Warrior's Lady Read online

  Warrior's Lady

  by

  Gerri Russell

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Gerri Russell on Kindle

  Copyright © Gerri Russell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  ISBN: 978-0-9838-9972-3

  "Each man stands with his face in the light of his own drawn sword. Ready to do what a hero can."

  — Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Dedication

  Thank you always to my agent Pamela Ahearn. You light my way and smooth the path.

  Also, thank you to my four "angels": Tammy Fleis, Mary Queitzsch, Dorothy Summerill, and Kristy Szablya. Your care and kindness kept me going during one of the most difficult times of my life.

  And to my husband, Chuck, after twenty-three years, no matter the obstacles, the magic is still there.

  Prologue

  Scotland, 1377

  She was not a witch. When had healing people become a crime?

  Clara Lockhart's breath formed a white shroud in the air, lingering but a moment before vanishing into nothingness. The hazy gray light of the approaching dawn crept through the small barred opening cut into the heavy wooden door of her prison cell, heralding the birth of a new day. Her last day on this earth, unless a miracle saved her.

  Through the opening she could hear the muffled voices of men milling about, preparing for the day.

  Heaven help me. Clara grasped the bars that lined the window, the solid, cold metal a stark reminder of her situation. She'd be hanged by the first light of morning, all for the sake of a stone.

  Soft footsteps padded toward her. A moment later the gentle face of Mother Agnes appeared, framed by her black wimple as she peered through the door's opening. "Clara?"

  "I am here." Hope blossomed inside her.

  "Open this door, young man," the nun demanded.

  The rattling of keys preceded the soft creaking of the door opening. Mother Agnes slipped inside.

  The nun stepped forward and clasped Clara's hands in her bony ones. "My dear Clara, what have they done to you?"

  "I am charged with witchcraft." Speaking the words opened the dam of emotion trapped inside since her capture and imprisonment. Tears escaped their confines, racing down her cheeks unheeded.

  "Oh, my heavens." The nun pulled Clara to her, pressing Clara's head against her shoulder.

  "I always knew it was a possibility, yet I had hoped for something more," Clara sobbed, burying her face in the rough wool of Mother Agnes's habit. She had married into the Lockhart family. And with her husband's love she had accepted the burden the family carried: to heal the sick, whether human or beast.

  "The Charm Stone," Mother Agnes whispered into the still air of the dawn.

  Clara straightened, then reached down to pull up the hem of her heavy damask gown. Slowly, she unwound a length of linen she had tied to her upper thigh. She pressed the bundle into Mother Agnes' hands. "Along with Robert the Bruce's heart, the Lockharts carried the Charm Stone back from the Holy Land. 'Twas the one good thing that came out of the Crusades. This Stone is not a source of witchcraft as the bishop claims."

  Mother Agnes's gaze snapped to the closed doorway, as fear drove the color from her face. "If he finds the Stone—"

  "Make certain he doesn't," Clara whispered, increasing her grip on the nun's hands. "If I must die for a crime I did not commit, I beg you to protect the Stone for my daughter."

  Mother Agnes' eyes widened. "What of the danger to such a young child?"

  Pain clutched Clara's chest at the thought of what she risked. "If I cannot protect Violet, then maybe the Stone can. It will give her the ability to heal herself and survive to adulthood."

  "When so many die young, that is worth the risk." Mother Agnes nodded. "Where is Violet?"

  "Hidden at the castle. You must retrieve her. You know where." Clara's gaze met the nun's, searching for understanding.

  Mother Agnes inclined her head slightly, indicating without words that she knew where to look. "When I know it is safe to do so, I will send her to her uncle."

  "My thanks," Clara said, as a sense of peace came over her. This was not how she wanted to end her life, but it eased her mind knowing Mother Agnes' care would increase the odds of Violet surviving to carry on the tradition of the Lockhart clan.

  With wooden movements, Mother Agnes slid the bundle containing the Charm Stone into the folds of her habit.

  The rhythmic beat of a hammer pierced the silence, and any peace Clara might have imagined vanished. Her knees grew weak. She reached a hand out toward the cold stone wall of the prison to steady herself and squeezed her eyelids shut against the growing light of day. But even the self-imposed darkness did not block out the knowledge that men were preparing the platform where she would take her final breath.

  She opened her eyes. Her other hand crept up to her neck. "Is there any hope of reprieve, Mother Agnes? Or am I a fool to ask?"

  "I have tried, my dear." Sorrow shadowed the lines etched into the old nun's face. "The bishop's decree is binding. All I can offer is my presence and my prayers."

  Cold spread through Clara's limbs, taking with it any hope of rescue. There was no one to intervene. Not her husband James, who had been murdered the night of her capture. Not her brother-in-law Camden. He might be strong enough to defy the bishop's decree, but she would be dead before word of her situation ever reached him.

  Heavy footfalls sounded outside. Mother Agnes clasped Clara's hands within her own. The door to her cell creaked open. A swath of morning light streaked across the dirt floor. Clara blinked against the sudden brightness. She ducked her head as her eyes adjusted to the new source of light. She returned her gaze to the door.

  Her accuser.

  The bishop entered the chamber, his ornate cape fluttering to a stop as he filled the open doorway. He bowed his head, bearing its tall triangular hat, in greeting. The man looked more like the harbinger of death than a shepherd to his people.

  "Bishop Berwick." Mother Agnes glared at the supposed holy man with burning, reproachful eyes. "Healing the sick has never been an act of witchcraft."

  "Good day to you both, Mother Agnes, Lady Lockhart. The charges stand." He signaled for the guard at the door to enter. "Escort Mother Agnes to her horse cart."

  The guard clasped the nun's arm. Mother Agnes jerked away. "I will not abandon Clara in her time of need."

  The bishop's dark eyes grew stormy. "Stay until she swings if you must. But you will leave us alone while I take the woman's confession."

  The guard reached for the nun's arm once more, his grip solid, despite her attempts to break free. Over her objections, he wrestled her from the prison cell.

  As Mother Agnes's voice faded in the distance, the bishop's gaze filled with contempt. "Now that your little savior is gone, I'll ask you one last time: Where is the Charm Stone?"

  Clara looked away. A long, heavy silence ensued as she struggled with her thoughts. She knew the bishop would never drop the charges of sorcery, that she would face her death whether or not she revealed the location of the Stone. And yet, some part of her hoped, prayed, that he might be merciful.

  She inhaled a shaky breath, knowing what her response must be. She met his hard, unyielding gaze. "I can give you no knowledge of the Stone."

  "The widow Clarence said in her confession that you healed her phlegmatic chest. She was quite willing to call your work a miracle. But we both know that cannot be true." He narrowed his eyes. "Miracles are not performed by mere commoners. Therefore, you must
be a witch. "

  "You would violate your sacred privilege in taking a woman's confession for your own personal gain?" Shock caused the words to wedge in her throat.

  His gaze hardened. "I'll do what I must to get that Stone. Tell me where it is or I'll be forced to wrest that information from your daughter."

  "Leave Violet alone." Anger deepened her voice.

  "For the last time, where is the Stone?"

  Clara clamped her jaw tight. He'd get nothing from her.

  "Fool."

  Clara kept her shoulders straight. Her daughter and the Stone would be safe.

  The bishop shot her a withering glance. "So be it." He signaled with his hand, and two more guards appeared at the doorway. "Take her to the gallows."

  Her anger faded and fear permeated her mind, but she allowed only courage to reflect in her gaze. Clara strode toward the men with grim purpose. At the bishop's side, she hesitated. "I go to my death with a clear conscience and a pure heart. Will the same be said of you?" She caught his gaze with her own. In his eyes, she saw a flicker of fear before rage swamped it.

  "Who are you to judge me?" His hand snaked out.

  Stinging pain blossomed across her cheek. "An innocent woman."

  "God will judge innocence, but here on earth your death will serve as a warning to the clan of Lockhart. One of you will surrender that Stone or all of you will meet a violent end."

  Violet. Clara hoped her own sacrifice would be enough to protect her daughter. Let the bishop's threats be hollow.

  Clara looked in the man's eyes again, and fought to keep despair from rising anew at the cold determination in his eyes.

  Chapter One

  As the sun slowly rose over the horizon, the weary Lockhart clansmen rode through the gates of Lee Castle. They had ridden hard most of the night, eager to return home. Their latest battle against the English invaders had been a triumph. But who knew how long it would be before King Edward III sent another army to take their place? Until then, Camden Lockhart intended to enjoy the fleeting moments of peace.

  He led his men through the grassy expanse of the outer bailey. Home. His haven. He owed so much to his brother for granting him Lee Castle. His brother had known how much this home meant to Camden after the nightmare of his youth.

  And even though he was home, the relief he expected at the sight of the familiar walls did not come. Instead, an odd tingling crept across the back of his neck, as if warning him that all was not as it seemed.

  The closer they came to the gate leading into the inner bailey, the tauter his nerves became. His instincts warned of danger. He drew his sword and charged forward. His men did the same.

  Camden burst into the courtyard. His heart stilled. His fist tightened on the hilt of his sword. Silence descended.

  Seven warriors lay dead, their bodies strewn across the courtyard; the violence of their deaths was obvious from the agony etched on their faces.

  But it was not the men who captured Camden's gaze. Nay, his gaze swept across the carnage to the tall, freshly cut cross, driven into the soil at the base of the stair to the keep — a cross that bore the body of his brother. James' dark eyes stared down at Camden, frozen in a rictus of agony. His brother's body had been disemboweled, the sword still protruding from his gut.

  James. Camden's sword fell from his hand, hitting the ground with a thump. The sound echoed through the palpable silence.

  A sudden cold sickness clenched Camden's stomach. He dismounted, then raced forward, wrenching the sword from James' flesh. Rivulets of his brother's blood trickled down the blade, engulfed his hand. Not James. Camden squeezed the hilt of the murderous weapon until the pain in his hand matched the pain in his soul. He let loose an inhuman sound that filled the silence, reverberating through the Highland hills the unbridled sorrow that swamped him.

  Orrin, his lifelong friend and man-at-arms, appeared at his side. Gently, he tried to pry the weapon from Camden's hand.

  "I'll cut him down, my lord, if you'll loosen your grip," Orrin pleaded.

  The words barely sank through the turmoil that crowded Camden's mind. From somewhere outside himself he watched his men dismount with a speed that belied their weariness, and race forward to assist Orrin. With the utmost care, they lowered James's mutilated body from the cross.

  Camden released the pin from his cloak and laid it upon the ground, cradling James in the softness of the wool.

  "Why would someone do such a thing to Lord Lockhart and his men," asked Hamish, the youngest warrior of the group, his tone barely above a whisper.

  Why? Camden's mind screamed the same question as he balled his fists, fighting back the rage that threatened — a rage that had been building for the last ten years. 'Twas a rage he'd never given in to — a part of him, that once unleashed might consume him and devour those he loved.

  The feel of James' cold blood trickling down his arm brought him back to the moment. Camden forced himself to relax, to breathe the sweet Highland air — air free of the tang of salt and the grit of sand. He had to put his own emotions aside. He had to be strong, brave, dependable. His men, and his brother, deserved that much and more.

  "Who would do such a thing?" asked Kyle, another of the younger warriors in the group of twelve men who stood surrounding Camden and James.

  "I can tell you who," Orrin said, his gaze fixed on the sword in his hands. "This blade bears the markings of clan Ruthven."

  "Ruthven?" Titus, a warrior who had been with the Lockharts for years, reared back, his eyes wide. "The traitors have betrayed their countrymen yet again."

  "What shall we do?" Kyle asked.

  Hamish drew his sword. "I am prepared to fight."

  Camden could not answer past the constriction in his throat. A wave of hatred, black and burning like acid, boiled up from some hidden depth of his soul, pulsing through his blood and cramping the muscles in his gut. He had somehow known the Ruthvens were involved.

  "'Twas Dougall Ruthven and a band of Englishmen that attacked us." A weak voice came from the stairs.

  Camden's gaze shot to his steward's. The aging retainer clung to the wooden railing near the stairs. His garments were slashed to tatters. Fresh blood oozed from wounds on his shoulder, thigh, and abdomen. Bertie's face was a translucent white, and it looked as though it took every ounce of his strength to remain upright. "That vile Ruthven betrayed your brother. He betrayed us all." On unsteady legs, Bertie struggled down the stairs.

  Camden surged forward to help his servant, his friend. "Damn the Ruthvens." The words squeezed through taut white lips. "Dougall Ruthven set us up, drawing me away to Glasgow, then luring James and his men here, knowing they'd be a small contingent and unprepared for battle."

  Orrin raced to Bertie's side as well, helping Camden guide the aging servant down the stairs of the keep. Orrin's face filled with barely concealed violence. "Shall I prepare the men?"

  Fighting his desire to agree, Camden shook his head. He had to remain logical and in control of him emotions. "We must bury James and his men. Then, we must go to Lady Lockhart and Lady Violet." Camden sent up a silent prayer that his sister-in-law and niece had somehow been spared.

  Working in silence, Camden and his men dug graves in the churchyard for the warriors. Then Camden methodically wrapped strips of linen around his brother's body and set it in the Lockhart family plot. He carefully placed James next to their father's final resting place, then he smoothed the soft earth back into place. As soon as he was able, Camden would commission a tombstone to be created in James' honor here at Lee Castle.

  And even though Lee Castle was the lesser seat of the Lockhart family, it had been their family home long before James had commissioned Lockhart Castle to be built. It seemed right that James had ended up here, with Camden and all the others who had loved him so well.

  Camden braced himself against the ache of sentimentality. He could think on such things later, after he made certain his sister-in-law and niece were safe. Yet even as the thought
formed, he realized no Lockhart would ever be safe as long as the Ruthvens still roamed the land. His own life was proof of that.

  He brushed the dirt on his hands against the soft wool of his tartan. What they'd done to him … what he'd had to survive … Camden forced the thoughts away. Nay, he would not go back there. He would never give the Ruthvens that kind of control over him again.

  "Bring me a fresh horse," Camden called to the men near the stable.

  "What do you intend to do?" Orrin asked, his body tensed, awaiting orders.

  Camden bent down to retrieve the Ruthven crested sword. With methodical care, he wiped the blade clean of James' blood, then slipped the weapon into the sheath at his back. "Lady Lockhart and Lady Violet shall be my first priority." He stood. "But James deserves a swift revenge." And he knew what to do. A quick and violent end was more than the Ruthvens deserved.

  "You are right to think that Lady Lockhart and Lady Violet could be in trouble." Orrin met Camden's gaze, his concern palpable.

  "That's why you will take the men and head to Lockhart Castle. As soon as I put my plan in motion, I shall join you there."

  "Revenge?"

  Camden gave a savage nod. "Justice. This time the Ruthvens will suffer. They have murdered too many Scots, collaborated with the English, and tormented this family for far too long." Fury coiled within him, vibrating with intensity. "It will end here and now, until they no longer walk these lands in human form."

  Orrin frowned. "Revenge has a way of coming back to you."

  "Not this time."

  Camden strode through the darkened streets of Glasgow, toward the alley where the blacksmith on the green near the River Clyde had directed him. The glare of the torch in his hand caused eerie shadows to play across red, stone walls, wet with brackish slime. Mist from the River Clyde hung heavy on the air, seeped through his cloak, while the stench of sewage clotted in his nostrils.