LITMIR.BIZ

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with the war paint and animal skins they wore, enhanced their savage aspect.

      Although most of the combatants seemed to blur into a sea of blue faces, one man caught Rosalind’s attention. Dark hair brushed his shoulders, the black locks as unrestrained as Rosalind’s own tresses. Broad shoulders supported a long leather cape that was clamped about his throat with a silver brooch.

      Flanked by two warriors wearing similar devices, the man in the center stood a bit shorter than the hulking giant to his left, a bit taller than the more refined knight to his right. All three possessed a proud nobility amid the hectic siege preliminaries, but Rosalind’s gaze repeatedly fell upon the Scotsman in the middle. He wore a mantle of authority as easily as his cloak, and something about him called forth a trembling sensation in the very core of her being.

      Fear. He could be the man responsible for this siege.

      Forcing her eyes from the dark warrior, Rosalind concentrated on measuring the might of the gathered force on the sunny fields surrounding the keep. They didn’t have many horses, but then again, neither did Beaumont. The Scots had a huge battering ram, though, and Rosalind had no doubt the weapon could shatter their portcullis with a few of the immense invaders wielding it.

      Slipping behind the shelter of the wall again, she sank down beside John.

      “It is the battering ram I fear most,” she confided, picking at loose pebbles along the stone partition. “If not for that, we might be able to stave them off until they run out of rations.”

      “What if we were to concentrate our efforts over the portcullis? The men could shoot flaming arrows, and the women could haul boiling water and whatever else we can find to dump on their heathen heads.”

      If she hadn’t been scared senseless, she might have smiled at the notion. Her people would relish the opportunity to finally deal retribution. When the warmongering Scots had come, they’d attacked in the dead of night and retreated as the fire waged their battle for them.

      “Do we have many rocks stored up here that the younger boys might throw?”

      “Of course.” John nodded eagerly. “That is one of our few well-maintained defenses. Gerta often sends boys to gather stones for throwing over the battlements. It is a chore mischief-making children relish.”

      “Hmm…” Rosalind considered their choices as time ran out. She would have to speak with the invaders at any moment. Should she begin preparing her people for battle, risking their lives to protect her home? Or should she relinquish her keep quietly and mayhap risk more lives to the Scots’ famed brutality?

      She glanced in John’s direction, wondering what his advice would be. His grim expression told her all she needed to know. He’d lost his wife to the fire. He knew the same fears as Rosalind.

      And the same determination to live in spite of them.

      She took a deep breath, steeling herself for a fight she’d prayed she would never have to face. At least not alone. “I will try to discourage them, but failing that, we fight.”

      John nodded and scrambled down the wall faster than many men half his age could have done. Rosalind looked after him, thinking how much she had grown to love him like a father. All the survivors of the Beaumont fire were family to her now. She could not bear to lose any of them.

      She swallowed hard and whispered a hasty prayer. At least today she had an option of fighting. Struggling to stand in spite of the headache that threatened her balance, she drew herself up to her full height and faced the invaders.

      Malcolm McNair scanned the parapets of the borderlands keep, searching for weaknesses with the practiced eye of an experienced battle tactician. He’d traveled far to secure the Beaumont holding—both for his king and for more personal reasons. If the need arose for a siege, he would be ready.

      He’d long dreamed of a holding of his own. A lofty goal for a second son of a Highland laird who possessed more might than wealth. Still, the dream had not left him, especially since Robert the Bruce had hinted Malcolm was due for some recognition by the crown. Perhaps Malcolm could start a family here, escape from the endless violence of war and extend the reach of his clan’s power.

      Now Malcolm sat tall in the saddle, bracketed by his brothers as he had been at birth. His McNair kin had accompanied him on this siege—Ian to escape the memories of his dead wife and Jamie to quench his thirst for adventure. After ten years away from his family seat, Malcolm had proved useful to his family. His battles gave his brothers a place to belong until they sorted out their lives.

      Ian McNair, the burly oldest of the trio, nodded in the direction of the keep, where a slight man had appeared on the battlement. “It seems the rat has emerged from his hole. He looks as the Bruce thought he might—an inexperienced wee lordling.”

      Malcolm narrowed his gaze in the sunlight to see the young lord positioned between the squat towers of the northern gatehouse. A small head swam above ridiculously large robes. The man’s features were indistinct from this distance, but the face looked to be that of a boy, smooth and pale.

      Beaumont was held by a young son who had come into the holding upon the death of his father. Ever the clever strategist, the Scots king had known the sprawling stone fortification would be an easy target.

      Malcolm expected no fight from the border keep.

      “Aye. This should be an easy day,” he agreed, striding forward against a mild summer wind to speak for the Scots. The McNair banners snapped in the brisk breeze, while his men quieted to wait for the confrontation.

      “I am Malcolm McNair,” he shouted. “I come to claim Beaumont in the name of my king, Robert the Bruce.” The yard became still as the antagonists faced one another, the silence broken only by the occasional snort of a horse.

      Finally, a response tripped down from the parapets.

      “I am William, Lord of Beaumont, and I do not recognize this king you claim.” Though he shouted in a voice scarcely beyond puberty, the lad stood tall against the relentless chill of the wind, his stance defiant. “Scotland and England share but one sovereign, Edward II, and your presence here is an insult to his royal highness.”

      “And I tell ye, young sir, we willna leave until Beaumont is held in the name of Robert the Bruce.” Malcolm pressed his claim with calm authority, convinced his cause was just. If the English king possessed a shred of common sense, he would never have left a prize such as Beaumont to be guarded alone by this wee lordling. “If ye surrender to us peacefully now, ye have my solemn oath that none of yer people will be harmed.”

      The young man’s face twisted. Was it anger? Fear?

      “No harm will come to my people?” His voice rasped, more high-pitched and charged with feeling. “And I am to take your solemn oath on that fact?” His tone dripped with disdain. “I trust the word of no Scotsman, least of all one who would camp uninvited at my gate in direct defiance of our king.”

      The raw emotion in the lord of Beaumont’s voice did naught to sway Malcolm’s resolve. He would hold Beaumont within the sennight, whether the young man said yea or nay.

      “I have explained to ye that I dinna share yer king. And ye might question yer own loyalty to a sovereign who would abandon his people at a time of such great unrest. Yer young King Edward willna be here to help ye anytime soon, as he has made it clear that folk of the borderlands will have to fend for themselves until spring.”

      There was a pause from above, and Malcolm hoped maybe his words swayed the lad.

      “I do not believe it will be so long until our new king comes to settle this dispute,” the Beaumont lord finally replied. “But it does not matter, because one way or another, you will leave my grounds.”

      Damn. Malcolm did not particularly wish to cross swords with an opponent scarcely older than a squire. After ten years of battle, Malcolm craved peace. But he would do whatever he must to secure the holding for his king and his clan.

      “I have made it

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