child onto the soft grass. Her eyes were closed; her blonde hair blackened with soot.

Her mother collapsed at the girl’s side, the child in her arms wailing in protest. “My lass,” she sobbed. “My sweet lass.”

“Give her room,” Renault cautioned. “She needs to breathe.”

The mother drew back, anxiously fixated on her child. After only a moment, the little girl coughed, then began choking and sputtering in earnest.