Page 3 of Ena’s Surrender

Renault held tight. “Remove your helm.”

She pushed herself into him, grabbed his shoulders and jerked her knee upward. He shifted quickly so her blow landed at his hip instead of his groin. The feisty wench. He shoved her back against the wall of the hut nearest to them, his forearm at her throat.

It stunned her long enough for him to pull the helm free. To confirm he’d been correct.

The person glowering back at him was indeed a woman. Her black hair was bound, but loose tendrils curled around her face. She had full lips and finely arched brows.

Were the circumstances different, he’d be asking her for a dance, or offering to buy her a mug of ale.

How like the Scottish to send their women into a battle of men. Women were meant to be cared for, loved, cherished. They were too delicate for the likes of war.

In one swift move, she caught his waist, holding him to her and thrust up with her knee. This time, he was too bloody slow and pain exploded through his nether regions. Thoughts fell away as his body collapsed to the ground, cradling his wounded member.

“English shite,” she hissed. “I’ll kill ye.”

Renault snatched up her dagger before she could reclaim it and straightened. Everything inside him blazed and his stomach heaved with the need to purge. He immediately doubled over once more; the dagger clutched in his grip.

“Ena?” A man shouted from the distance, his tone rough with incredulity.

The woman cursed low under her breath, her voice husky beneath the Scottish accent. “I should kill ye now.”

Renault looked up at her, rising despite his injury. She hesitated, the same as she’d done earlier when she could have slain him.

Instead, she swung her elbow at him, slamming the blow beneath his chin. Everything went black.

When he awoke moments later with his helm knocked off and his face half-laying in the mud, the woman was gone. So too were the reivers.

And, despite her threats and the real opportunity to end his life, he was still alive.

2

Ena had lost her dagger in England. The thought sat low in her belly like a weighted stone and mixed with the anxiety already roiling there. She rode at Bran’s side, trying not to look like a sullen bairn. But though she was the older of the two of them, she felt exactly like one. Chastened, ready for rebuke, knowing she’d done wrong.

It shouldn’t be wrong for a woman to want to help. Men took all the risks; they faced the possibility of death every day and cut their rations to share with the women and children who’d done nothing to earn it. That was wrong.

Bran cut a hard glare at her and despite her resolve, guilt pinched inside her chest. The lean months had hollowed out his cheeks, giving his face a fierce sharpness. She hated seeing him wasting away in front of her.

His large frame had once been imposing with the bulk of his muscles. But over these last months, that strong physique had whittled down so much that she’d had to cut his belt shorter lest the end hang toward his knees.

“We’re here.” Bran’s entirely unnecessary announcement was delivered in a terse voice.

She’d seen the pele tower in the distance, most likely before he had. She’d tracked their progress with impending doom swelling like a storm in her chest. She was dreading this.

She hopped from her horse but snatched the reins before Bran could have the opportunity to do so. His jaw tightened and she knew she’d added another log to the blaze of his ire.

The man who took their horses caught sight of her without her helm. His eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth to speak.

“Nay,” Bran said.

The man pressed his lips together and quietly led the horses away. The silence left in his wake followed Ena and Bran into the small single room hut they shared. It was not unlike the one they’d lived in when they were children, before the attack that killed their mother and Gregor. Unlike the flimsy door that had let the English soldiers in then, Bran had procured one of thick, hearty wood with a solid piece of metal to secure it to the wall.

The room inside was cold and gloomy with the fire pit at the center of their home long since extinguished. It was her job to ensure it remained lit, that the scant food they had was hot and ready for Bran’s return.

He said nothing as he knelt by the tinder and struck the flint rocks together to get a spark. Their small tabby cat, Moggy, emerged from one of the beds and trotted to his side, rubbing her head against his hand while he worked. He stroked her once and continued his task. Within seconds, the fire crackled to life once more, filling the room with heat and light. Still he did not speak.

The anxiety in Ena’s belly congealed and tightened until she could scarce draw breath. Why wouldn’t he just get it out?

Instead, he tugged off his gambeson, lifted the top off the clay pot used to keep vermin out and took a hunk of the stale bread from within. He split it between them, giving her the larger of the pieces. When she didn’t take it, he sank down in front of the fire, his stare lost in the flames writhing dance as he held the pieces of bread, uneaten. Moggy flopped at his feet and studied him with her amber eyes, as though she too were trying to gauge his unusual mood.