The Quest Read online

  The sight of his muscles shining with sweat shot a hot tingle of appreciation right down the middle of her

  For an instant she could not tear her gaze away.

  His soft chuckle warned her that he had noticed her fascination. Iana immediately shut her eyes, cursing herself for her wayward thoughts. She ignored his offer of assistance.

  When she dared to look again, he had retreated to the edge of the water and begun wading in, his back to her. With a will of their own, her eyes immediately focused upon his uncovered nether cheeks. “Och, my sweet lord,” she breathed in absolute awe.

  “Oui?” He looked over his left shoulder and raised one dark brow. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

  What is it? he asks. Iana scoffed. Lust is what it was. Pure, unadulterated lust. And she should be ashamed of herself…!

  Acclaim for Lyn Stone’s recent titles

  The Highland Wife

  “…laced with lovable characters, witty dialogue, humor and poignancy, this is a tale to savor.”

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  Bride of Trouville

  “I could not stop reading this one…Don’t miss this winner!”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  The Knight’s Bride

  “Stone has done herself proud with this delightful story…a cast of endearing characters and a fresh, innovative plot.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  #587 THE PRISONER BRIDE

  Susan Spencer Paul

  #589 THE MAIL-ORDER BRIDES

  Bronwyn Williams

  #590 SARA AND THE ROGUE

  DeLoras Scott

  Lyn Stone

  THE QUEST

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and

  LYN STONE

  The Wicked Truth #358

  The Arrangement #389

  The Wilder Wedding #413

  The Knight’s Bride #445

  Bride of Trouville #467

  One Christmas Night #487

  “Ian’s Gift”

  My Lady’s Choice #511

  The Highland Wife #551

  The Quest #588

  Other works include:

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Beauty and the Badge #952

  Live-In Lover #1055

  This book is dedicated to those independent “Cato Girls,” Louise Pope, Mary Dunlap and Ruth Mimms, my mom and my aunts. Also to the heroic “Cato boys,” Earl, Green and Walt.

  Equally as dear and deserving are my dad, Harlen Perkins, my stepfather, Preston Pope, and my uncles and aunts by marriage, Raiford Dunlap, Calvin Mimms, Corinne, Alice and Jolene Cato.

  I thank you all for the invaluable lessons you have taught me through advice and example. How else would I have recognized love when I found it?

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  West coast of Scotland, 1340

  The taste of his first defeat grew no less bitter with his arrival on these shores, thought Henri Gillet as he climbed out of the disreputable vessel they had commandeered. He dragged his long legs through the sucking, thigh-deep waves. “Pay the man, Ev,” he called out over his shoulder.

  The squire tossed a small pouch of coins at the disgruntled fisherman and then struggled through the bitterly cold surf to where Henri waited on the deserted, rock-strewn shore.

  “Where are we, sir?” the lad asked while he shook himself off and shivered. Though Everand strove hard to erase the trepidation from his voice, Henri knew he surely must fear what was to come. Truth told, he feared it himself, though not for the same reasons.

  He needed to reach safe haven so that the boy would have a chance at survival. At the moment, Henri was not certain he could manage that. His own chances were meager at best. Doggedly he placed one foot before the other and steeled himself against the grinding pain. The bleeding wound just below his ribs ached less than the hurt in his heart. He had lost everything.

  If he died, he must account to God. And if he lived, he must face his father. In his mind, there was little difference. Not that he expected harshness in either case, for both had treated him benevolently thus far and would again. And that would be far worse than any punishment they might inflict. A bitter brew, indeed, was defeat.

  He had not caused it. In fact, he had done all within his power to prevent it. And yet, he still felt accountable, responsible somehow for losing what had been entrusted to him. The lives of those who had followed him when he’d been called to war were forfeit. All gone. All drowned, save young Everand.

  “I know this land. We are not lost,” Henri finally assured the squire. He experienced a sharp stab of guilt that he had dragged this young man so far from his home in Sarcelles to fight against the English. And to a near watery grave when their ship sank off the coast of Portsmouth. Even so, the fourteen-year-old lengthened his short-legged stride to keep in step. Eager as a hound pup to please the master, even now. Henri shook his head at the earnestness of youth.

  “You should rest, my lord. That wound of yours worries me.” The squire did not mention that Henri had begun to stagger and show signs of weakening. Loyalty and compassion had been bred in this boy’s bones, Henri thought. For that reason alone, he had chosen Everand Mercier, a deceased cloth merchant’s youngest, to serve him. What a fine knight he would make one day, despite his size.

  “There should be a settlement not far up the coast. We will bide there and send a message to my family,” he told the boy.

  “We have little coin left to hire anyone for that, my lord,” Everand informed him. “Will it not involve their traveling near the width of Scotland?”

  Henri halted and pulled the silver chain from around his neck. He also removed the ring he wore on his smallest finger, and shoved both pieces at the squire.

  “If death takes me, use the chain and pay someone to cart us to Baincroft Castle in the Midlothian. The baron there, Lord Robert MacBain, will notify my father. He will have a care for your future.”

  To his credit, Everand did not argue or offer assurances that death was impossible. He knew better. He only nodded and asked, “What of your ring, my lord?”

  Henri smiled and reached out to lay his hand upon the small, bony shoulder. “The ring is yours to keep. Tell Lord Robert and my father that I would call you my son.”

  Everand blushed and laughed with disbelief. “I, my lord? Look at me! I am as light as you are dark! That aside, they will never credit that you sired such a runt even if you were old enough at the time to have done so! Which you were not,” he added wryly. “I doubt me you were even…tall enough at the time.”

  “Tall enough?” Henri chuckled in spite of himself, for his head had grown light as air. Ev could always draw a laugh from him, even in the darkest hour.

  Though he knew the night was not yet near, the landscape seemed to darken and waver against the horizon. Henri sank to his knees and sat back on his heels. “Tell them, all the same. I claim you. Lord MacBain will accept this. He is a brother to me, yet we share no bond of blood.”

  “But, sir, you cannot mean to deceive your family into thinking I am your bastard,” Ev argued.

  “Of course not. Never think I would ask you to deny your legitimacy, Ev, or the good man who sired you. But I mean to adopt you here and now if you do not object to it. While you can never be heir to my title, you will inherit a portion of my personal wealth. You deserve that for all you have done for me.”

  “Then I thank you, sir. Though you are too generous.”

  Henri sucked in a pained breath. “I fear you were right on one issue, Ev. A rest might be in order.” He grasped his side and felt the sticky wetness warm his palm. After days of this, he must be nearly bled out.

  He gave what he felt could be his final order. “Go and find that village and fetch a cart for us, Ev. I will wait for you here.”

  Then Henri lay down on his good side and watched Everand’s short legs pumping nearly knee to chest as he raced up the coast to seek help. When the lad became a speck in the distance, Henri muttered a brief prayer, closed his eyes and welcomed sleep. For however long it lasted.

  “Begone from here and leave me be!” Intrigued as Iana was by the young fellow who had constantly bedeviled her for the past half hour, she was not inclined to hie herself off with him on some wild errand of mercy. She had been busy all day in preparation for leaving Whitethistle. There simply was no time for this.

  She shifted the sling bearing the sleeping child to a less awkward position on her back, lowered the bucket into the well and waited for it to fill. If she washed their clothing now, it would dry before nightfall. They could leave the village before sunrise.

  Pity for the young lad’s plight prompted her to speak as she began tugging on the well rope to draw up the wash water. “I have heard there is a healer a league or so north of here. Get her to go with you.”

  “You must come,” he insisted, impatiently shifting from one foot to the other. “Thus far you are the only person I have found who understands a word I say. Doe
s your husband speak my language, too? I will explain our plight to him so he will let you come. He would be glad of the reward we offer, would he not?”

  “I have no husband,” she replied. “Nor do I have time to waste upon some wounded vagabond. Now, off with you.” She picked up the bucket and turned to go.

  “We are not mere wanderers, I swear. Sir Henri will die if I do not bring him help. Please!”

  None in this godforsaken place spoke any French at all, that much was true, Iana granted. Even should this lad make himself understood, no one hereabout would trust him. Earnest as he seemed, what woman in her right mind would go blithely off down a deserted beach with him when he might have older friends waiting to ravish her or worse?

  Yet she could see for herself that the boy was no beggar, nor did he look to be an outlaw seeking sport. His clothing, wrinkled and ruined as it was, possessed a richness foreign to these cottagers. His speech indicated a worthy education and his manner indicated gentility. She did not truly doubt he was what he declared, some knight’s squire.

  Iana set down the bucket again and faced him, hands on her hips. It troubled her to think she could save someone with a few moments of her time and a handful of herbs, when he might otherwise die. “How far away did you leave this fine master of yours?”

  “Only a short distance,” he assured her. He lied. She could see it in his eyes and rebuked him with her expression. “Very well, then,” he amended, shamefaced, “I admit it is a good two hours’ walk.”

  “Two hours?” Iana threw up her hand and rolled her eyes. “Why me? Why would you think I know aught of healing?”

  He perched his hands on his skinny hips and struck a superior stance. “Most ladies are taught such, are they not? How else would they care for the people in their charge? Please, lady. I would not ask, but he is sorely injured and needs to be stitched. I will pay you well.”

  She eyed him shrewdly. “You call me lady. If you believe me that, why would you think I need your coin?”

  The sandy-haired youth drew up to his full yet meager height and looked her up and down, judging. “Your demeanor and your speech betray your birth, even though you dress little better than a peasant,” he observed.

  He glanced around at the nearby cottages of daub and wattle. “And you live here. I would venture you have fallen upon hard times. Through no fault of your own, I am certain,” he quickly added.

  His last words disclosed his doubt of that, and he avoided looking at or mentioning the sleeping child. She had told him she had no husband. He probably thought she had disgraced herself with some man, and been cast out of her family for it. Not far off the mark concerning her station and her exile, she admitted, though he had the cause wrong.

  “Sir Henri and I reward good deeds, I assure you,” he said.

  With a few coins of her own, she could more easily quit this cursed village where Newell had left her to stew in her rebellion. For days now, she had been thinking that anywhere short of hell would be preferable to Whitethistle. Though she had nowhere to go and no way to get there, she had been about to attempt it in her desperation.

  She knew if she did not, she must give up wee Tam. Newell would never allow her to keep the bairn once he found out about her, and none of the villagers would take the poor babe. Surely God had sent this young man to provide the ready means for her escape.

  “How much will you give me?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

  The boy withdrew a finely worked silver chain from inside his salt-crusted doublet for her to inspect. “This,” he offered regretfully. “It was to finance our journey east, but I suppose it will do us no good if Sir Henri dies from his hurt. Tend him and you may have it.”

  Her eyes grew wide at the richness he held. She could separate those links and easily support herself and Tam for months to come. As quickly as that, she decided. “We must return to my cottage first and gather my things. His wound is a cut, you say?”

  Relief flooded the boy’s eyes. “More like a gouge. Not terribly deep, so he tells me. We bound it up, but it has kept bleeding off and on for nigh a week now. Loss of blood and fever have weakened him, but it has no stink of decay.” He winced. “Yet.”

  Iana nodded and led the way to her cottage. As luck would have it, none of the villagers were about. The men were busy fishing and the women preparing meals this time of day. Even the young ones had their chores. So much the better if no one noticed her leave with this young stranger.

  It would take no time at all to collect her sewing implements and the few things she could not leave behind. Tam wakened as they entered, so Iana removed her from the sling and fed her the last of the bread and milk. She then set the child upon a small earthern pot. The lad made a hasty exit and waited outside.

  “There, sweeting,” she crooned. “There’s my good Thomasina! Ah, you’re a braw lass, are you not?” Iana took a few moments to clean the child all over with a cloth and the water she had just drawn, and dress her in a fresh linen gown.

  The large brown eyes regarded her with such trust Iana felt tears form. She brushed her palm over Tam’s dark, wispy curls. “No one will part us if I have aught to say to it,” she assured her. “You have lost too much this past month, as have I. Now, here we go, love,” Iana said as she set the pitifully thin foundling within the sling she had fashioned and wrestled it around to hang against her back. The burden had become a true comfort to Iana this past fortnight, a bit of warmth in her cold isolation.

  The mother had died from a coughing sickness, pleading with her last breath that Iana take the child and help her survive. Little Tam had been near death herself, though from starvation rather than the illness that felled her mother.

  Iana knew nothing about them other than the child’s forename and that the mother had been forced to leave the village some months before. Iana had found the two in the woods while gathering herbs. None of the villagers would speak of the mother, and they shunned the child as though she were a leper.

  Other than her light weight in the back sling, the babe was no trouble. She ate when food was offered, relieved herself when Iana helped her, and she never cried. Judging by the number of teeth she had, Tam must be near two years of age, though she looked only half that and she could not walk. The first night when Iana had lifted the babe in her arms, Tam had reached up one hand, touched Iana’s cheek and uttered one faint mew like a kitten. Aye, Tam was hers now.

  Iana looked up to see the boy reenter the cottage.

  “Oats,” she muttered briskly, grabbing up the drawstring sack that held her supply, “and usquebaugh.” She handed the youth the jug to carry. The strong spirits would serve as well as any medicaments she could borrow from neighbors.

  No one here had much use for the herbs Iana favored for treating wounds and sickness. They mostly relied on animal parts and old Druid remedies. The forest was full of better things. Iana added what she thought she’d need to her sack. The old healer at Ochney had been a good teacher. Iana only wished she had been able to remain there past her girlhood to learn more from her.

  She bundled the few clothes she owned inside her shawl and knotted the ends together. Once she had sewn this knight’s wound, she would set out immediately for Ayr, the nearest good-sized port. A few silver links from the chain she had accepted from the young squire would gain her passage on the first ship leaving Scotland. Mayhaps to the Isle of Eire. She had heard that it was beautiful there and the folk a friendly lot.

  Iana cared not where fate took her so long as it was away from here. If her brother found that this exile of hers had not taught her a lesson and changed her mind about wedding Douglas Sturrock, Iana did not doubt he would resort to much stronger measures. He had warned he did not wish to beat her into compliance. Little did he know what scant effect that would have. As if beating her once would make her accept a lifetime of beatings. Toads had more brains than Newell. The things his wife had told Iana about him indicated he had become nigh as dastardly as her own husband had been. Iana could scarcely believe it of her brother, but his own actions lent truth to Dorothea’s words.

  Becoming wife to Sturrock offered about as much promise as had her first marriage. Iana might survive it if Newell forced the match, but wee Tam would not. The defenseless orphan would be left alone here to die. Now Iana had a way to avoid that, a definite chance of successfully saving them both.