Page 40

Chapter

Thirty-Five

Grahame

A dara, Hagan, and Thor did not halt, the fools. Not until Branton and Sam appeared from behind a huge oak, their weapons raised. Branton looked ready to murder them for trespassing in Hyrstow territory.

Grahame had managed to lift his uninjured arm in a wave of surrender at the same time Adara shouted, “It is Lady Clayton with Grahame.”

“Grahame,” Bran had said, concern etched in his tone.

Grahame must have appeared as ragged as he felt, for Branton and Sam shucked their weapons and hurried to him. The story of their journey spilled from Adara’s lips, her worry palpable. Unable to unhorse a second time, Grahame had the wherewithal to ask that they be taken to Hyrstow’s hall.

Branton and Sam complied, leading the party past the river to the southwest. As soon as they arrived, Emma, her cousin Ingrid, and Sigrid Tanner helped see to Grahame’s wounds.

Adara had practically frothed at the mouth at the prospect of the others touching him until Emma drew her away to tend to her.

Branton’s displeasure lived in the deep set of his mouth.

Through his haze, Grahame hadn’t realized just how injured Adara was. He’d seen the cut lip when she saved him, but a limp beleaguered her steps as she went with Emma to the long table running down the center of Hyrstow’s hall. White hot rage rushed through him with nowhere to go.

Grahame held still while Ingrid and Sigrid smeared salve on his shoulder and bound it tightly, grinding his teeth through the pain.

Grahame’s gaze didn’t stray from his wife.

Too far away, Emma inspected the swelling of Adara’s foot, the ragged cut to her lip, all the while speaking in low, soothing tones.

Adara’s gaze darted from Emma to Grahame, as if trying to convince herself he was alright.

He’d forced himself to straighten and mouthed, “I love you.”

Adara offered a wary smile, though something haunted lay in her eyes.

Now, seated on a bench at the hall’s long table, Grahame hadn’t touched the mid-day meal that had been set out for them.

Adara sat at his right, Thorhild on his left, while Hagan, Muretta, and Bhlaine sat across.

He felt like a walking bruise, and by the way the others grimaced when they saw him, looked like one too.

At the table’s head Ridley was speaking, his fists braced against the table top. Yrsa paced behind him. Grahame tried to follow the conversation.

“…killed her intended husband and fled. There has been no news from Bernira, thank God. I am glad for your safety, Grahame, but you do not know what you’ve brought upon us.”

Ridley ran a hand through his hair, yanking at the ends.

Yrsa came to stand beside him, settling a hand on his shoulder, which he patted absently.

It made Grahame reach for Adara’s hand beneath the table.

She glanced up at him, worry lacing her gaze for a moment before she schooled her features into that of a cool leader.

The skin around her mouth was tight. She must have been terrified.

“Your earl’s steward promised us support, if the time came. Unfortunately, the need for it has come quicker than anticipated.”

Ridley’s eyes narrowed on Adara. In the firelit room, the man was pure menace, huge and imposing. Adara only stared back, unimpressed.

“Truth. Yet my people did not anticipate having to defend a woman who plotted their demise. We are not ready for a war,” Ridley stated, his tone flat.

His hair had grown longer, beard shaggier, though he looked better than when Grahame had last seen him.

Reuniting with Yrsa had made them both appear healthier, whole.

“One never is,” Thor volleyed back around a mouthful of deer. The guard had hunkered down, elbows around his food, as if he thought he’d never eat again.

Ridley’s look of incredulity at Thor’s lowered head would have sparked laughter from Grahame under other circumstances.

“Be that as it may, we will try,” Yrsa put in. Her hand slid down to Ridley’s upper arm, tightening on the muscle there. A look passed between them, one Grahame was too lightheaded to decipher.

“You are not bringing this fight to Hyrstow’s doorstep,” Branton cut in. He stood next to the central fire, hand on his hip, bearded jaw tight. No part of Branton had softened since finding them in the forest. He was a warrior, ready to circle his family, to defend like a wild beast.

Grahame felt the same. As much as he was grateful for aid, people in Hyrstow wanted Adara dead. In his weakened state, it was all he could do to remain beside her, hating that he couldn’t defend her properly if the time came.

“Tell them of Guston, ’Dara,” he said softly.

Ridley’s brow peaked, though Grahame didn’t know if it was from the suggestion or the slurred nature of his speech.

“What of Guston?” Ridley asked.

Adara’s tone was wooden as she said, “I have influence there. I doubt my herald had enough time to convince others of Hyrstow’s alliance, but I hope so. I sent him the same message of distress as I did to you, though I do not know if it made it.”

“Will your father come here to find you?”

Adara pressed her lips together then nodded. Branton scoffed behind Ridley. Grahame tried to put himself in Branton’s place, but his head felt as if wool had been stuffed inside his ears. He shook it slightly, wishing for the sensation to dissipate.

“He knows Grahame is of Hyrstow. I do not know when, but he will likely pursue us when he finds we have not fled to Guston.”

“Even past the boundary of Bernira?” Yrsa interjected. The top half of her shortened hair had been braided back. Wearing a tunic, trousers and leather, she appeared every inch the Viking warrior.

“Perhaps,” Adara said. Her hand tightened around Grahame’s.

Hagan shook his head over Adara’s demurring.

“He will. I served the earl of Bernira as a squire before I was positioned as my lady’s guard.

He hates the disputed lands that Hyrstow reclaimed.

He revelled in them when they were his, as his lording over them was a slight to Dericia.

If he suspects her to have fled here, he will not hesitate to encroach further. The earls’ feud goes deep.”

Grahame winced as the deep breath he drew tried to take him down.

He’d doomed his family, his friends. His village would be at war because of his wife.

And yet he did not regret his marriage. How could he when Adara was all he’d ever craved?

Perhaps he and Adara were evenly matched in selfishness for he would not give her up.

He could only hope for mercy from his friends.

“Can we rely on the earl?” Grahame asked, referring to the only earl Ridley answered to.

“I do not know. Perhaps not until there has been action against us.”

The sound of a cup ricocheting across the ground broke through the room. Branton stood with his fists clenched, fury marring his features into something ugly. He pressed his lips together, glowering at them.

Ridley looked after him for a moment, then steepled his fingers against his mouth.

“I am so, so sorry,” Adara said. A waver in her voice threatened to drown out the words but she continued: “My misdeeds are great. The raid on Hyrstow went awry. It was intended to mess up the market. To take Yrsa for my revenge. My intentions were not for undue harm, yet intention does not matter when the actions echo across lives.”

Rage was written across Branton’s face as he stalked to her. Grahame rose from the table, his arm around her shoulders as she twisted in her seat to meet Branton’s fury.

“Shove your sorrys up Grahame’s ass, not mine,” Branton snarled.

Every muscle in Grahame’s body honed against the threat. Branton would have to kill him before he set a hand on Adara.

Bran hocked a glob of spit onto Adara’s back. It dripped onto the floor with a wet sound. Grahame was over the bench and Hagan was hauling him back before he knew he’d swung at his brother-in-law.

“She is not worthy of our help,” Branton growled as he turned and left the hall.

Though Hagan released him, Grahame sat only when he was sure his friend would not return.

Silence descended as the meal finished. Grahame suffered through a few bites at Adara’s insistence while Ridley sat in one of the great chairs near the fire.

His gaze remained on the flames, chin propped in his hand.

Yrsa settled herself in a chair beside her husband not hiding the way she watched those who had captured her.

Finally, Ridley spoke, his voice carrying through the hall.

“We will wait. As much as I would like to send you back to your father, Lady, the dispute between the earldoms over the reclaimed territory is a long time coming. It was given to Eadric of Bernira as an appeasement after Lachlan stole his bride, Cathryn of Wessex. Unfortunately for us, we are the closest tenants. I’ve long feared the impending battle.

We will fortify what we can. Ready the men and station them at Grahame’s parents’ home. ”

When he saw Grahame open his mouth to protest, Ridley continued, “It is the closest outpost to Guston. It is where an attack will come from. Grahame, we will move your family into Hyrstow for the time being. I’ll send word to Lachlan, tell him of the possibility of trespass on our land. I hope he’s obstinate enough to come.”

With that, Ridley threaded his fingers through Yrsa’s and retreated into the day, leaving them alone.

Grahame wanted to collapse. His body teetered as he stood, but then Adara was there, gingerly shelving his arm over her shoulders.

“Come, have a rest,” she commanded in a quiet voice meant only for him.

The need to spirit her away from the village nearly wrought Grahame in two.

He finally understood what drove Branton’s brash anger, Ridley’s cunning.

It was the utter desire to keep their women and families safe and it roared awake in Grahame as he stared down into Adara’s tired face.

Her damaged lip threatened to split if she smiled, and the way she limped made him wish he could carry her.

“I love you more than all the stars in the sky. Deeper than any well,” he murmured as she helped him onto one of the thin mattresses that lived along the wall.

Grahame was grateful the firelight did not touch them there. He tugged Adara down with him and she went, despite the bed being for one. Grahame maneuvered her to the inside, against the wall, so that if someone came to harm her, they would have to go through him first.

Grahame placed a kiss on Adara's temple, breathing her in. Mint and herbs from the salve they both wore stung his nostrils. Her stiff body loosened against his.

“I am…” she started, stopped, took a breath. Her face turned to his, her lips finding his jaw, his chin.

“The love I have for you is my most cherished possession. I know I did this to you and to your people. My regrets are many. And yet I cannot make myself regret you. We are one,” she answered, the sureness of her words travelling straight into his heart.

Careful of his injuries, Adara kissed him, her lips painting a picture of all the ways he mattered to her.

They held one another as they drifted to sleep, worry lining each of their faces over what was to come.