My Lady's Choice. Lyn Stone

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      Chapter Three

      Richard propped his elbow on the chair arm and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. But he knew that nothing he did would make this particular ache subside.

      His wife, he hoped, had not yet put together the fact that this Alan the True and Alan of Strode were the same man. Richard had heard his brother called both by the family.

      Of course, it was possible—even probable—that Alan had ceased using the English name of Strode. It was a place-name, though it had evolved into a surname long before his time. Alan had not been born there, nor had he ever lived at Strode. He might call himself Alan of Byelough now that he was lord of that estate, or simply Alan the True, a name earned by reputation.

      Alan had declared himself a Scot, both by birth and loyalty, having had a Scots mother and lived in the Highlands with her family for a score of years. Their English father loved him well, despite that. Even Richard could understand why Alan, more than twenty years his senior, had chosen as he had.

      He barely remembered the man. They had not seen each other since Richard was less than three years old. He was not even certain whether what he had of his half brother constituted real memories. His parents had spoken so often of Alan during Richard’s childhood, the recollections could easily be their own and not his at all. But Alan’s letters were genuine, and frequent, considering the difficulty of getting them delivered.

      Somewhere in those hills across the border nestled Byelough Keep, the home Alan had gained through marriage to the widow of his friend after the Battle of Bannockburn. Richard wondered if times had grown so hard there that his brother must now raid the English to support his family.

      Should he tell this wife of his about the kinship? She stood there anticipating his promise that he would slay this dragon for her. He decided to wait and see what would happen. In any event, she could not expect him to do anything about it in his present condition.

      “He has attacked other properties,” she was saying now as she began pacing to and fro. Her action annoyed Richard, for he wished to do the same and could not. She continued, “Though my sire is the only noble he has slain, so far as I know.”

      Somehow, Richard could not equate the man who wrote such witty and loving missives to his English father with the brutal knight she described, one who would put to death Lord Simon of Fernstowe and then brag of it to all and sundry.

      Stealing to survive or taking an enemy for ransom, Richard could comprehend. Senseless killing, he could not.

      Though this brother of his had slain a number of Englishmen on the field, the man had been renowned, even among his enemies, for holding to a knight’s code of mercy when given a choice.

      Richard decided there was surely more to this tale of murder than he had heard thus far.

      “So, you will find and destroy him?” his wife asked, interrupting his thoughts. “That should put an end the raiding. I would have done it myself did I possess the skill.”

      “Make no mistake, I shall find him,” Richard answered, glancing up at her.

      He did not expect this marriage of his to offer anything in the way of happiness. That would be a foolhardy hope, indeed. But if Sara did not already know, he had to wonder what this bloodthirsty wife of his would resort to once she discovered the man who boasted of killing her sire was her husband’s brother.

      Sara fought to control the feelings that rose in her breast each time she thought on her father’s death. Lord Simon had been the best of men, undeserving of a horrid death at the hands of the marauding Scots. Had she been a man, they would all be dead now. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, regaining her calm.

      Her husband appeared preoccupied, but no longer unduly angry. Now might be as good an opportunity as any to attempt the establishment СКАЧАТЬ