Page 14 of Ena’s Surrender

He was too old for dreams. Especially when reality had always been so harsh.

Walter filled the silence, as Renault had hoped he would. “We’re going on a raid tonight to see if we can retaliate. Mayhap take a few horses, stir up a bit of trouble.” He waggled his brows.

The sinking sun indicated the time to be late afternoon. Preparations would already be finalized for the raid. Renault inhaled, drawing in the usual smells of the village: smoke from fire pits, roasting food, baking bread and rot.

“Have I been included in the raid?” Renault asked.

Walter shrugged his large, square shoulders. “I’m not certain, but that doesn’t mean you can’t join us. I’m sure your eagerness will be noted.”

Renault nodded. He knew it would be. His presence during the raid would also allow him to ensure Ena stayed safe. Men sometimes became overwhelmed with blood lust. The heat of battle was an intoxicating elixir for some, and all too quickly led to the burning of homes and the taking of women.

Renault had never been such a man and did not condone such behavior, but he was not their leader. Not yet.

Even with his lack of power, he knew his presence could help keep Ena safe.

“Thank you, Walter,” he said.

“Be ready at midnight.” His friend clasped forearms with him and made his way to the village center, no doubt to have a few ales before their departure in several hours.

Renault turned around to return to the castle, to inform the Captain of the Guard he’d be joining them. As he did so, he tried pointedly to ignore the pull of longing in him to see Ena once more.

He would go to her only if she were in danger. Otherwise, he would stay away. They were enemies. It would do them both well to remain that way.

But heaven help the man who might intend her harm.

The thunder of hoofbeats over soft earth made Ena’s eyes fly open, waking her from a deep sleep. Her heart knocked about inside her chest and she strained into the silence of the cottage to listen for anything beyond.

There it was—the discordant rumble of hooves racing over soil. Was it Bran and his men returning?

She pulled the dagger from beneath her pillow and slid out of bed. The energy racing through her body left her legs and hands shaking. Moggy didn’t even budge from where she’d been curled up against the warmth of Ena’s side, as the cat clearly saw Ena as a serviceable substitute until Bran’s return.

Ena focused on the racing hooves. If Bran and his men had returned, they wouldn’t be running their horses so hard. Which meant it could be the English.

If that was the case, too many Scotsmen wouldn’t be here to protect their homes. Ena strained to listen for the sound of screams in the distance. But then, they didn’t build their cottages close together at the outskirts of town. While it kept fires and vermin from spreading, it also muted any calls for help.

A solid thump came from the main door of the cottage. She gave a jump of surprise and squeezed her mouth shut to keep a cry from escaping her lips.

Her breath came fast, huffing from her chest with an effort that left her lips tingling.

Something heavy slammed into the door. It held, but the frame shifted slightly in the wattle and daub wall. The door might be well-made, but their home was built of twigs and mud, the same as all the others. Easily broken, which made it far too dangerous.

She wanted to be brave. She wanted to fling open the door and thrust her dagger into the waiting body on the other side. Except that her pulse roared in her ears and every muscle in her body was locked with fear.

She was no longer the strong woman who had learned to defend herself. She was the scared girl from twenty years ago who had hidden under the table in a moment of absolute panic while English soldiers kicked in their flimsy door.

Fear had her in its powerful grasp. It fed her memories of death and blood and suffering until she couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. All she could do was clutch her dagger and gasp for breath.

The powerful thunk came from the door once more. Again, the doorframe shifted, this time a fine dusting of the whitewash flecked over the floor.

Ena put her free hand over her mouth to squelch a scream. She wanted to close her eyes; pretend she was somewhere else. She didn’t want to be here. Anywhere but here.

She couldn’t endure that horror again.

Another shove against the door. The frame tore away from the wall and left a gap of brittle twigs, exposed like a fresh wound. The next strike would push the door through the wall.

She should hide. She should run. She should attack. She should do anything but stand there.

But she did nothing, rooted into place by nightmares, by memories of how her neighbor’s screams had been cut short by blades. And how her own family had been slain before her very eyes.