by Emma Prince
Amazingly, they’d managed to mobilize in just over three hours. Only about two hours of gray daylight remained, but judging from the sloppy, muddy state of the roads, they would need every moment they could squeeze from the day. This trek promised to be cold, wet, and hard going.
The arrival of March had brought incessant rain, turning what was left of the snow first to slush and then to mud. And the rain showed no signs of letting up. It fell in heavy sheets, as if trying to beat the already-sodden land into submission.
Niall cast a glance at Mairin around the edge of his hood for what felt like the dozenth time. They’d only ridden out of the castle gates a quarter of an hour before, but time dragged and his nerves wound tighter as he waited to see how she planned to reach the cave.
She rode impassively on Lancaster’s other flank, her head slightly tucked against the pound of rain on her hood.
They were surrounded by the other nobles, with a hundred soldiers riding in front to protect them from an unforeseen attack, and the rest streaming behind, mostly on foot. They were forced to travel at a snail’s pace, not only because of all the foot soldiers, but also for the sake of the three-dozen wagons of supplies trailing at the back of their procession. The wagons’ progress was hampered the worst by the deeply rutted and mud-covered road.
Suddenly Mairin gasped, drawing the attention of Lancaster and a few of the nobles nearest them. She looked down at her saddle, then sank her teeth into her lip. If he didn’t know her so well, he would have feared she was in true distress. Still, his stomach coiled with trepidation. This must be the start of her plan.
“What is it?” Niall asked loud enough for those around them to hear.
“It is…I need to stop for a moment.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Naught. Only a…a woman’s issue. I dinnae need more than a moment, though.”
“Good God,” Hereford muttered in disgust.
Now they had Lancaster’s full attention. He shot her an annoyed look. “You expect me to halt a procession of nigh on three thousand soldiers because of a woman’s problem?”
“Nay,” Mairin replied quickly. “I can see myself to that copse of trees just there.” She pointed off to the west, to the stand of oaks they always rode through to get to the cave.
Niall stiffened. She’d never told him that her plan only covered her riding to the cave and sending the Bruce a missive. The thought of her setting out alone made his guts tangle with worry.
“I’ll accompany you,” he said tightly.
“Nay,” she repeated, shooting him a pointed look. “As I said, it is a woman’s matter. I can see to myself and catch up in no time.”
“Christ,” Audley interjected, giving Niall a withering look. “Beaumore thinks he can sneak in one more swiving before the Scottish hellcat’s monthly curse!”
That was met with the laughter and vulgar jests of the others. While they were distracted by their own amusement, Mairin fixed him with a hard stare. Her lips barely moved, but he made out the words she mouthed.
Trust me.
Damn it all. She was forcing his hand. Either he had to let her ride out on her own, reach the caves, send the missive, and ride back, or he had to break his vow to give her his trust.
With a muttered curse, he tilted his head almost imperceptibly. It was the only confirmation she needed.
Her shoulders hunched within her cloak as if the nobles’ taunting had embarrassed her. With a nudge to her horse’s flanks, she peeled away from the procession, then spurred toward the stand of trees.
Niall watched her out of the corner of his eye until the bare oak branches completely obscured her. Then there was naught to do but wait. An interminable stretch of time crawled by, during which he conjured every ill that could befall her on the short ride to the cave. Her horse could throw her, or go lame, and she would be stranded. Or she could be set upon by thieves—or worse.
By the time he saw a dark speck against the gray landscape riding back toward them, he had nearly driven himself mad with worry.
Mairin reined in alongside Lancaster’s flank slightly breathless, as if she’d pushed herself and her horse to make good time.
“This is why women cannot be warriors, and why they have no place in battle,” Lancaster muttered, casting a contemptuous glance at Mairin over his shoulder before facing forward once more. Little did the Earl know that he had just been outmaneuvered by the very woman he was busy disparaging.
Mairin completely ignored Lancaster. Instead, she locked eyes with Niall.
He lifted one brow in a silent question, his throat tight with concern.
She tipped her head, a victorious smile flitting across her lips before she smoothed her features once more.
It was done, thank God, and Mairin was back safe and sound.
She held his gaze for a fraction of a second longer, though, her mouth once again forming soundless words.
Thank you.
Niall’s heart tumbled against his ribs. Caring for Mairin was a precarious business. But in the deepest, most private corner of his soul, he knew he could never stop.
Chapter Nineteen
“The River Trent is half a mile ahead, sire. And King Edward’s army has arrived at Cauldwell, five miles south of the river.”
A relieved sigh went through those who were close enough to hear the scout’s report over the hammer of rain. It was the first good news they’d received in the three long, arduous days since they’d departed Pontefract Castle.
Lancaster’s scowl relaxed ever so slightly. “We’ll make camp on the north side of the river.” His voice rose as he continued, his conviction solidifying. “We’ll hold all the bridges across the Trent for ten miles in either direction. Edward’s march ends here!”
A weak cheer went up from the sodden, exhausted men surrounding Lancaster.
For her part, Mairin swallowed against the sudden constriction of her throat. Though nigh everything that could have gone wrong had on their trek thus far, it seemed that Lancaster would finally have the opportunity to face Edward in open combat. An outright battle would likely begin tomorrow, which meant that Lancaster would be in real danger for the first time since they’d arrived. She and Niall would become true bodyguards for the Earl now.
She wasn’t afraid to fight. Far from it—back at the training camp, she’d been more than ready to devote whatever strength or skill she possessed to the Bruce’s war for Scottish freedom. But the thought of aiding the English—and Lancaster especially, who had more than proven himself a vile, arrogant man—felt like a betrayal of all she stood for.
And although he’d already revealed his character at Pontefract, the last three days confirmed just what an over-proud arse Lancaster was.
Despite the relentless, lashing rain, Lancaster had pushed his army from first light to dusk every day. Most of the foot soldiers were covered in mud past their knees, and even those on horseback were mud-splattered and exhausted.
What was more, the combination of melting snow and ceaseless rains had made several rivers run dangerously high. Yet because Lancaster and the other nobles were impatient to face Edward, they’d forded each rushing, swollen waterway they’d encountered. As a result, several supply wagons and even a dozen or so men had been lost. With fewer supplies, Lancaster only pushed them on harder, for now the threat of running out of food for his large army loomed.
The uncooperative weather and luckless marching conditions seemed to make the Earl increasingly short-tempered. This was not the dignified, exultant procession he’d likely imagined for his cause. It was a terrible slog that threatened to beat them down at every turn.
The soldiers and the servants who’d been brought along to attend to the nobles had all learned to avoid Lancaster, for he had a sharp word—and occasionally a quick hand—for nearly everyone. Even the other nobles had mostly fallen silent in the last day or two, no longer ribbing each other or musing excitedly about their impending victory.
Of course, Mairin and Niall couldn’t escape Lancaster or his foul moods. They had to keep up the appearance that their sole duty was to see to his protection, which meant spending nigh on every waking moment with the man. Luckily, he mostly ignored them, yet even though his bitterness and ire wasn’t directed at them, Mairin stewed with abhorrence for the man.
Still, in addition to gathering information and reporting on Lancaster’s movements, they had been sent to keep Lancaster alive as long as possible. Distasteful as it was, Mairin would see this mission through. She would prove herself capable, even of this repugnant task.
As the River Trent came into view through the gloomy sheets of rain ahead, Lancaster and the nobles drew to a halt while the rest of the men leapt into action. They’d learned to make camp quickly in the last three days, for the faster they worked, the sooner they could get out of the downpour and into their tents.
Niall helped Mairin dismount, for which she was grateful. The rain had made her wool skirts heavy and awkward.
“I’ll see to the animals,” he said. “You might as well get into our tent as soon as it’s up.”
She nodded, water sluicing off her hood as she did.
In no time at all, the entire camp was nearly assembled. Several large, spacious tents were erected in the middle of the camp for the nobles. Around them were simpler oiled canvas tents for the soldiers, with walkways and gaps for fire pits left open every few rows.
Though Niall and Mairin’s tent was small and plain like those of the other soldiers, it was positioned right next to Lancaster’s grand tent, within the circle of the nobles’ accommodations. It was a squat, humble reminder of their position compared to the others.
Just as Mairin was about to duck inside, the rain began to ease. Judging from the buzz rippling through the men in the camp, the slight improvement in the weather would be better received than any rousing speech or promise of victory Lancaster could make.
Despite the softening of the rain, Mairin retreated to the quiet privacy of the tent. There was no denying it—she was exhausted. Not from the three-day ride, or even the wet, cold weather, but from being surrounded by Englishmen at all hours.
An unwillingness to cross Niall meant that the nobles and soldiers alike no longer openly taunted or harassed her, but she still felt their eyes following her. Having to be strong, to remain stony and unaffected, wore her down like a dried leaf being ground to dust by a mortar and pestle. She always found a way to face them each day, yet the desire to retreat, to hide herself away, grew stronger.
So when she closed the tent flap against the men’s noise and activity, she breathed a little easier, despite how rudimentary her makeshift sanctuary was.
Someone had already strewn hay on the ground inside the tent to keep the mud in check. A narrow cot with a straw-filled mattress and wool blanket, the same as each foot soldier received, took up nearly a third of the entire space. One of the crates used to load supplies in and out of the wagons had been turned on its side to serve as a low, crude table, and a simple wooden basin for washing sat atop it.
And that was all. It rankled to think of the fact that Lancaster and the nobles had fully furnished tents, with long wooden tables and upholstered chairs, porcelain pitchers and basins, and even down-filled mattresses for their wide, luxurious beds. Regardless of the fact that the soldiers had to ration their food thanks to the loss of the three supply wagons, the nobles carried on as though naught had changed for them.
Just as she was about to remove her sodden cloak and hang it on a peg notched into one of the tent poles, Niall ducked inside with their saddlebags.
“The rain has stopped entirely for the moment,” he said, setting the bags at the foot of their cot. “Lancaster has already retired to his tent for the evening, so we needn’t deal with him until tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“Quite a few of the men are planning on taking a dip in the river to wash away some of the mud. I think I’ll join them.”
“Oh?”
“Aye, but you’d best stay in here. It would be safer.”
Even if she hadn’t been so tired, Mairin would have agreed. The last thing she needed was to be surrounded by naked Englishmen with their blood on the rise at the prospect of battle tomorrow morn.
“Verra well. I’ll likely be asleep by the time ye return.”
“That reminds me.” Niall bent to the bags and dug out one of Lancaster’s fine beeswax candles.
Though he’d done this for the last three nights, Mairin’s heart still gave a lurch.
Unbeknownst to her, Niall had pilfered several tapers from Pontefract Castle before they’d departed. He’d rightly guessed that they wouldn’t always be able to rely on securing a candle in the hurried scramble to make camp each night, so he’d packed them in his saddlebag for her to use at will.
At every turn, he’d found small ways to look out for her comfort, knowing that she was stretched to her limit by this situation. Now that she understood his attentions as an expression of his caring for her, the gesture took on a significance that sent a flutter into her stomach.
“Thank ye,” she murmured, feeling heat climb into her face.
He never seemed to expect her thanks—after all, he’d gone without for nigh on four years—but the usual serious set of his mouth eased and his brilliant blue eyes warmed.
“Of course.” He cleared his throat, setting the taper on top of the saddlebags. “I’ll try not to disturb you when I return.”
“I’m tired enough to sleep like the dead,” she said with a weak smile. “Dinnae mind me.”
He tilted his head toward her, his lips softening once more. Then all too soon, he was gone, the tent flap rustling gently at his departure.
Somehow, the small space felt empty without him. Though the light filtering into the tent was still grayish-blue rather than the black of true night, Mairin propped the candle on the wooden crate and lit it using the flint stones in her bag. Its warm glow and sweet scent reminded her of Niall. It made her feel safe, as she did when he was near.
Exhaustion tugged at her, urging her toward the bed, but her mind drifted to an image of Niall bathing in the river. Would he strip bare before sliding into the water? Likely.
Suddenly her mind filled with the prospect. She’d seen naked men before. After all, she had two older brothers and had spent the last four years surrounded by warriors. They’d all taken a hasty dunk in a cold Highland loch at one time or another. But she’d never seen Niall completely unclothed before.
He would be all lean strength and honed muscle. She’d noticed the coppery hair dusting his forearms before. Would his legs bear a similar covering, the hairs just a shade more ruddy than the russet locks on his head? Would his skin be smooth, or scarred from training? And what of his—
She reined in her thoughts sharply. Aye, she could not deny that she desired him. But that didn’t mean she should wile away the evening with such fancies. Just as she’d said, she was exhausted, and tomorrow promised to be trying at best—and downright dangerous if Lancaster and Edward’s armies engaged in earnest.
Still, it seemed unfair that he had seen far more of her than she’d seen of him. Mayhap some day she would have to remedy that.
She snorted softly at the bold direction of her thoughts. It was only because she was tired that she let herself indulge in such thinking, she told herself. That, and she was envious of him and the other men for having a chance to bathe.
Slowly, she began to undress. She got down to her chemise before she realized that she, too, could give herself a wash, albeit an improvised one. Retrieving a waterskin from her saddlebags, she emptied its contents into the basin on the crate. She also rummaged a scrap of linen from her bags to use as a wash cloth. It wasn’t the least bit luxurious, but it was better than naught.
Her skin pricked with gooseflesh as she dragged the damp rag up one bare arm. She hurriedly dunked the cloth in the water and scrubbed her other arm. Aye, it was a far cry from a ho
t bath, or even a quick dunk in a river or loch, but at least she would be clean.
She loosened the ties at the front of her chemise and dipped the cloth between her breasts. Her nipples were already hard beads from the cold. Shivering, she propped one leg on the overturned crate and yanked off her boot and stocking, scouring the newly exposed flesh with the rag.
Gingerly, she stepped her bare foot back into her boot and lifted the other leg for the same treatment. Her teeth were chattering by the time she’d removed her second boot and stocking, but she continued with her thorough if hasty scrubbing.
With just a few more dunks of the cloth, she reminded herself, she would be clean and ready to dive beneath the wool blanket on the cot. And not long after that, Niall would return and slip beside her and—
The tent flap rustled. Mairin froze.
Nay. He couldn’t be back already. Had she dallied longer than she’d thought? Or mayhap someone else lurked beyond the canvas.
At the sight of Niall’s copper head ducking inside, part of her fright uncoiled. It was only him. She was safe.
But as he straightened, his gaze locking on her and his eyes widening, a new wave of shock hit her.
Niall was slicked with water. And half-naked.
Chapter Twenty
Mairin swallowed hard.
Niall stood shirtless before her, his tunic bunched in one hand and his breeches slung low over his hips. It was as if her musings from earlier had turned to flesh. Very hard, very masculine flesh.
His skin glowed golden in the soft candlelight. Every muscular contour of his powerful, lean torso stood out, etched in faintly flickering shadows. His stomach was like stacked stone and his chest a smooth wall of strength.
His hands tightened reflexively, making the already-defined cords in his arms and shoulders bunch even more. Belatedly, she realized that the tunic balled in one fist was wet, as was his hair. He must have used it to towel himself off after his dip in the river.
But how had he bathed so quickly, and what was he doing back at the tent already?