Page 7 of The Scot

Chapter 4

“Astorm seems to be brewing,” Lance said. He looked toward the hall’s entrance, presumably for his wife.

Who was currently upstairs with the woman who’d just stormed into his castle as if she owned it. He could hardly believe the two women were related. Although he and his brother were different enough—Terric, their sister said, was the more rigid of the two—they had as many similarities as they did differences. But he’d seen none of Idalia’s warmth and kindness in her imperious sister.

Though she had all of her beauty, and more even. His immediate response, attraction, appealed even less than the woman herself.

Of course, Lance wasn’t speaking about that kind of storm. He was speaking of a snowstorm. One that would again delay the arrival of his men from Scotland.

“If John does attack come spring, we need those men,” Lance continued.

It was a conversation they’d had many times over the winter.

“Rory should have sent them months ago,” Terric said.

Even so, Terric did not feel keen to discuss his brother. As chief, he could have ordered Rory to do his bidding. Instead, he’d asked for his brother’s counsel—and his brother had argued they’d do best to wait for some reaction from John. If he sent the men too soon, Rory had argued, they would be away too long from Bradon Moor. Except the weather refused to turn to spring, and now those men might arrive too late.

In his heart, he knew his brother did not wish to put the men in danger for a war that was not his own. Neither did he, in truth, but nor could he risk losing his mother’s English holding, along with all the men and women who lived there. Nor could he risk the order’s mission.

“You did the right thing.” Lance did not seem capable of looking away from the entrance. Nearly a hundred men sat below them, eating and drinking, the steady murmur of voices oddly comforting, but Lance did not seem to see anything but the stone archway opposite them. Ah, he would indeed miss the pair of them. “If Rory is to lead in your absence, he must be allowed to do so.”

“Aye,” Terric agreed, “but not at the expense of holding Dromsley.”

“’Tis done,” he said, lifting his mug and taking a long swig. “Now, we can only wait out the storm.”

A flash of blue finally appeared in the archway, signaling that one storm, at least, was upon them.

When his men had come for him earlier to apprise him of some trouble at the gate, the last thing he’d expected was the arrival of Idalia’s elder sister. And yet, the sight of her now surprised him even more than that initial shock.

Certainly he’d noticed she was a beautiful woman before, not surprising given her sister, but this woman was . . .

Regal, that was the only word that fit. She looked like a lovely queen—beautiful and untouchable. Her hair was a shade darker than Idalia’s, brown like his own. Chin held high, she wore an unusual headpiece, a single jewel falling onto her forehead. Gold and green to match her belt. Her attire was so different from Idalia’s simple gown, though both were the same shade of blue.

Even more beautiful than Isobel.

“Terric.” Lance cleared his throat.

He’d been staring.

They stood as both women stepped onto the dais.

The sister, a woman who cared for fine gowns. And titles, no doubt. But a damned beautiful one all the same.

“Idalia. Lady Roysa,” he greeted them. Why the sister had come without her husband, let alone in the bitter cold of March, Terric neither knew nor cared. She was the sort of woman he despised. Haughty. Entitled. A woman to be endured.

Thankfully, she sat on the other side of her sister, well away from him.

“We apologize for our tardiness,” Idalia said, sitting.

“Understandable given the circumstances,” Lance offered. Very well, he could act the gracious host this evening. Terric would just as soon turn his attention to the ale in front of him.

“Lady Roysa—” Lance began, although the lady in question cut him off.

“Roysa, if you will. We are brother and sister, after all.”

Never had a voice so matched a person’s countenance before. Deep, strong. Throaty.

“Roysa, then. But only if you will use my given name as well. Though I’m glad to meet you, the circumstances are . . .”