Page 4 of Anice’s Bargain

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Anice’s pounding heart had been unexpected, as had the rush of memories of her mother. The days after their mother’s attack by a Graham, the despondency of the child she’d been left with, and their own dear Leila whose birth had been so violent, it had taken their mother’s life.

All because of the Grahams.

At once, rage, horror and disgust flooded Anice. Her stomach roiled with nausea and her muscles went tight.

Piquette bristled at her side, protective, as though sensing his mistress’s discomfort.

“Are ye injured?” The man rose.

Anice followed his ascent, watching the tallest, largest man she’d ever seen rise to standing. Her skin prickled, acknowledging her fear. These men had attacked Werrick Castle fourteen years prior. They had killed Anice’s people, plundered fine goods and raped her mother. Her idea to come was truly foolish.

“Are ye well, lass?” He stepped toward her.

She flinched and then berated herself for having done so. These men were beasts. Showing them weakness would be like giving a hound the scent of a fox during a hunt. She notched her chin upward in what she hoped would appear as a show of strength. “I have come to speak to the man in charge of the Graham reivers.”

“Who are ye?” he asked.

“Lady Werrick, Countess of Werrick,” she lied. She had put much thought into this answer prior to leaving the safety of her home. Name and position held great weight. As simply the daughter of an earl, she was an easy target, one whose innocence was as tempting as the opportunity to besmirch the Barrington name. But a countess carried clout, far more than a mere daughter.

Though her mother had been dead for well over a decade, it was entirely plausible that Anice’s father would remarry. In fact, it would be expected, especially with five daughters and no sons.

Anice hoped this warrior would assume her to be a new wife rather than a daughter. She needed every advantage she could get. The man stood with his back to the bright moon, his face cast in shadows. He observed her for a moment, then walked away. His large hand beckoned, and she followed with Piquette at her side.

Her heart danced in her stomach, her body alight with trepidation and wariness. Ahead of them was a sea of tents, the little triangular tops of white welling in the night like capping waves.

Several men stopped, gaping as she strode proudly by. She did not look at them, but she could feel their stares on her like something greasy and slick, as if they groped her with their eyes. In that instant, she regretted the kirtle with its low-cut bodice and its fitted waist, and the belt that hung tightly around her hips. Piquette issued a low, menacing growl.

“Have ye no’ ever seen a lass?” The reiver leading her spun around to glare at the eyes feasting on her.

As suddenly as the men had surrounded her path, they now disappeared. This time when the man faced her, the full glow of the moon shone on him, revealing a straight mouth beneath a cropped brown beard and pale eyes. Not a handsome man, but nor was he ugly. Not like she’d expected of the Grahams. She’d remembered them with pockmarked faces and gaps of missing teeth, a child’s memory of terror.

The man folded his arms over his chest. “Go on.” He nodded her forward, and Anice had the sudden suspicion she might be more prisoner than guest.

Of course, she had anticipated such a possibility when she decided to go through with her scheme. It was a risk she was willing to take to aid her family.

There were a lot of things she’d considered. They might try to kill her, or threaten her at the gates of Werrick as Marin’s husband had done with their younger sister, Catriona, years ago. For those reasons and countless others, Anice had taken care to strap a dagger to her thigh and cut the bottom from her dress pocket, ensuring she could reach the blade at a moment’s notice. Whether to defend herself and Piquette or, if she were to be used as bait to lure the castle gates open, to end her own life.

The deeper they wound into the camp, the more pungent was the scent of roasting meat. It had been so long since she’d had more than simple grain or a bit of vegetables from the garden. Meat. Poultry. Fish. Venison. Beef.

Her heart drummed faster and spots of white blossomed in her vision. Fat hissed on flames, skins charring with tender meat roasting within. She desperately longed for the tear of it against her teeth and her mouth filled repeatedly with saliva.

She kept her head held high, but she could not stop her lingering gaze at a bit of beef slung over the fire. Piquette’s head bobbed upward with each inhale, his stare fixed on the meat they passed. Still, as hungry as she knew he was, he stayed with her.

She strode toward the large tent standing out among the myriad smaller ones and conceded once more that perhaps this decision would cost her life.

The large man pushed at the tent flap, lifting it from her path in an unexpected show of chivalry. Anice gathered closer her courage, nodded her thanks and passed through it. The air inside was thick with the heavy, smoky odor of tallow dips on several tables around the large tent. Oily black smoke curled up from the bit of cloth set in the saucers of pooled fat.

The man inside, Laird Graham presumably, rose from a chair as she entered. While larger than her, he did not stand nearly as tall as the man who guided her into the tent.

Thin strands of white hair hovered like fine threads of cotton over his otherwise glossy pate. There was a gauntness to his sharp featured face, lending him a skeletal appearance. He narrowed his glittering eyes at her and then turned to the tall man.

“Who the hell is this?” He demanded.

Piquette sat forcefully in front of Anice as though he meant to shield her from this man. “I am Lady Werrick, Countess of Werrick,” she replied for herself. “I intend to treat you with civility and would expect likewise from you.”

“Why would ye do that?” His lip lifted in a partial snarl.