The Chase

Chapter One

"What does she look like?"

Rolfe ignored the question as they crested the hill and Dunbar keep came into view. He sighed his relief. The castle symbolized an end to the sorry task he'd been burdened with, an end he would be happy to see. While loyal to the King, he was beginning to think Richard II was going out of his mind. Rolfe Kenwick, Baron of Kenwickshire was no cupid; and yet he had already been forced to arrange two weddings, was seeing to one at the moment, and no doubt would have another to see to on returning to court.

Rolfe finally turned to peer at the strong, blonde warrior at his side. Blake Sherwell, the heir to the Earl of Sherwell, one of the wealthiest lords in the kingdom. He was called the 'Angel' by the women at court. The name suited him. The man had been blessed with the appearance of an angel, not the sweet innocence of a cherub, but the hard, lean, pure looks of one of heaven's warriors. His eyes were as blue as the heavens themselves, his nose acquiline, his face sharp and hard and his fair hair hung to his shoulders in long glistening golden locks. Just over six feet in height, Blake's shoulders were wide and muscular, his waist narrow, and his legs long and hard from years of hugging a horse. Even Rolfe had to admit the other man's looks werestunning. Unfortunately, Blake had also been blessed with a tongue as sweet as syrup; honeyed words dripped off his tongue like rain drops off a rose petal, a skill he used to his advantage with the ladies. It was said he could have talked Saint Agnes into his bed had he lived in her time, which was why the men generally referred to him as the 'Devil's own'. Too many of them had wives who had proven themselves susceptible to his charms.

"What does she look like?"

Rolfe put aside his thoughts at the repeated question. He opened his mouth to snap at Blake, then caught the expression on the face of the over-large man riding a little behind the warrior and nearly smiled. Little George was the giant's name. Where Blake was blond, Little George was dark, where Blake was handsome, Little George had been cursed with the face of a bull-dog, but what the man lacked in looks, he made up for in strength.

Regaining some of his patience, Rolfe turned back to the man beside him. "You have asked - and I have answered - that question at least thirty times since leaving castle Eberhart, Blake."

"And now I ask again," the fair-haired man said grimly. An exasperated tsking drew Rolfe's attention to the Bishop who rode at his other side. The King had dragged the elderly prelate out of retirement to perform several weddings he wished to take place.

Despite having been contracted some twenty years ago, no one seemed to wish the wedding to go ahead. Not the families, the groom, nor even the bride-to-be.

"As I have told you - at least fifty times since starting our journey - she is tall."

"How tall?"

"Mayhap a finger shorter than myself."

"And?"

"Lady Seonaid is well-formed with long ebony hair, large blue eyes, a straight patrician nose, high cheekbones, and fair, nearly flawless skin. She is attractive ..." He hesitated, debating whether it was time to warn the other man of the less than warm greeting he was about to receive.

"Do I hear a howbeit in there?" Blake asked, drawing Rolfe from his thoughts.

"Aye," he admitted, deciding if he were to warn him at all, the time was now.

"Howbeit what?" the warrior prompted, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"She is a bit rough around the edges."

"Rough around the edges?" Blake echoed with alarm. "What mean you she is rough around the edges?"

"Well ..." Rolfe glanced at the Bishop for help.

Bushy white eyebrows doing a little dance above gentle green eyes, Bishop Wykeham considered the question briefly, then leaned forward to peer past Rolfe's bulk at the groom. "Her mother died when she was young, leaving your betrothed to be raised by her father and older brother. I fear she is a bit lacking in some of the softer refinements," he said delicately.

Blake was not fooled. The Bishop was a master of understatement, if he said she was lacking some softer refinements, she was most like a barbarian. He turned on the younger man accusingly. "You did not mention this afore, Kenwick!"

"Well, nay," Rolfe allowed reluctantly. "Nay, I did not. I thought mayhap it would set you to fretting and there was no sense in doing that."

"Damn!" Blake glared at Dunbar castle as they approached. It appeared cold and unfriendly to him. The Scots had not exactly rolled out the welcome, but then he had not expected them to. They wanted the marriage no more than he did. Blake could not turn and head back to England, his future was set. By noon on the morrow, he would be a married man.

Damn ... life was a trial, and what little freedom a man enjoyed was short lived, he mused miserably. Then he forced himself to straighten in the saddle as he realized they were about to pass through the gates into the bailey of Dunbar keep. He would present a strong, confident front to these people. His pride insisted on it.

Blake lifted his head and met the silent stares of the guards watching from the walls, but soon found it difficult to keep his face expressionless when the men began shouting to each other.

"Which one be he, diya think?" shouted one man.

"The poor wee blonde one I wager," answered another, an older soldier. "He be a fair copy of his faither."

There was a brief silence as every eye examined him more thoroughly at this news, then someone commented, "A shame that. I be thinkin-the dark braw one might have a chance, but the wee one 'll no last a day."

"I say he'll no last half a day!" someone else shouted.

"Whit diya wager?"

Blake's expression hardened as the betting began. Indignity rose in him on a wave. Never in his life had he been called 'wee' before. He was damned big next to the average man, though he supposed he appeared smaller next to Little George. Stiffening his back a bit more, he lead his horse up to the steps at the front of the keep. The absence of his bride, who should have been waiting on the stairs to greet him, was an added insult. 'Twas damned rude, and he would be sure to say so when he met the woman, he decided as the men in the bailey gave up all pretense of working and began to gather around their party to stare. Being the censure of all eyes was discomfiting, but their mocking smiles and open laughter were unbearable.

Blake was relieved at the distraction when one of the large keep doors creaked open. A young boy appeared at the top of the steps, turned to shout something back into the keep, then bolted down the stairs.

"Thank you, son," Blake slid off his mount and smiled as the lad took the reigns of his mount. His smile faded, however, as he noted the mixture of pity and amusement on the boy's face before he turned away. The child retrieved the reigns of Rolfe, the Bishop, and Little George's horses as well, then lead them away.

Shifting uncomfortably, Blake raised an eyebrow in Rolfe's direction. The other man merely shrugged uncertainly, but worry crossed his features before he turned to give instructions to the soldiers escorting them.

Scowling, Blake turned to peer up the steps at the closed double doors of the keep. The upcoming meeting was becoming more intimidating every moment and he took the time to mentally calm himself and gird his courage. Then he realized that he was allowing himself to be unsettled by a meeting with a mere female.

Blake paused and gave his head a shake. What the Devil was he worried about? Women had always responded well to him. He was considered quite attractive by the opposite sex. He wouldn't be surprised if his soon-to-be-bride melted into a swoon at the very sight of him. Her gratitude at being lucky enough to marry him would know no bounds, and her apologies for not meeting him on his arrival would flow unending. Being the Angel, he would gallantly forgive her, then they would be married. After which he would have done with the business and head home. There was no law and no line in the agreement stating he had to take her with him. Blake thought he should leave her here, making regular if infrequent visits, until he had a home where he could set her and forget her. Blake did a brief scan of those present, searching for the woman he was to marry and spend the rest of his life with, but there seemed to be none present. Women that is. Other than a servant or two, the great hall was entirely inhabited by men. It mattered little, he reassured himself, he would meet her soon enough.

Blake moved toward the head table, slowly gaining the attention of man after man as first one spied him and nudged another, who nudged another and gestured toward him. Ignoring their rude behavior, he moved up the center of the room until he stood before the grizzled old man he suspected was the Laird, Angus Dunbar. The room had fallen to silence, a hundred eyes fixed on and bore into him from every angle and still the man did not look up. Blake was just becoming uncomfortable, when Rolfe moved to his side and cleared his throat.

"Greetings again, Lord Dunbar."

Angus Dunbar was an old man with shoulders stooped under years of wear and worry, his hair was grey and wiry, seeming to stand up in all directions. He took his time about finishing the chicken leg he gnawed on, then tossed the bone over his shoulder to the dogs and raised his head to peer, not at the man who had spoken - but at Blake himself who immediately had to revise his first opinion. Had he thought the man old? Worn down by worry? Nay. Gray hair he might have, but his eyes spat life and intelligence as he speared Blake where he stood.

A brief flash of surprise shot across his face, then his mouth set in grim lines and he sat back. "Soooo," he drawled. "For guid or ill ye finally shoo yersel=". Ye look like yer faither's whelp."

Blake took the time to translate the man's words through his heavy accent. Once he was sure he understood, he gave an uncertain nod.

"Weell, 'tis too late." His pleasure in making the announcement was obvious. "Clockin' time came an' went an' the lass done flew the chicken cavie, so I ken ye'll be thinkin' linkin'."

"Cavie? Thinkin' linkin'?" He turned to a frowning Rolfe in bewilderment.

"He said hatching time came and went and the girl flew the chicken coop, so he supposes you'll be tripping along," the other man explained, then turned to the Laird, anger beginning to show itself. "What mean you the girl flew the cavie?

Where is she gone?"

Dunbar shrugged a dismissal. "She dinna say."

"You did not ask?"

Angus shook his head. "'Twas nigh on two weeks ago noo." "Am I to take it then that you are breaking the contract and are willing to forfeit her dower?" he asked.

Dunbar sat up in his seat like a spring. "When the Devil sprouts flowers fer horns!" he spat, then suddenly went calm and smiled. "To me thinkin', 'tis ye who forfeit by neglectin'yer duty to collect yer bride."

"But I am arrived to collect her." He flashed a cold smile. "She ran off to St. Simmians."

"St. Simmians?"

"'Tis an abbey two days ride from here," he explained with amusement. "She asked for sanctuary there an' they granted it. Though, I canna see the lass in there to save me soul." "Damn," Rolfe snapped, then his gaze narrowed on the Scot. "I thought you knew not where she was?"

"I said she dinna tell me," he corrected calmly. "I had one o' me lads hie after her when I realized she was gone. He followed her trail to Simmian's, but had no luck in gettin' her out. Men're no'allowed inside, ye ken."

"Aye, I know," Rolfe muttered irritably.

Angus Dunbar turned his gaze back to Blake, eyes narrowing on the small signs of relief he saw on the man's face and in his demeanor. "Well? Ye ken where she be now, lad, why do ye tarry? Go an' fetch 'er, she must be bored by now an'may e'en come out to ye."

Blake glanced at Rolfe. He had been thinking for the past couple of seconds that he may have just slipped the noose they would place on his finger in the form of a ring, but the expression on the other man's face and his would be father-in-law's words told him he had thought wrong. They expected him to fetch her out of the abbey to wed. To his mind, it was rather like asking a man to dig his own grave, but it seemed he had little choice.

Sighing, he turned to lead the Bishop and Lord Rolfe from the room, but at the door to the keep he paused and waved them on before he returned to face the Dunbar. "You say the Abbey is two days ride away?"

"Aye. Two days. Doona fash yerself over it, sassenach. Go fetch yer bride." He grinned, some of his grimness falling away as he added, "If ye can."

(Continues...)