Free Tatiana March by Surrender to the Knight Page B

satisfaction, marred though it was, because he had hoped for a deeper declaration of affection from his wife. He’d seen the look of love in her eyes. That was enough, for now, Olaf told himself as he soothed Lady Brenna, cupping her face in his hands, stroking her hair, bringing her down from the fevered peak.
    He picked her up and carried her to the canopied feather bed. When they settled down to sleep, Lady Brenna drifted off in seconds, rolling over to the far side of the bed, away from him, as she had done every night. Olaf waited. Once he heard her breathing grow slow and steady, he pulled the covers from her. It took a moment for the chill to penetrate her senses. He spent the time admiring her pale skin and feminine curves. Soon, a tiny shiver of chill shook her, and she inched forward on the mattress, curling up to him in her sleep, seeking his heat. Satisfied, Olaf slipped his arm around her waist, hauled her into his embrace, and spread the covers over both of them.
    * * *
    Freezing fog rolled in from the sea and enveloped the castle roof. Brenna surveyed the dawn breaking over the horizon in the east. It was the third day after Epiphany and yet there had been no sign of Laird Erskine and his men-at-arms.
    She wore her chain mail hauberk. Laird Olaf wore steel armor around his torso and arms. Robert and Alistair and Ian had padded gambesons beneath their leather jerkins. Those could stop an arrow shot by a skilled archer, even from a close range, and the lower halves of their bodies were protected by the crenellated castle wall.
    “Where in devil’s name are they?” Alistair said.
    “Probably still recovering from the festivities,” Ian replied.
    “I wish they would hurry,” Brenna fretted. “I can’t bear the waiting.”
    Despite the impending danger, the whole village had celebrated Christmas, bestowing small gifts upon one another. They’d had a proper feast, singing carols, eating goose, drinking wassail. They had prayed too, and Robert, who knew a smattering of Latin, had conducted the Mass. Before setting fire to the Yule log that they had burned for the whole twelve days of Christmas, Ian and Alistair had carved runes in the timber, representing the ill fortune they wished to consign to the flames.
    Unfortunately, Brenna didn’t believe it had worked.
    “They’ll come soon,” Laird Olaf said calmly. Legs braced, fair hair fluttering in the wind, he stared into the distance. Brenna had learned that he could stand guard for hours on end without giving in to fatigue.
    “They might have built a trebuchet to grind us into rubble,” Robert said.
    “They won’t need to.” Relaxing his alert stance for an instant, Laird Olaf pulled off his gauntlets and blew into his palms to keep his fingers from going too numb to control a bow and arrows. “Nor will they bring a siege tower. A castle this well secured can’t be breached. They might tunnel underneath to burn us out, but it would be difficult because the ground is frozen solid. That only leaves the possibility of someone letting them in, or a long siege to starve us into submission.” He raked his gaze over the others, sending them a grim smile. “As there are no traitors at Kilgarren, it will be starvation for us.”
    Brenna listened to the man she had grown to love, and the bitter truth settled over her. She would never have expected that instead of fearing the day he would leave, she would regret that he had stayed. “You should have left when you could,” she told him fiercely. “If Erskine can’t kill you, he can’t make me into a widow and force me to marry him.”
    “If I failed to stay and defend the castle, the king would give Kilgarren to Erskine without a fight. I’d sacrifice my honor and you’d lose your home anyway. That would be a bad bargain.”
    “Dying for Kilgarren is a bad bargain for you,” she countered. “I was born here. This place is my home. My life. For you, it is nothing but a worthless piece of moorland