Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

34

THE RIGHT CHOICE

NESSA LEFT THE Wailing Widow Falls on a bright late-spring morning.

She urged Honey through the gap she’d forged in the wall of water, the garron’s hooves crunching over wet stones.

She didn’t look back, even as she felt the weight of her sisters’ gazes upon her.

Breanna was among them.

They’d hugged, and when Breanna had pulled back, her cheeks were wet with tears. Few words were spoken, for the night before, the pair of them had argued. Breanna had eventually broken down, her outrage merely a shield for her grief at losing Nessa.

They’d talked then, and Nessa had fully explained her decision. She wasn’t sure if her sister truly understood, yet Breanna had ceased railing at her. Instead, she’d turned her anger upon the High Bandruì for colluding with her.

“How could she send ye away?” Breanna had demanded, her eyes red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed. “We are kin!”

“She isn’t. This is my choice.”

“But ye wouldn’t be going if she didn’t allow it.”

“Our mother understands us, Bree,” Nessa had replied, taking her sister's hands and squeezing them gently. “Better than we do ourselves.”

Colina stood among the others this morning too. She’d enfolded Nessa in one last hug, and the grief that had welled up within Nessa had almost made her want to stay.

These women were her kin.

But it was time to leave her family now, to embrace a future outside the order. She could hardly imagine such a life, for the Guardians had been her world.

Yet Colina’s words had freed her. She had to follow her heart.

Honey jumped up onto the mossy bank of the burn, and Nessa reined her around, watching as the waterfall closed behind her, sealing the others inside. She was now alone, with the dawn chorus and the gentle rumble of the cascade.

“Goodbye,” Nessa whispered, her voice catching. “I will never forget ye all.”

It hurt to leave those she loved, yet it would have hurt her more to stay.

Swallowing to ease the tightness in her throat, even as her belly fluttered with excitement and trepidation at what lay ahead, Nessa turned away from the Wailing Widow Falls.

She then gathered the reins and urged her garron south, toward her destiny.

A month later, Nessa rode through the woodland that lay just north of Grosmont Castle.

Jittery with nerves, she strained her gaze into the distance, hoping to make out the castle walls. However, she wasn’t yet close enough. It was hard to believe that, after weeks of travel, her destination—and the man she loved—were just out of sight.

It hardly seems real.

An overcast day pressed down upon her, and she breathed in air that was heavy with the promise of rain. Nessa was sweating under her new chemise and cotehardie. She’d bought the garments, along with knee-high hose, which felt strange against her skin, in the town of York on the way south.

As she’d walked amongst the narrow, cobbled streets, she’d been keenly aware that Englishwomen dressed differently to their Scottish counterparts. Obviously, there were no plaid shawls, but many women wore bell-sleeved robes over their kirtles. They also dressed their hair differently. Nessa was used to letting her long red-gold hair flow loose down her back, yet she soon noted that in England only unwed maidens seemed to wear their hair thus.

At thirty, Nessa could no longer call herself a maiden, and she’d noticed the stares she attracted in her travel-stained blue kirtle and unruly hair.

As such, she now wore her hair in a neat bun at the base of her neck. She’d then covered the bun with a delicate veil, as she’d seen Englishwomen do. She’d also shed her beloved blue robes for a moss-green cotehardie over a slightly darker green kirtle. Around her hips, she’d cinched a heavy belt.

Despite the warm day, she wore a light woolen traveling cloak, with the hood pulled up. Resisting the urge to shove the hood back, Nessa slowed Honey to a trot, her gaze scanning the roadside. She’d attracted a lot of unwelcome attention over the last month, something that had turned her wary.

A woman traveling alone was always at risk, even in Scotland. However, the farther south she’d ridden, the more trouble seemed to cross her path. She’d had to threaten a drunk with her dirk in an inn just north of Hadrian’s Wall, and had been forced to use witching when a group of outlaws chased her two days later. In York, she’d narrowly missed being robbed by a cutpurse. Colina had gifted her a small purse of silver pennies, and the lad had nearly run off with it.

Unfortunately for him, she’d cast a jinx on him as he fled, and the urchin had sprawled on the cobbles.

Nessa had managed to get this far unscathed, yet, even so, the incidents had put her on edge.

The night before, she’d stayed in the village of Pontrilas, her last stop before Grosmont. The innkeeper had kindly provided her with a steaming iron tub of water, and she’d been able to bathe properly for the first time since leaving the Highlands.

She didn’t want to arrive at Grosmont coated in grime and sweat.

What if Hugh has changed his mind about me?

Nessa clenched her jaw. The thought had surfaced periodically during the journey south, although as her destination approached, it now niggled at her.

Goose, she chided herself. The man offered ye his heart and a place at his side. He won’t spurn ye.

But even so, the nervousness lingered, fluttering in her belly like a cluster of moths.

She’d taken great care with her appearance that morning and set off from Pontrilas shortly after dawn, crossing Afon Mynwg, the river that locals said formed the border between England and Wales.

Pushing aside her worries, Nessa peered ahead. The trees seemed to be drawing back. Indeed, moments later the woodland—oak, ash, and beech—fell away, and a great fortress with dun-colored walls rose before her, perched upon a green hill.

Nessa’s breathing caught, and she slowed her pony to a walk. “Look at that, Honey,” she breathed. “It’s even grander than I’d imagined.”

Indeed, Grosmont was quite a sight. It commanded over the lands below it, two crenelated towers outlined against the dull sky.

Suddenly, despite the care she’d taken with her appearance, and the new garments she’d bought for her arrival, Nessa felt shabby and out-of-place. What if Hugh had returned home and deliberately cast her from his mind? What if he’d eventually concluded she wasn’t the right woman for him?

“Stop it,” Nessa muttered to herself. “Ye’ll find out soon enough.”

She’d come this far, braved letches, bandits, and thieves to reach Grosmont—she’d not let her own fears hold her back. Not any longer.

Drawing in a resolute breath, she rode on, through the village of squat stone cottages with thatched roofs. Locals stopped work in the fields to watch her pass. Honey plodded dutifully on, her furry ears flicking back and forth at the sound of a donkey braying nearby. The garron snorted; she wasn’t fond of donkeys.

On they rode, up the hill and to the lowered drawbridge. A wide, deep moat, full of still, dark water surrounded the castle. It was a reminder that this fortress sat on lands that had once belonged to the Welsh—it sat on the frontier and would always have to weather assaults.

Honey clip-clopped across the drawbridge, and they passed under the portcullis and the gatehouse, under the watchful eye of guards above. Two more men in hauberks and helms stepped out to bar her way into the inner ward.

Nessa drew up her pony, pushing back her stifling hood.

Finally, she’d arrived.

“Sir Hugh … you’ve got a visitor.”

Hugh glanced up from where he’d been checking the steward’s ledger against the stocks in the granary. Frowning, his gaze alighted upon the guard who now stood framed in the doorway.

“Aye, who?” Hugh wasn’t in the best of moods this afternoon. His right thigh, although it had healed well, was aching—the result of him being on his feet all day. This task, which he’d thought would be brief, had turned out to be a laborious one. The steward, his aging uncle, had miscounted most items.

“A woman,” the guard replied, his gaze gleaming with unabashed curiosity. “A Scot.”

A jolt arrowed through Hugh. Wordlessly, he passed the ledger to the servant who’d been helping him with the inventory. He then left the granary, stepping out into the grey afternoon.

Kit was still there, helping to shoe horses, as he’d been earlier when Hugh had entered the granary. However, his brother and the farrier had ceased their work.

Instead, their gazes were trained on the woman upon a shaggy dun pony, who waited, flanked by his men just inside the gates.

Hugh’s breathing stopped. For a moment, he merely stood there, unable to believe his eyes.

The woman, tall and curvaceous, sat proudly upon the saddle. He barely recognized her, dressed in a fine cotehardie, her lustrous hair netted and tied back in a prim bun. Green suited her, yet he’d only ever seen her in blue.

Hugh stepped forward. “Nessa?”

She favored him with a smile then, a knowing expression with a slightly mischievous edge, and Hugh’s heart bucked against his ribs.

Christ’s bones … it’s really her.

Nessa swung down from the saddle, allowing one of the guards to take the reins of her faithful garron. Then she moved toward Hugh.

“Hugh,” Kit called from behind him, amusement lacing his voice. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your visitor?”

Hugh ignored his brother. He ignored everything except Nessa.

“You came,” he said, a trifle stupidly. “I never thought you would.”

Nessa’s full mouth quirked once more, although her eyes were limpid, soulful. “Some things are too precious to cast aside,” she said, her voice growing husky. “If ye will have me, Hugh de Burgh, I am yers.”

A beat of silence passed while their gazes fused. Hugh was aware of Kit asking him something else, yet he didn’t even recognize the words.

His pulse now thundered in his ears.

The shadow that had fallen over him since Stirling shifted then, gliding away and leaving hope in its place. Above Grosmont, the dull sky cleared: the cloak of grey parted, and the friendly face of the sun shone down upon them once more.

Slowly, Hugh smiled. “Aye,” he murmured.

He moved forward then and scooped Nessa up in his arms.

She squealed in fright, clutching at him. “Hugh! What are ye doing? I’m not a willow reed … ye’ll do yer back in.”

“Silence, woman,” he replied, turning his attention to the grinning guard who held Nessa’s pony. “Look to my bride-to-be’s mount.” He then spun around, taking care to do so on his good leg, and cast his brother a wide grin.

Kit was staring at him as if he’d just taken leave of his wits, as was the bemused farrier.

“Send word to the village church, and bring Father Gregor to our chapel,” Hugh told his brother. “There will be a wedding at dusk.”

Kit nodded dumbly.

Not waiting for any further response, Hugh strode from the inner ward. His limp was still pronounced, and his right thigh protested at the extra weight, yet today he barely noticed.

Today nothing mattered except the woman in his arms—the woman he would soon make his wife.