The Key Read online

  The Key

  Lynsay Sands

  For Lawrence S. Currie: my lover, life partner, and best friend.

  Contents

  Prologue

  "Marry what?"

  Chapter One

  "The English be comin'!"

  Chapter Two

  "You look lovely."

  Chapter Three

  Blushing brightly, Iliana watched as her husband was carried into...

  Chapter Four

  Duncan gaped at the contraption she wore, but had barely...

  Chapter Five

  "Gor!"

  Chapter Six

  "So ye dinna have time to be aseein' to the...

  Chapter Seven

  "Ah, there ye be, lassie!" Smiling benignly, Laird Angus crossed...

  Chapter Eight

  "Ye've killed her!" Angus Dunbar roared.

  Chapter Nine

  Iliana held on for dear life as Duncan charged up...

  Chapter Ten

  "What do you mean, you bought them?"

  Chapter Eleven

  Duncan had already exited the kitchen by the time she...

  Chapter Twelve

  "My lady!"

  Chapter Thirteen

  They rode a good distance before Duncan began to slow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Do you not think you have hidden up here long...

  Chapter Fifteen

  "We shall have to tend to the wound," Lady Wildwood...

  Chapter Sixteen

  "She's awakening."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Duncan stood and scowled at the unconscious man Allistair was...

  Chapter Eighteen

  Angus grumbled all the way to the stairs leading down...

  Chapter Nineteen

  "Iliana?"

  Chapter Twenty

  "Do you understand what I want you to do?"

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "Ye don't look overly surprised to see me, m'lady." Allistair...

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  "Oh, my lady! Yer safe! How did you escape?"

  Other Books by Lynsay Sands

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Dunbar Keep, Scotland--June 1395

  "Marry what?"

  "Not a what! A who. And as I have already said, the king would consider it a great favor if you would marry Lady Iliana Wildwood." Lord Rolfe Kenwick glared at the Scot before him, silently cursing King Richard II for sending him on this quest. This was the second wedding he had arranged in as many months, the first being that of his own cousin Emmalene to Amaury de Aneford. He supposed he should be grateful that that wedding had been easy. This one was proving next to impossible.

  "An English." Duncan Dunbar grimaced in distaste at the idea. "Aye. 'Tis sure I am that he would consider it a favor fer me to take one o' his pasty-faced cows off his hands. What is she, one o' his by-blows?"

  "You--" His temper finally snapping, Rolfe grabbed for the hilt of his sword.

  "Nay."

  His sword half out of its sheath, Rolfe paused and glanced at the man who had spoken. Bishop Wykeham. King Richard had pressed the retired prelate back into service to marry Emmalene and Amaury. That chore done, however, he had not been allowed to return quietly to retirement. Nay. On their arrival at court to report the success of their mission, they had learned of another marriage that must take place in haste, one to protect Lady Wildwood. Oddly enough, to afford that protection to Lady Wildwood, her daughter must marry as soon as possible, and to someone who lived as far from Wildwood manor in southern England as they could manage on such short notice.

  Scotland had seemed the best bet. The problem was that they needed a nobleman who was not already betrothed and who could be bribed into marriage. There were few men like that around. Most of the nobility saw their children betrothed ere they were walking. The only man who came close to fitting their needs had been Angus Dunbar, the aging widower and clan chief of the Dunbars.

  Unfortunately, Angus had made it more than clear that he had no interest in remarrying, no matter what was offered as an incentive. Just when Rolfe had thought he would have to return to his king in failure, the old man had suggested they make the offer to his son, Duncan. Nearly thirty though he was, he was still unmarried. His betrothed had died young, and rather than arrange another match for his son, the Dunbar had left it for Duncan to tend to in his own time.

  "Nay," Bishop Wykeham repeated now in answer to the Scot. "Lady Wildwood is the daughter of a wealthy baron who died while in service to the king in Ireland."

  Sighing, Rolfe let his sword slide back into its sheath, adding, "She has a most generous dowry."

  "Hmm." Duncan's lips pursed in obvious disappointment. "How generous?"

  Rolfe repeated the amount King Richard had quoted to him, frowning slightly when the Scot showed no reaction. Shifting, he added reluctantly, "If that is not enough, the king has agreed to add to it."

  Duncan continued to stare, apparently unimpressed.

  "How much is the king willing to add?" Angus asked, speaking for the first time since leading them to his son.

  "He would go so far as to double it," Rolfe admitted reluctantly, worried that by the lack of response of the Dunbars even that would not be enough. Much to his amazement, the younger Dunbar cursed at that, drew his sword, whirled away with a roar, and charged off across the courtyard, his plaid slapping against his legs as he ran.

  Everyone in the bailey paused to watch him race madly toward a small group of men practicing at battle. Reaching the nearest of them, he released a second roar and raised his sword high. That warrior immediately brought his own sword up and the clang of metal meeting metal rang through the bailey. As if it were some sort of cue, all who had stopped went about their business again, wholly unconcerned by the man's daft behavior.

  Turning slowly to Angus Dunbar, Rolfe raised one eyebrow in question.

  "He be thinkin' on it," the old Scot explained with a toothy grin. "We'll go in an' have a mug o' ale while he decides." Turning away, he started up the steps to the keep.

  Shaking his head, Rolfe glanced at the bishop. "What think you?"

  "I think we should have a mug o' ale and await his decision," the bishop murmured with amusement; then seeing the younger man's bewilderment, clapped a hand on his back, urging him toward the stairs. "You have not had much experience of Scots, have you, my boy?"

  "Nay," Rolfe admitted with a slight frown.

  "Well, I have had some small opportunity to deal with them and I should tell you, they are not like the English."

  "Aye." Rolfe grimaced. "I had come to that conclusion myself."

  "Ho! And what is it has me brother so afire?"

  Recognizing his sister's voice, Duncan plowed his free fist into the jaw of the man whose sword was locked with his own. Without waiting to see him fall to the ground, he turned, drove the tip of his sword into the ground, grabbed Seonaid up in a bear hug, and whirled her around. "Congratulate me, sweetling. 'Tis a happy man I be."

  "I can see that, brother." She laughed breathlessly as he dropped her lightly back to her feet. She stepped back, grinning broadly, and Duncan saw that she was accompanied by their two cousins, Allistair and Aelfread. "Now tell me why," his sister said.

  "What is it I have dreamed o' doin' since I turned eighteen? What is it I have worked the men near to death fer? What would I ask fer were I given a wish?"

  Hands propped on her hips, Seonaid Dunbar tipped her head to the side. "Enlarge the castle and replace the crumbling old wall that surrounds it?"

  "Aye." Duncan could barely contain his glee. "We shall do that now. That an' more. We shall dig a new well. Purchase fine horses. We shall e'en i
ncrease the size o' our flock o' sheep!"

  "And how would ye be plannin' to manage all that?" Seonaid asked skeptically.

  "With coins from the English king."

  "Oh, aye," Seonaid shared a disbeliving glance with the men around them. "And why exactly would the king o' England be givin' ye so much wealth?"

  "He wants me to marry an Englishman's whelp."

  "Marry?" The word was a bare whisper. Seonaid looked stunned, even a little hurt, and Duncan's amusement faded, replaced with the beginnings of guilt.

  Seonaid was his only sibling. She had been his only playmate as a child until their uncle had died and his children, Allistair and Aelfread, had come to live with them. Then it had been the four of them rolling and romping in the muck, tromping through the woods, and hunting or playing at games of war. When it had come time for the two boys to train in battle, Aelfread and Seonaid had joined in the practice sessions as if it were their right, and no one had said them nay. Both women now handled the sword with a skill equal to any man's.

  "She must be a cow for the king to pay so handsomely," Allistair said with disdain as he moved to stand beside Seonaid.

  "Aye, the veriest cow," Aelfread agreed, taking up position on Seonaid's other side.

  Ignoring his cousins, Duncan peered silently at his sister, taking in her pale face and pinched lips. Like him, she had inherited the Dunbar height, almost matching his own six feet. But where Duncan was thick through the shoulders and chest, she was svelte, and where Duncan had their father's wavy red-brown tresses, Seonaid had inherited their mother's coloring. Her hair was black as night, flowing straight down her back like water out of a pail. She was strong, beautiful, twenty-four years old, and still not wed.

  Cursing, Duncan turned away.

  "Where be ye going?" Seonaid grasped at his arm.

  Covering her hand with his own, he flashed her a reassuring smile. "I've some hagglin' to do," he murmured, then gently pulled free and headed for the keep.

  He would marry the English. He would marry her for the money. But he would also marry her for Seonaid, for he would ask a favor of the king in return. Duncan would see Seonaid married. He would have the king force Lord Sherwell, his sister's betrothed, to either fulfill their betrothal contract or set her free to marry another. Either way, she would no longer be left in the limbo that made her so unhappy.

  Duncan had decided.

  Chapter One

  "The English be comin'!"

  "What?" Angus Dunbar shook his gray head and roused himself from the semi-stupor he had been enjoying to peer around. The stablemaster's young son was slipping back through the open door of the keep. "Ho! Lad! What was that?"

  "The English be acomin' over the bridge!" the boy cried, his faced wreathed in excitement as he turned away and slammed the keep door.

  "Damn!" Staggering to his feet, Angus gave the man who lay slumped at the table beside him a shake. "Duncan! Wake up, lad. She be here. Wake up, damn ye!"

  Grabbing a pitcher of ale off the table, he turned his son's head by the hair and splashed it in his face, then stepped quickly out of the way as Duncan came to sputtering life. "Rouse yerself, man! Yer bride be here."

  "Me what?" Duncan tried to frown and squint at the same time, but found the effort to accomplish either task made the pulsing in his head increase to a horrid pounding. Groaning miserably, he lowered it to the table again.

  He had definitely overindulged; in fact, Duncan could not recall the last time he had imbibed like that. He and his father had been on a binge since the English had left two weeks earlier. At least he thought it had been two weeks ago. They had been celebrating ever since. Well, mayhap they had been holding more of a wake. He, Duncan Dunbar, heir to the title of laird of the Dunbars, had agreed to be married. At the age of twenty-nine, he was finally giving up his freedom and taking on the responsibility of a wife and, eventually, children.

  Damn. Now he'd done it. He'd gotten himself into a fix that made him fair froth to even consider. Even the fortune he had been offered no longer seemed worth losing his freedom. Mayhap 'twas not too late to back out of the deal, he thought hopefully.

  "Where the devil did your sister get to? Seonaid should be here to greet the lass."

  Duncan sighed, his hopes for escape vanishing. Were he to back out now, the king would not be under any obligation to see to Seonaid's long-neglected betrothal. It had been his one demand before agreeing to the wedding, rather than asking for a doubling of the dowry. His sister's reluctant groom was to be brought to heel and either forced to fulfill the contract that had been arranged when they were children, or to set Seonaid free. The latter option was what Duncan hoped for. He was sure his father would never forgive him should Sherwell arrive prepared to fulfill his part of the contract.

  "Damn ye, Duncan, they are here I tell ye! Rouse yerself, man!"

  That bellow near his ear drove all thought out of Duncan's head. Eyes popping open, he was about to force himself to sit up when a second pitcher, this one full of whiskey, splashed into his face. That brought him upright at once, cursing and spluttering as the liquid burned his eyes. "Dammit father, I be awake! Jist give me a minute to--"

  "There be no minute to give ye. Git up, man!" Grabbing his arm, the Dunbar tugged Duncan to his feet, then sighed at the sight he made.

  "Ye've blinded me! Damn ye!"

  "It'll pass. But ye've ale and whiskey all over ye, lad," his father chastised gruffly, taking up a corner of his own plaid to wipe roughly at his face.

  "Aye, well, ye put it there, didn't ye?" Duncan muttered, grabbing at the cloth moving across his face and trying to use it to wipe at his burning eyes.

  "Never mind that." Angus tugged the plaid away and straightened it about himself, then turned toward the door. "Come along."

  "I cannot see!" Duncan protested, still rubbing at his eyes.

  "Then I shall lead ye! I want to see the mother o' me grandbabies."

  "We are no even wed yet, Father. 'Twill be awhile ere there is fruit from it," Duncan muttered, allowing himself to be dragged across the great hall.

  "Nine months. 'Tis all the time I'll be givin' ye. Then I expect the squall o' bairns to echo off these old walls. It has been too long since that sound has filled these hollow chambers."

  Pushing the keep doors open, his father dragged him out onto the steps and paused as he saw the riders crossing the bailey toward them.

  "Damn," Angus murmured suddenly. "Damn me all to hell."

  "What?" Duncan scowled into the bleary distance. All he could make out was the blur of a large party crossing the bailey toward them on horseback.

  "She's bonnie."

  "Bonnie?"

  "Aye. No beauty, but bonnie. She looks fair delicate, though," he added, worry obvious in his tones. "A real lady. Sits her mount like a queen, she does. Her wee back straight as a sword.... Aye, a real lady."

  Duncan watched the blurred figures draw nearer suspiciously. "What exactly do ya mean by a real lady?"

  "I mean the kind that'll no approve o' yer sister's shenanigans," he said dryly, then shook his head. "Mark me words, lad. Yon wee Sassenach lass'll set this place to rights straight off."

  Duncan frowned over that. To his mind, there was nothing that needed setting to rights at Dunbar.

  "Ah well." The older man sighed resignedly. "We couldna expect to live the grand bachelor's life forever."

  "Which one do you think he is, my lady?" Iliana Wildwood gave a start at that question and drew her eyes from the two men standing on the keep steps to glance worriedly down at her maid.

  Seated in the wagon that held all of their belongings, Ebba's plain face was aglow with excitement. An excitement most likely born of the fact that they would no longer be sleeping in the open, Iliana thought with a sigh, but she could not blame the other woman. They had been riding from dawn to well into the evenings, and camping in two inches of mud, for over a week.

  "Of course, you do not know either," the maid murmured apologet
ically when her mistress remained silent.

  "Nay," Iliana admitted faintly, her now troubled gaze returning to the men in question. She had assumed that the younger of the two was to be her husband, but now realized that she could be wrong. Young women were married off to old men all the time, but she had not even considered that. Not once during the long, dreary trip here had she thought to ask what her betrothed was like. If he was cruel or kind. Strong in battle or not. If he had all his teeth and was healthy.

  Sighing, she shook her head in self-disgust at her own oversight. And oversight it had surely been. Though to be fair, she had been slightly distracted of late, what with her father's death and her mother's predicament. Between one worry and another, she had quite neglected to consider the possibility that her husband might be much older than herself. Considering that possibility now, she began to nibble at her lip anxiously.

  Both men were attractive in their own way. 'Twas obvious they were father and son. The son appeared to be in his late twenties, while the father was at least fifty. The son's hair was a reddish brown and long and wavy. The father's hair was a mass of wiry white strings that shot in every direction from his head. The son's face was hard and strong, all planes and edges like the land they had crossed to reach him. The father's, just so, but with lines of character to soften it. Both men had generous mouths, strong noses, and eyes she suspected could be both hard and gentle. They were also both tall and hard and lean of body.

  "'Tis the younger one," Bishop Wykeham murmured from where he rode at her other side, drawing a grateful smile from Iliana that lingered until they reached the base of the steps. Then she got her first really good look at the two men. Her smile was immediately replaced with a frown of dismay as she took in their tattered garments and filthy faces.