My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) Read Free

Nicholas saw her delicate allure through a haze. Her lips parted as she breathed in short gasps. Dismay glimmered in her blue eyes, her porcelain skin flawless and flushed. She had an ethereal beauty, delicate and so fragile he thought her a fairy princess of ancient lore.
    Exquisite.
    Walking to her, he extended an arm. “Come, lass.”
    She refused his hand, her gaze fixed on his face.
    “I will return to Sutcliffe alone, Scotsman. I will wed no man,” she insisted.
    Clenching his hands, he lowered his arm. “Your father betrothed you to me. It’s verra important we leave now.”
    As Alex scurried about the room gathering her clothes, Nicholas watched Ysabelle press a blanket to Malcolm’s wound. What did she think to accomplish? “The mon is dead. Leave him be.”
    She shook her head. “To assume I will be your wife now is beyond arrogant. You’ve brought the wrath of King William down upon us all.”
    “I didna plan for this mon to die,” Nicholas said.
    “How kind. You can explain that to King William.” Her voice sounded shattered with unshed tears.
    Nicholas prayed she didn’t cry. A woman’s tears tore at his heart like nothing else.
    Scowling, he pulled her away from Sir Malcolm’s corpse. She fought him, staining him with the blood on her hands. Her blows did little damage, no match for his greater strength.
    Nicholas had no doubt as to how her clothing had become torn. He tensed his jaw with anger. “Did he hurt you?”
    Her gaze darted to where the dead man lay and her color heightened. She must be too embarrassed or too upset to answer. Thank the heavens Nicholas had arrived before the marriage had been consummated. If he didn’t wed Ysabelle soon, his claim to Sutcliffe would be lost.
    Bending, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. She was light as a goose down pillow and smelled of heather. Her scent filled his senses and he breathed deeply as he carried her out of the room and down the stairs to the hall below.
    She yelled with fury and pounded his back. When he stepped into the main hall, he placed her on her feet. His armed warriors stood around the room, wearing chain mail and helms, their blades drawn as they rounded up the castle guards.
    The manor belonged to Ysabelle’s uncle, a weak man if ever one lived. Otherwise, he would never have stood by and allowed the English king’s emissary to force Ysabelle into marriage with Malcolm de Litz. No doubt her father would howl with fury if he were still alive.
    The king’s soldiers had been disarmed, rubbing burgeoning bumps and bloodied noses as they slumped against the wall. The long tables had been knocked over, dishes smashed, food spilled. Hounds scurried out of Nicholas’s way, growling as they fought over a meaty bone. A woman crouched in a far corner, her desolate sobs filling the void. Nicholas tensed, and ignored the urge to offer them clemency.
     
    *
     
    Ysabelle took a deep breath. She tried to step away from the Scots Ram, but he held her close by his side. She wished he would remove his helm so she could read his expression. An urgency to flee almost overwhelmed her. She must escape. But how?
    Guilt nibbled at her, yet she could not prevent the relief that flooded her. Praise the saints she would not be forced to tolerate Sir Malcolm’s loathsome touch. Now, she faced a greater foe.
    Dread shrieked inside her mind. What would her king do once he found out Sir Malcolm was dead?
    Nicholas Ramsay glowered at the chair where her bridal wreath lay. The Ram’s expression darkened and his eyes narrowed with fury. Drawing back a long arm, he proceeded to smash the chair with a single blow. Ysabelle flinched as the wood splintered and the fragrant heather lay crushed upon the stone floor.
    Would he turn his anger on her?
    One of her uncle’s men approached, a determined look on his face. “You cannot take Lady Ysabelle.”
    Without breaking stride, the Ram backhanded the man hard across the face. The man fell to the