The Rock

by Monica McCarty

  “Tomorrow morning,” Johnny filled in, finally finding his voice.

  Elizabeth turned to the awestruck lad. “Would you mind giving your brother and me a few minutes in private? There is something I should like to discuss with him. I think I saw some boys heading down to the river to fish.”

  Johnny looked to him. Thom was tempted to shake his head but nodded.

  A few moments later the door shut behind him, and they were alone. Someone who didn’t know her might think she was as cool and confident as she appeared, but Thom could see from the way her fingers were gripping the edges of the fur-lined cloak draped around her shoulders and the slight quickness of her breath that she was nervous.

  He had no intention of easing it. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms formidably, waiting.

  She looked around. “So this is where you hid yourself all those years. How come you never invited me here?”

  As if it weren’t obvious. He hadn’t missed the tentative way she’d moved into the room, as if making sure she didn’t accidentally step in muck or brush her pristine skirts against something dirty. She wasn’t comfortable, and it showed.

  His gut twisted. “What do you want, Elizabeth? Say what it is you will and go. As you can see, I’m busy.”

  She frowned. Her nose was not much bigger than it had been all those years ago, and it had only a few more crinkles. He’d never spoken to her so brusquely, and she didn’t seem to know how to respond. “We need to talk.”

  “There is nothing to talk about.”

  She moved toward him. “Why are you being like this? Why are you so angry with me? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I’m not mad at you.”

  What right did he have to be mad at her? How could anyone blame her for not considering him as a suitor? No one would. He was so far beneath her as to make a match between them not only laughable but condemned. Aye, he had no right at all.

  But he did blame her. He blamed her for being sweet and kind and so generous and funny that he couldn’t help falling in love with her. He blamed her for being so damned beautiful it hurt just to look at her. He blamed her for deluding him into believing that he was someone worthy not only of friendship but of love. For making him believe that he was her equal in all the ways that mattered. For all the years he’d wasted waiting for something that was never going to happen.

  He wasn’t mad at all.

  She put her hands on her hips the way she always did when she was angry with him. “I’m more than familiar with your black moods, Thom MacGowan, so don’t try to intimidate me with your scowling. I know when you are mad about something.”

  He stood, letting his arms fall to his sides. “As you pointed out, a lot has changed in five years. Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” He took a step toward her, looming over her in the semi-darkness. “Maybe you should be intimidated. I’m not distracted by silly jokes anymore.”

  The deep suggestiveness of his voice hinted at exactly what might distract him now.

  Her chin jutted up, but the flutter of a pulse below her jaw told him that she was not as unaware of his meaning as she wanted to be. He felt a surge of distinctly primal satisfaction. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  No doubt she didn’t mean it the way it came out, but her words only fueled his temper, which like the rest of him was already too hot. The soft, subtle scent of her perfume wrapped around him in a sensual haze, stoking—or maybe he should say stroking—the flames of desire that made his body harden.

  He stepped back. “Aye, it’s ridiculous, all right. Which is why you should get the hell out of here.”

  It took her a moment to realize what he meant. “I didn’t mean . . .” She scowled. “You know what I meant—that you would never hurt me—but you seem determined to misunderstand me. And don’t speak like a churl.”

  “Don’t you mean like the son of a smith? I may not speak French—or whatever other languages you converse in now—but I understand you perfectly. Which is why we have nothing to say.”

  She pursed her mouth, clearly trying to exercise patience in the face of his rudeness. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, Thommy.” Hurt feelings? If a hole could have opened in the middle of the floor to swallow him up, he would have welcomed it. Was two weeks ago not humiliating enough? She’d crushed his dreams, made him feel like a fool for thinking he could matter to her, and she acted like he was an overly sensitive schoolboy. “But you caught me off guard. I had no idea you felt . . . like that.”

  It embarrassed her even to say it. He suspected his face was as red as hers, and his teeth were gritted so tightly he was surprised he could speak. “That was obvious. But you need not worry that I will trouble you with those feelings again. I was mistaken.”

  She instantly brightened. “Then we can forget all about this and get back to normal?” She smiled. “I’ve missed you, Thommy. There is so much I want to tell you about France.”

  Years ago, he would have listened happily to her stories—actually, he had. Although he had no desire to see France or any of the other places she spoke of when they were younger, he would have traveled there, lived there, whatever she wanted, if that would have made her happy.

  Now he stared at her in disbelief. Did she think his feelings were so shallow and malleable that he could turn them on or off like the wick from an oil lamp?

  “How do you propose we get back to normal, Elizabeth? I’ve been waiting for five years for the lass I’ve loved for as long as I can remember—who I thought loved me—to come home.” Her eyes widened at the word “love,” but he didn’t stop. “And when she does come home, it’s to learn that everything I thought was wrong. Not only does she not return those feelings, she considers them ‘impossible’ and a ‘game.’ I may be a fool, but even I can see that it can never go back to the way it was.”

  Her eyes flared. It took a lot to rile her temper, but it appeared his fool comment had succeeded. “Nothing has to change, if you wouldn’t be so blastedly stubborn.”

  Only years of remembering his place, of forcing himself to remember that she was the laird’s daughter, prevented him from hauling her up against him. Instead he leaned down to look her in the eye. “Open those pretty blue eyes for once, Elizabeth. Everything has changed. Now both of us see that a future is impossible.”

  She glared at him mutinously. He wasn’t the only one who could be stubborn. “That doesn’t mean we still can’t be friends.”

  “Yes, it does.” They stood glaring at each other angrily for a few moments. His hands flexed at his sides, itching to touch her. To see that anger flare to the passion that he knew was just lurking underneath. But he wasn’t good enough to touch her.

  Pain stabbed and he turned away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish packing.”

  It was she who touched him. The feel of her hand on his arm set off flares of awareness racing all over his skin. The anger had fled from her face, and she was looking at him with something like panic in her gaze. For once, he didn’t feel like comforting her.

  “But I don’t want you to leave, Thommy. It won’t be the same here without you.” She’d always been able to tease him out of his bad moods, and she did so again. “Besides, who will be there to catch me when I fall?”

  Thommy stared at her. Stared at the achingly beautiful young woman who’d haunted his dreams for far too long. It had to stop. He wasn’t the boy who’d saved her from stumbling more times than he could remember, and he sure as hell wasn’t a “knight” who’d saved her from falling out of a tree and was rewarded with the hand of a princess.

  But one day he would be. One day Elizabeth Douglas would regret letting him go. One day she would see the man he was and want him with all the longing and desperation that he felt right now, but by then it would be too late.

  Their eyes met for the final time, and with all sincerity he said, “You know, Elizabeth, I really don’t give a shite.”

  She gasped, and after a stunn
ed moment, finally did what he asked.

  When the door slammed behind her, Thom sat down on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands.

  3

  Blackhouse Tower, Scottish Marches, Ash Wednesday, February 22, 1314

  ELIZABETH GAZED OUT the tower window, scanning the surrounding countryside. The bitter cold of winter was evidenced by the unbroken swaths of browns and grays painted across the horizon. It seemed there was not one green leaf or colorful wildflower left in the heavily forested hillsides of Galloway. The only wail was of the wind; the distinctive call of the peewits would not be heard for another few months.

  Blackhouse Tower, part of the Douglas patrimony restored to her brother by Robert the Bruce, stood on the edge of a burn in the heart of the Ettrick Forest, the wild, inhospitable land that had served as a favorite base of Scots “rebels” from William Wallace to the Bruce. Beyond lay the rolling hills of Peebles, Selkirk, Jedburgh, Roxburgh, and the other important towns that lined the Scots side of the border.

  What she wouldn’t do to be in one of them. God, how she couldn’t wait to leave this bleak, desolate place. The endless gray days, the monotony of seeing the same handful of faces day in, day out, the droning quiet. In the city there was always something new. There was always noise, entertainment, and something to be excited about. Here, in their remote forest fortress, the most exciting thing to happen lately had been the completion of a new tapestry to adorn the wall behind the dais. And she didn’t even like needlework!

  But not for much longer. Somewhere out there Jamie and his men were harrying one of the last English garrisons in Scotland at Roxburgh Castle, as part of King Robert’s preemptive war against the English. In late October, Bruce had given notice that in a year’s time, he would forfeit the lands of any nobles who still had not submitted to his authority as king. The threat to the nobles loyal to the English had finally forced Edward to act. The English king had responded with a call to muster at Berwick Castle in June.

  Bruce was using the intervening months to prepare for the upcoming war. In addition to raiding and securing tribute from the English unfortunate enough to live near the border, the king’s army was laying siege to the crucial strongholds of Edinburgh and—soon—Stirling, as well as sending out small bands of warriors (such as the one led by her brother) to prevent supplies from getting through to the others still in English possession, such as Roxburgh, Jedburgh, Bothwell, and Dunbar. The Bruce did not have the men or resources to lay siege to them all. When Edward II did march north, Scotland’s castles would not be strongholds for the English.

  But Jamie was expected to be called to Edinburgh soon to ready for the coming battle, and when he did, he’d promised to take them with him. After the fierce battles that had started the war, it had largely come to a standstill. With thousands of Bruce’s men occupying the city, there was no fear of attack by the besieged English garrison of a hundred men. At least two of Bruce’s sisters would be there, as would the wives of many of his retinue.

  Elizabeth couldn’t wait. Edinburgh wasn’t Paris, but it was certainly a vast improvement over the Ettrick Forest.

  She scanned the countryside, almost as if she might see a colorful banner or the flash of silver mail beneath a surcoat in the distance. But it wasn’t the blue and white of Jamie’s arms for which she unconsciously looked. Were Edward Bruce and his men nearby as well?

  “Watching for someone, Ella?”

  Elizabeth startled and turned in the direction of the speaker, her cousin Lady Isabel Stewart, daughter of the hero John Stewart of Bonkyl, who’d died fighting with Wallace at Falkirk, and cousin to the current Steward of Scotland—the 6th—Walter. The 4th Steward had been both girls’ grandfather.

  Isabel grinned and continued. “Trying to conjure up Sir Thomas out of all that mist? It’s a long way to see to Edinburgh.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I shall see him soon enough, Izzie.”

  Although Isabel was easily placated, the other occupant in the room was not. Joanna had known Elizabeth for too long. They weren’t just childhood friends anymore. Joanna had become her sister-in-law two and a half years ago when she and Jamie had finally married. They’d gone through a difficult time after Joanna’s accident. Elizabeth wasn’t privy to all the details, but she knew Jamie had done something horrible, which Joanna had eventually forgiven him for. Fortunately, almost losing one another had seemed to make their love stronger. They’d been lucky.

  Her sister by marriage gave her a very knowing look. “I hear from James that with Randolph laying siege to Edinburgh, Edward Bruce will begin the siege of Stirling Castle soon.”

  Elizabeth held her expression impassive, although she knew it well. “That is very interesting, but is of no import to me.”

  Joanna quirked her brow. “Isn’t it? Hmm.”

  Elizabeth didn’t like that “hmm.” Whatever Joanna thought she knew, she was wrong. If Elizabeth spent too much time looking out of windows, it was because she was bored out of her mind and anxious. Not because she was looking—or waiting—for anyone, especially Thommy.

  She was curious as to what had happened to him, that was all. Other than hearing that he was fighting with Edward Bruce, Elizabeth had heard nothing from her former friend in three years.

  “Is it your argument with Archie that is bothering you?” Isabel asked.

  Elizabeth was about to protest that nothing was bothering her, but as they seemed disinclined to believe her, she shrugged. “A little,” she admitted. “It’s hard with both Lady Eleanor and Jamie away. He doesn’t listen to me.”

  “Nor to me,” Joanna said with a wry smile. “But I think it is a function of being sixteen and a Douglas male who thinks he knows everything. I remember that time well.”

  So did Elizabeth. Her heart squeezed, admitting only to herself how much she missed it. It was before everything had become so complicated. Why did Thommy have to go and ruin everything by trying to change things? It had been perfect the way it was.

  She’d treasured the bond between them, and the deep, abiding friendship that had weathered war, distance, and time. He’d been her companion, her confidant, her anchor in a maelstrom. He was her one constant, and along with Joanna, the best part of coming home. Thommy was home to her. Douglas hadn’t been the same after he left.

  She’d thought he would always be there. Whether it was rescuing her from a tree when she was six (and saving her from countless bruises, skinned knees, and twisted ankles afterward), providing a shoulder to cry upon after the death of her father at eight, or listening to her teenage tirades against her stepmother after one of their many arguments, he always seemed to know exactly what to say—or not say—to make it better. Even after the worst period of her life, when King Edward had stripped her family of everything after the death of her father, and they’d been forced to beg for a place to stay with relatives—eventually finding it with Isabel’s family—Thommy was the only one she’d been able to confide in about the fear and shame that even now she couldn’t quite forget.

  Which was why Thommy’s confession had come as such a shock. If anyone knew how important a good marriage was for her, it was he.

  He was her dearest friend. At least she thought he had been. It still infuriated her to think about the way he’d last spoken to her. How dare he be mad at her when he was the one who’d tried to change the rules all on his own! She’d never thought of him like that and had no idea his feelings toward her had changed. She’d just turned sixteen when she’d last seen him, for goodness’ sake. Hardly a time of great perceptiveness in life.

  Admittedly, she hadn’t been all that much more perceptive at twenty, and her reaction to his declaration could have been more tactful. Thommy was so infuriatingly proud, and she knew how touchy he could be about any reference to his father’s position in their household. But she’d been stunned by his admission, and the words had popped out unthinkingly.

  But what had he expected her to say? What he’d proposed was impossible on
every level. She had a duty to marry to increase the power and prestige of her clan.

  She’d never thought of Thommy before in terms of rank, but he’d forced her to acknowledge the vast difference between them. Daughters of important nobles did not marry sons of smiths. Not in Scotland—nor in any part of Christendom, for that matter. Only peasants thought of things like “want” and “love”—although thankfully she’d refrained from blurting that out. She could only imagine how he would have reacted to that less-than-sensitive observation. Love was desired in noble marriages, of course, but it was expected to grow, not be the basis of it.

  She pursed her mouth. It still grated on her how coldly he’d treated her, and how easily he’d walked away and never looked back. So much for friendship and love.

  Still, she hated how it had ended between them. Something about it felt unfinished—incomplete. Maybe that explained the strange restlessness that she just couldn’t seem to shake. She wanted to see him—just to make sure he was all right, of course. She couldn’t bear the idea of him hating her.

  Pushing aside thoughts of her former friend, she returned to the subject at hand. “You mean Douglas pigheadedness changes after sixteen? You might tell my brother. Jamie still seems to think he knows everything.” She shook her head. “I admit, I understand Archie’s frustration. Were it me, I would be chomping at the bit to get out of here, too.”

  Archie wanted to join the fight, but Jamie had refused. Not only was he too young, it was too dangerous. The English would love nothing better than to get ahold of the brother—half or not—of the “Black Douglas.” But Jamie’s promise of “soon” was wearing thin to their sixteen-but-old-enough-to-fight brother, and Joanna and Elizabeth had been left with the difficult task of enforcing Jamie’s orders. Last night she and Archie had argued about it.

  “You mean you aren’t?” Joanna said with a laugh. “I don’t think Archie is the only one who wished he could take a horse and ride to Roxburgh—or Edinburgh.”