An Oath Taken

Book 1: Oath Trilogy

by Diana Cosby

Genres: Medieval Romance; Scottish & Highlander

Synopsis

A lady thief—dressed as a lad—stumbles into trouble on the Scottish border in a romance by this “superbly talented” author (Cathy Maxwell, New York Times–bestselling author of Her First Desire).
 
As the new castellan, Sir Nicholas Beringar has the daunting task of rebuilding Ravenmoor Castle on the Scottish border and gaining the trust of the locals—one of whom wastes no time in trying to rob him. Instead of punishing the boy, Nicholas decides to make him his squire. Little does he know the thieving young lad is really . . . a lady.
 
Lady Elizabet Armstrong had donned a disguise in an attempt to free her brother from Ravenmoor's dungeons. Although intimidated by the confident Englishman with his well-honed muscles and beguiling eyes, she cannot refuse his offer.
 
Nicholas senses that his new squire is not what he seems. His gentle attempts to break through the boy’s defenses leave Elizabet powerless to stem the desire that engulfs her. And when the truth is exposed, she’ll have to trust in Nicholas’s honor to help her people—and to surrender to his touch . . .

Release date: December 1, 2014

Publisher: eKensington

Print pages: 260

Sample

England/Scotland border, August 1291

Sir Nicholas Beringar, castellan to Ravenmoor Castle, halted his steed near the sheer cliffs. Streaks of afternoon sunlight collided to create a prism across the narrow inlet, igniting a wash of purple and gold across the savage land. “ ’Tis magnificent.”

“Indeed,” Sir Jon, his most trusted knight, replied as he drew his mount to a stop alongside. “ ’Tis understandable why men would lose their hearts to the Scottish borderlands.”

“And fight with their last breath to keep it,” Nicholas added, in awe of the beauty of this untamed wilderness, a land torn asunder by the death of King Alexander III. “How tragic that in the Scots’ strife to name their new king, clan has turned against clan. Only through the church’s intercession does the fragile bond of unity exist.”

Jon grimaced. “For now.”

“Indeed. I pray King Edward’s intervention will aid the Scots in choosing their next king. Meanwhile, my duty remains to rebuild Ravenmoor Castle and end the restlessness of the Scots along the western border.”

“As well as the reiving.”

“Aye,” Nicholas agreed. “God’s teeth, I have added patrols, yet sheep and cattle are disappearing at an alarming rate. Within the past two days, the reivers are growing bolder, and have robbed travelers on Ravenmoor land.”

Jon nodded. “It makes no sense. The increased guard should have quelled their thievery, not incited further plundering.”

With a grimace Nicholas glanced toward his knights resting their mounts a short distance away. “We will uncover no answers bartering words. ’Tis time to return to Ravenmoor Castle. Take the men and go. I shall be along posthaste.”

Concern darkened his friend’s eyes. “I will leave two knights to accompany you.”

“No.” Nicholas studied the chiseled landscape to the west that transformed into rolling fields of thick grass and peat. “We completed rounds over Ravenmoor’s land but moments ago. No one is about.” And he needed time to think. Alone.

“As you wish.” Sir Jon cantered to the waiting knights, waved them to follow.

The clatter of hooves softened, becoming muted as his men reached the turfed lowland. Several moments later they became but a distant fleck, then disappeared into the dense swath of forest beyond.

Nicholas rubbed his brow to quell the throbbing in his head. He must halt the lawless acts of the reivers. As well, he must win the trust of the Scots who remained in Ravenmoor Castle since King Edward had claimed it for his own over a year ago. A challenge, considering the reception he’d had this morning. Before he and his men had departed on rounds along Ravenmoor’s border, he’d made a point to speak with several of the remaining Scottish tenants. Their responses had been clipped and cold. All had eyed him with distrust. A reaction that, however much he’d worked to change since his arrival a sennight past, remained.

Sadly, the reason was damnably clear. As the new castellan of Ravenmoor Castle, he’d taken a brief tour of their living quarters. Rotting boards and crumbling foundations were only the beginning of the deplorable conditions.

Closer inspection of the castle revealed a general state of disrepair compounded by the people’s inadequate clothing, meager resources, and empty larder, barren except for a few containers of herbs. A quick review of the ledgers revealed misappropriation of funds and abuse of power by the previous castellan, Sir Renaud. Had the knight stood before him, Nicholas would have shackled him and hauled him before King Edward to answer for his gross neglect.

The detailed reports Sir Renaud had sent to the king bespoke his pious efforts to strengthen relations with the Scots and rebuild Ravenmoor Castle. Had he used the money for his own greedy ventures instead? Or did another reason lay behind the previous castellan’s betrayal to his king? Whatever the reason, Sir Renaud chose to ignore King Edward’s command to appear before him with a detailed report of the castle’s status.

And had paid with his life.

A death served by the neighboring Scots during the latest attack.

Perhaps justice existed after all. With a grimace, Nicholas turned his steed toward Ravenmoor Castle. Mud sucked at his mount’s hooves as he skirted the bog, rich with the fragrance of sedge and peat that bordered the marsh. Then he guided him up the gradual incline toward a stand of trees.

However long he pondered his findings, Nicholas discerned no motive as to why Sir Renaud would lie to their king except greed. Neither could he determine the reason for the escalation in the number of attacks on Ravenmoor’s borders in recent days.

God’s teeth, ’twas a mess. He needed time to rebuild Ravenmoor Castle and gain the Scottish residents’ trust, except the deteriorating state of affairs between England and Scotland usurped that luxury.

So, he would focus on what he could control. With the outer defenses in place, over the next few days he would review the castle’s ledgers in depth. They should provide a degree of insight into the actual state of affairs. Or, at least a clue as to how to approach the wariness of the surrounding Scots.

A light breeze sifted over the hills, spilled through the stand of thick elm and oak in his path. He glanced west. His men should be arriving at Ravenmoor Castle by now and plenty of work remained to be done. Enjoying the beauty of the borderlands would come later.

Nicholas donned his helm and kicked his mount into a canter.

Without warning an arrow hissed past his head, missing him by inches.

“Bedamned!” Turf flew as Nicholas reined his steed hard to the left. He yanked his sword free and scoured the dense stand of trees for charging men.

Naught.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Precious seconds passed. The expected attack, the clank of metal and the flash of blades as warriors stormed from behind the trees, never came. Who’d fired the arrow? Nicholas kicked his steed forward. He’d bloody find out.

“Halt or the next arrow will find its mark,” a lad’s rough burr commanded.

“State your name!” Nicholas called as he reined in his mount. He scanned the leaf and branch shield to pinpoint the youth’s position. Was he alone? If not, how many others held their bows trained on him?

A branch quivered.

Nicholas searched the limb.

The tip of a black boot peeked from the leaves.

“You are surrounded,” the lad warned. The leaves on a nearby tree shook in confirmation. “Throw down your gold and you will nae be harmed.”

Nicholas scoured the nearby elm to locate the would-be accomplices, and paused in disbelief. Entwined within the branches and extending through several surrounding trees ran a network of blackened string, all leading back to the youth. A clever ploy to convince his mark that additional men filled the trees.

Compassion for the Scottish lad assailed him. He understood all too well how hard times could alter a life irrevocably. Where were his parents? Had they been killed during the siege on Ravenmoor Castle more than a fortnight past, or during a previous battle in the fight to claim land along the border by both Scotland and England?

“Toss down your gold!” Nervousness crept through the youth’s voice.

The tree branch trembled, this time allowing Nicholas a better glimpse of the reiver. The youth was draped within a large black hooded robe two times his size, yet Nicholas made out the shadowy outline of his face.

Though the lad may be a victim of the times, Nicholas refused to tolerate any lawless acts on land beneath his responsibility. “I am Sir Nicholas Beringar, castellan of Ravenmoor Castle. ’Tis upon my land that you brandish your thievery. Come down. Now!”

Lady Elizabet Armstrong tugged the folds of her cowled hood closer to her face and sunk deeper into the thick, green shield of leaves. Mary, Mother of God, of all people to rob, why did he have to be the new castellan?

Sweat beaded on her brow, and her hands grew clammy. She should have followed her instincts and returned home with this day’s spoils. Except as she’d started to climb down, she’d spied the single rider in the distance and believed relieving him of his coin ’twould be simple.

The castellan’s steel-gray eyes locked on hers.

Sensation swept through her. His aura was magnetic, yet lethal. Broad shoulders needed no gambeson or hauberk to increase their dimensions. His trim, well-muscled body attested to his physical adeptness. And he sat upon his steed with the confidence born of years of battles.

Shaken by her attraction to her enemy, she forced her attention to his mail, his chestnut warhorse, and the finely-tooled broadsword. His trappings bespoke wealth. If he held but even a few coins, she would take them. And if he carried none, she would relieve him of his weaponry. They would bring a fair price at the market.

“If you carry nay gold, leave your sword and dagger,” Elizabet demanded, keeping her voice low.

A deep, impatient sigh rumbled from the castellan’s chest.

A slap of anger streaked through her. The Englishman would take her seriously! She nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring taut.

“Such a move would be unwise,” Sir Nicholas said, his voice disturbingly calm. “I know you are alone.”

Her hand shook as she sized up the large man, too confident for her liking. She bluffed. “Obey my command or my men will kill you.”

The castellan’s expression darkened. “I see the blackened string threaded through the trees.”

Blind panic shredded her last ounce of calm. What was she going to do? She couldna obey his command. Believing she was a lad, he would most likely punish her, mayhap sever her hand or worse. And what if he discovered she was a woman? Terror raced through her. Before he would touch her, she would fight to her death!

Body trembling, Elizabet lowered her bow. She shifted on the limb to steady herself, and the branch gave a traitorous groan. With a gasp, she caught a nearby limb. She must get rid of him! “I have decided to allow you to pass.”

The foreboding knight studied her a long moment. “Come down, I wish to speak with you.”

She edged closer to the trunk. Why couldna he react like any of her previous targets over the past couple of days? If given the opportunity, each would have fled like the spineless fops they’d been. Instead, Sir Nicholas was proving to be a formidable challenge.

What was she going to do?

A lonely wind howled through the trees, batting the newborn leaves with a careless hand. The scent of peat, tinged with fresh, mountain-fed water, sifted on the breeze. She took in the darkening sky, wishing she was home, safe in her chamber. Again she cursed herself for nae returning to Wolfhaven Castle when she’d had the chance.

“Lad, I will not harm you.”

Though several feet separated them, she sensed his frustration. And resolve. “ ’Tis a trick. I know the penalty for thievery.”

The castellan kicked his mount forward.

She held her breath as he halted beneath the branch she stood on, his gaze straight at her. If he’d stared at her in anger, that she could ignore. But the intensity of his gray eyes probed her as if seeing straight to her soul. Shaken, she pressed farther into the leaves.

“I would offer you a job as my squire.”

A trick! “I am nae a lackwit. If I climbed down you would cut off my hand.” And God help her if he discovered she was a woman.

A frown creased his brow. He lowered his broadsword and laid the flat of his blade across the withers of his mount. “You have my word as a knight that my offer is sincere.”

Hope ignited. What if he spoke the truth? Elizabet ached at the thought of her family and people trapped within Ravenmoor Castle. Were they wounded? Suffering? She hated nae knowing. Worse, with each passing day her belief that they lived dwindled. The coin she’d stolen these past few days was far from enough to bribe a castle guard at Ravenmoor to set her family and people free. If she agreed, could she successfully play the role of a lad?

’Twas unthinkable.

A fool’s lot to consider his offer. As if she could ever trust a Sassenach? The slang name for the English suited their lie-infested statements.

Even as she pondered the reasons why such a decision would be dangerous . . . if the castellan’s offer was sincere, she must use this opportunity to gain entrance to Ravenmoor Castle. Her family’s future depended on it.

“Lad?”

Fighting her nerves, she nodded. “I will be your squire.”

Satisfaction shone on the castellan’s face. “Come down. You will ride with me to the castle.”

“Nay. I will make my way on the morrow, at first light.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “I have given my word that you will not be harmed.”

She tightened her grip on the nearby branch. “And I have given mine. I will arrive at Ravenmoor Castle at first light.”

“I could come up there after you,” he said with challenge.

She darted a glance to the nearby tree then back to him. His well-honed muscles left no doubt of his prowess. In which case, she would jump. Then, if she didna break her neck, she could outrun him, as he would be slowed by the weight of his armor.

Leather creaked as he shifted in the saddle.

Instinct assured her he knew exactly of her thoughts to escape. Irritated, she tilted her chin in defiance.

Mirth flickered in his eyes. “At first light, then.”

She released a slow breath.

“I would have your name.”

A name? Of course he would expect a name. “Thomas,” she replied before she could change her mind.

“Thomas,” he said without preamble, “if you have not reported to me by Terce, I will track you down.” His brow furrowed. “ ’Twould serve you well to heed me. I do not make false claims.”

Of that she had little doubt. “I will be there.”

With a nod he turned his destrier, kicked him forward, and cantered toward Ravenmoor Castle.

Elizabet swallowed hard as her enemy’s daunting outline melded into the trees. She’d made the right choice. To doubt herself now could only lead to disaster.

As darkness consumed the last flicker of sunlight, fatigue weighing on her, Elizabet halted halfway up the tower steps of Wolfhaven Castle and faced her steward, Lachllan.

Torches set in nearby wall sconces illuminated his wrinkled face, laden with concern, love, and anger. “You will nae pretend to be the castellan’s squire. I promised Giric that I would keep you safe. I will nae break my word to your brother.” He shook his head with disgust. “That you sneak out to reive by yourself is enough to set my blood afire. Can you nae see the folly of your going to the castle alone? What were you thinking, lass?”

The frustration simmering in his voice endeared him to her even more. Elizabet laid her hand on her steward’s shoulder. “If I thought there was any other way to free my family and our people, I would seek it. There is nae. The few pieces of coin I stole this day couldna feed a goat much less bribe an English guard.” She dropped her hand. At the moment all she wished for was a few hours of sleep. “Once I am inside, I am confident an opportunity to aid our people will arise.”

Lachllan eyed her skeptically. “Even if I were to agree with your foolhardy plan, how will you convince the castellan that you are a lad? Half-hidden within the leaves and your face shielded is a far cry from being in his service where you would work at his side.”

She frowned, having pondered that exact question the entire ride home. “The duties of a squire are familiar to me. As for my attire, I will borrow an old set of clothes from Giric’s chest.” If her brother knew of her intent, he would be furious. With the discord between her and her father, she doubted he would care, but she still loved him. Except with them both locked inside Ravenmoor’s dungeon, neither Giric nor her father had any say in her decision.

Lachllan gave an unconvinced snort. “You will need more than a change of clothes to convince the new castellan that you are a lad. You look too much like your mother.” His face softened. “And a beautiful woman she was as well.”

Warmth swept her cheeks. “My mother was a strong woman who fought for what she believed in. I am going. I canna let her memory or our people down.”

Red flushed his weathered cheeks. “Did you nae hear a word I said? This time you will nae have your way.” Lachllan lifted a finger in warning. “Your father would skin me hide if I allowed you to leave, nae to mention Giric. And I love you too much, lass, to allow you to take such a risk.”

She threw up her hands, understanding too well—her father would nae care. He’d wanted a second son, nae a daughter. Since her birth, he’d given all of his lauds and attention to Giric. It hurt to think about the years she’d tried to gain his praise.

And failed.

Pointless or nae, she must try. “I will nae stand here and do naught.”

Her steward scowled. “You have tended the wounded below, and over the past few days have spent countless hours reiving. You canna do more.”

A cool breeze tumbled down the carved stone stairs and the flames of the torchlight from the sconces above her danced, casting long shadows along the walls.

They were at an impasse.

Elizabet released a slow sigh, saddened that even from her home, she would be forced to slip away like a thief. But to save her people, she would do what she must. In the morning before she snuck out the escape tunnel, she would pen her steward a note. “I bid thee good night.”

Wizened eyes studied her as if trying to deduce her mood. Regret shadowed his face. “Lass, I wish it could be different.”

She gave him a hug; a silent good-bye. “I as well.” Elizabet started up the stairs. Why couldna he understand why she must take this risk? Even if she could have explained, what assurance could she offer? The answer was simple.

None.

The venture ahead of her lay filled with danger.

She entered her chamber, and memories of her childhood, of those happy times with her mother, filled her. For a moment she reveled in their warmth. Then the reality of her father’s coldness erased the comforting thoughts. If nae for Giric’s aiding her in her grief when her father would nae, she didna know what she would have done.

Elizabet shoved the door shut. She refused to think of sad memories this night. The past was behind her, and her focus would be on the morrow, on saving her family and the people of Wolfhaven Castle.

On edge, she crossed to the chest at the end of her bed. After pushing past several worn woolen dresses, her hand rested on cool, smithed-steel. Her fingers trembled as she withdrew the shears. With firm resolve she ran her fingers through her long black hair. Nay longer was she a child, but a woman with responsibilities.

If Sir Nicholas saw her now, would he see her as a woman, or an enemy to be conquered? What was she doing thinking of the castellan as anything but an obstacle to be overcome? Elizabet positioned the shears. Like the last tie to her youth, she severed the first strands. Inky wisps spiraled downward and spilled onto the floor.

She’d made her decision.

There was nay turning back.

Stripped to his waist, sweat rolled down Nicholas’s chest as he, along with several of the other men, lifted the heavy wooden beam. “Now.” Grunts echoed around him as they shoved.

The log toppled onto the roaring fire. Sparks shot up, entangled with the thick, black smoke, then flames spewed from the dismal cloud, engulfing the dry timber within seconds.

The stench of wool, wood, and other mangled items that Nicholas didn’t wish to identify crackled and popped in the convoluted heap. Except for the castle walls and the keep, the rest of the shops and homes were unstable, pathetic shacks not fit for vermin. Once they were torn down and burned, his knights and the tenants would begin to rebuild.

At news of his plans, the Scots within Ravenmoor Castle had eyed him warily, more so when he’d announced they were to live inside the keep until each home was rebuilt. The suspicion reflected in their eyes was as searing as the heat of the flames before him; both must be watched and carefully nurtured.

After several days, their skeptical glances were becoming the norm, but he refused to let their distrust dissuade him from his goal. He would rebuild the homes as well as a foundation of trust. When the routine of the castle allowed, he would review the castle’s ledger to discover the extent of Sir Renaud’s betrayal to their king.

He bent and caught hold of the next piece of timber, then nodded to the others. Together they lifted the wood and turned toward the fire.

“Sir Nicholas,” a knight called from behind him.

“Heave,” Nicholas ordered as he shoved. The termite-infested wood clattered into the flames. With a scrape, it tipped and became wedged in the inferno. Satisfied the rotting log would remain, he turned.

The knight who’d called him gestured toward the portcullis. “A Scottish lad who states his name is Thomas requests to speak with you.”

So he had come. Satisfied his intuition had served him well, Nicholas caught sight of the slender figure shifting nervously at the gate. “Bring him to me.”

“Aye, Sir Nicholas.” His knight strode toward the entry.

Nicholas wiped his forehead as he took in the youth’s appearance. Still garbed in over-large clothes and his face half-shielded by a ragged hood, the lad presented a pathetic sight.

“Sir Jon,” Nicholas called. “Take charge.”

“Aye, Sir Nicholas.”

As Nicholas headed toward his new charge, the lad darted a desperate glance toward the gates. “I would catch you.”

Anger flashed in Thomas’s eyes. . .