Page 6 of The Scot

Roysa opened her eyes, the cold creeping up her back.

“Are you injured, my lady?”

She attempted to focus. When she did, Roysa realized it was the surly guard from earlier who addressed her. He sounded almost . . . kind.

“Aye,” she snapped, prompting all four men, the guards and her escorts, to look at her as if she were daft. Standing, waving off a hand of assistance, she wondered what prompted the change.

“Her sister will not be pleased,” one of the guards said to the other.

How long had she been on the ground? Roysa’s hand flew to her hair, and although it had become a tangled mass, it did not appear anything else was amiss. No lump. She looked at her hand. No blood.

Still, she’d apparently been on the ground long enough for them to learn she was, indeed, Idalia’s sister.

“She is still here?” Roysa managed. Approaching her now-calm horse, she ran her hand over her flank, attempting to soothe her frayed nerves.

Her head ached. Despite the heavy mantle, every bit of her felt frozen. Numb. She just wanted to get inside the keep—so long as her sister was actually in there. The men were now speaking among themselves, steadfastly ignoring her.

“Is Lady Idalia still here?” she repeated.

The sound of horses approaching from beyond the gates caught her attention, and she realized the portcullis was open.

Still, the men ignored her.

She thought of her husband sitting at the head table, thankfully giving more attention to the serving maid than he did his new wife. His harsh commands. His casual cruelty. And then there was everything she’d suffered since learning of his death. She’d stood before his brother, his murderer, wondering if she might be murdered too. She’d renounced her marital rights. And then she’d spent the last several days in this awful cold.

Something inside of her snapped.

Roysa hardly ever yelled. But right now, she wanted . . . needed these men to hear her.

“I am cold. And wet. My best gown is ruined”—which was, of course, beside the point, but even so . . . “And you refuse to answer a simple question,” she screamed, the sound foreign to her ears. “Where is my sister?”

Her throat actually hurt by the time she was finished. But Roysa felt immeasurably better.

And still, neither her escorts nor the guards answered. Their attention, it seemed, had been commanded by someone else. All four of them were staring at an absolutely massive man who’d just ridden through the gates.

The man looked down at her from atop his equally huge horse. His frown was disapproving and judgmental.

“She is inside, my lady.”

Roysa disliked him immediately, despite his good looks.

Her father had always said men were either as honorable or as vile as their lord. The guards’ boorishness made sense to her now, as this was most definitely the earl.

“Very good,” she snapped, finished with rude men for the day.

“Very good indeed,” he fairly growled, his voice low and firm. Aye, the earl. No man sat that confidently or spoke that assuredly without an equally lofty title. “Welcome to Dromsley Castle.”