The Recruit

by Monica McCarty

  He winced when the bandaged part of his arm tried to pass through the sleeve.

  She bit her lip, but kept her feet planted. “Your arm, will it be all right?”

  He gave her a mocking smile, finally shrugging the surcote onto his shoulders. “I didn’t think you cared, Lady Mary.”

  She glared at him impatiently.

  His mouth quirked. “I might not be able to lift my sword for a few days, but there should be no lasting damage. Nor should it affect other body parts, if that’s what you are worried about.”

  She flushed, despite knowing that he was just trying to embarrass her. Apparently the man was outrageous on both sides of the border. “I’m sure England’s eager young widows and their attendants will be greatly relieved.”

  The dry observation only seemed to amuse him. She knew she should go. But something stopped her. Something about what Davey had said. Something she didn’t want to believe.

  What did Davey mean, “Thanks to Sir Kenneth?” She worked it out as she spoke. “This journey to Ettrick was because of you. You told them where Bruce’s men would be.” She stopped and looked at him, aghast. “You betrayed them.”

  Although there was no outward sign that her accusation bothered him—his expression remained perfectly impassive—she had the feeling that it had. His perfect, dare-you-to-resist-me mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “I think that’s a rather dramatic way of looking at it. I had knowledge, and I used it. This is war, my lady. ‘Betrayal’ is part of the game.”

  “Is that what this is to you, a game? Pieces on a chessboard to move around? Ebony or ivory, you choose whatever side will put you in a better position?” The tic in his jaw was the only sign that she’d pricked his mocking facade. “What of honor? What of loyalty?”

  He threw the challenge back at her with a taunting smile. “We all make our choices. What of you, Lady Mary? You are a Scot in England, the same as I. What of your honor? What of your loyalty?”

  She flushed and said starchily, “My honor and loyalty are to my son.”

  His gaze bored into her, almost as if he were trying to see inside. Trying to read her secrets. “Why do you care, Mary? Why does my appearance here seem to have caused you so much distress?”

  Some of the heat drained from her face as fear sent a chill racing through her veins. Suddenly, she was very conscious of the fact that they were in a room alone together, and she was sitting on a big bed. She sprang up. “It doesn’t. It hasn’t. I was merely surprised. Last time I saw you, Robert was lauding your many talents and getting ready to throw a celebration in your honor.”

  Something glinted in his eyes. “Aye, well, things change.” His gaze drifted over her. The glance had been brief. Cool. Impassive. There was nothing in it that should have made her stomach knot and her skin flush with heat. But she felt as if he had taken store of every change, every detail, every slight difference in her appearance. His words bore her out. “Like you, for instance. I see you aren’t hiding anymore.”

  She stiffened, not sure why his words made her feel so uneasy. It was almost as if he didn’t like the changes. “I wasn’t hiding.”

  “Weren’t you? Then I take it you have reconsidered a life in a convent?” A knowing smile curved his mouth. Though he hadn’t moved from his place across the room, she inched closer to the door. His gaze darkened with heat. “Maybe I had something to do with that?”

  Mary told herself it was anger that made her feel so hot, not the memories that husky tone evoked.

  She forced herself not to react to his teasing, instead effecting a smile of bored disdain. “Some things haven’t changed. You are as arrogant in England as you were in Scotland.”

  “So there is another reason I find you looking as beautiful and fresh as a May queen, and not buried beneath the drab habit of a nun?”

  Mary hated the way her heart skipped at “beautiful.” He thought she was beautiful? It shouldn’t give her so much pleasure.

  Embarrassed by how close he’d come to the truth, and at her own weakness, she shot back at him angrily, “What makes you think I’ve given you a second thought since leaving Dunstaffnage?”

  “Because I can think of nothing else.”

  The curt, matter-of-fact admission took her aback. She blinked at him in shock, waiting for him to take it back with a mocking smile or turn it into a sensual ploy with a heated glance. But he did neither. He just stared at her, a challenge in that steady blue gaze.

  Was it true? Had he been thinking of her?

  She felt a strange lurch in her chest but forced it back. Why was he doing this? What game was he playing?

  Perhaps that was it. Lust, like war, was a game to him. She’d refused him, and like any born competitor he wanted to win.

  She forced a laugh. “You expect me to believe that? What is it, my lord knight, were there not enough admirers tossing flowers at your victory parade? Did you need one more? The only reason you are talking like this is because I did not drop willingly at your feet like all the others. Perhaps I should just tell you how wonderful you are and then you can forget it as I have. Is that why you surround yourself with all those starry-eyed young girls? Girls who don’t think beyond a pretty face and impressive display of muscle? Maybe they would hold your attention longer if they had something more interesting to talk about!”

  For a minute she wondered if she’d gone too far. Instinctively, she glanced toward the door, ready to make an escape. But in three long strides he’d crossed the distance between them and blocked her.

  How had he moved so fast? For such a big man, he moved like a cat. A very big, very strong cat.

  They were standing close now. Too close. She could feel his heat, feel the shadow of his big, muscular body looming over her. He should smell horrible. The sweat of battle and of his long ride should be overpowering her. But instead, the heady scent of leather and wind made her want to inhale. Desire flooded her. Memories flooded her. Hot damp skin. The faint taste of salt on her tongue.

  “There was no victory parade.”

  The words shocked her from her sensory stupor. “What? When I left, you were—”

  “When you left, I was facing my final competition. I lost.”

  There was something in his voice that bothered her. Her brows gathered together. “It was just one event. You won many others.”

  He shrugged.

  “You were still named champion?”

  “Aye.”

  She didn’t understand why one loss was so important to him, but she sensed that it was. Very important. “It was just a game.”

  He gave her a long look. “Not to me.”

  “Why is winning so important to you?”

  “Because I know what it’s like to lose.”

  It was almost as if he were somehow blaming her. “Well, I’m sorry, but as I had nothing to do with it—”

  She tried to sweep by him, but he took her by the arm. “Didn’t you? You left before we finished.” Her heart was fluttering wildly. It’s fear, she told herself. “I could almost think you were running away. Just like you are now. If you don’t care, what are you scared of?”

  She froze. “Nothing.”

  His eyes held hers. “I don’t believe you.”

  He leaned closer, and Mary felt a burst of panic. “We were—are—finished, whether you choose to accept it or not. Believe it or not, you are not the only man in the kingdom, my lord.”

  His eyes flared. She didn’t know what provoked her to challenge him, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  “You can’t be talking about Felton?”

  Something about his attitude infuriated her. Did he think the handsome knight could not be interested in her?

  She arched a brow. “Just because I did not wish to marry you does not mean I could not be persuaded to marry someone else. Why not the most handsome man at Berwick?”

  She was doing it again. Challenging a man who couldn’t resist a challenge. Who was volatile. Raring for a fight. It
was like throwing confections to a bairn and daring him not to eat them.

  He leaned closer, and for a moment she feared he would kiss her. The pounding in her chest was because she didn’t want him to. She didn’t want to feel the heat of those warm, soft lips on hers.

  His gaze pinned her. “I think you’d better reconsider.”

  Her breath was so tight she barely managed, “Why?”

  He smiled. “Because I don’t think Felton would like having his wife in my bed, and that’s where you are going to be.”

  Mary gasped. But he didn’t let her reply. He opened the door and left her standing alone in the room, gaping.

  Fourteen

  “When will you go?” Sir Adam asked.

  Mary hadn’t missed the slight frown between his dark brows. It had taken most of the day, but she had finally managed to pull Sir Adam aside for a few minutes to speak with him privately. Knowing how much she enjoyed watching Davey, he suggested they sit near a window in the Great Hall that overlooked the practice yard.

  The warriors weren’t yet in position, but Mary’s eyes kept straying outside. How she would miss this! Her chest pinched again at the unfairness. But it could not be avoided. Her last conversation with Sir Kenneth was proof enough. And if there was one thing Mary had learned, it was that when she sensed danger, she should run and not wait around for someone else to help her.

  In his bed? Her stomach dropped. Dear God.

  “As soon as transportation can be arranged,” she answered. “Tomorrow, if possible.”

  The frown on those familiar craggy features deepened. His face was so known to her, she did not often take the time to look at him. He must be three and forty now, she realized. Still a handsome man. If only she could think of him that way. Her mind went to another man who she did think of that way, but dearly wished she didn’t.

  Irony. Not funny at all sometimes.

  “Does Davey know?”

  She nodded. “I told him before the midday meal.”

  “When will you return?”

  Something in his gaze caused her to turn away. “As soon as I am able.”

  There was a long silence, and Mary’s gaze slid to the window. She started to smile, catching sight of Davey. But then she noticed the knight he was speaking to: Sir Kenneth. Mary didn’t understand why her son had suddenly attached himself to the rebel knight. It was as if he’d transferred the adulation he’d had for Sir John to Sir Kenneth. Actually, she’d seen very little of Sir John today. His greeting on seeing her at the midday meal earlier had been stiff and reserved, almost as if he were embarrassed about something.

  But it was Sir Kenneth who concerned her. Was he trying to get to her through her son?

  “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  Mary turned back to Sir Adam in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Sutherland. He’s the man you met in Scotland. He’s the father of your child.”

  Mary’s heart stopped. Her eyes widened in astonishment, and perhaps also in fear.

  Sir Adam must have seen it. “You’ve nothing to fear, Mary. Your secret is safe with me. I will do whatever I can to help you. Why do you think I volunteered to go to France and asked you to accompany me?”

  Mary continued to stare at him in shock. “You knew?”

  A wry smile crossed his hard features. “My wife had ten pregnancies. Even though you’ve put very little weight on—weight that you needed—I know the signs.” He held her gaze, and said softly, “And I know you.”

  Mary bit her lip and dropped her eyes, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. He loves me, she realized with a pang of sadness. How could she not have guessed how he felt all these years? She could see it so clearly now.

  She lifted her gaze back to his. “I’m sorry.”

  He seemed to know what she meant. She loved him, but not in the way he wanted.

  He cleared his throat and looked away to the window. “Does he know? Is that why he has come to England?”

  Panic replaced the moment of awkwardness. She shook her head frantically. “Nay, and I have no wish for him to find out. His arrival here has nothing to do with me.”

  She could tell Sir Adam didn’t approve. “I’ve known Sutherland for a long time. You need not fear that he will not do right by you.”

  “I have no wish for him to do right by me.” A wave of emotion rose in her throat and pricked her eyes. “I can’t do it again. I could never marry another man like Atholl.”

  Sir Adam held her gaze; the compassion she read there nearly undid her. But she could also see the anger. “I loved your husband as a brother, but he had all the sensitivity of an ox. He had no idea how to treat a young bride. I told him so, many times, but …” He shrugged. “He was stubborn and used to doing what he wanted. He said you would adjust.”

  “I was very young and naive.”

  He grimaced. “That’s no excuse. But are you so sure Sutherland will be the same?” He shook his head. “Lord knows I spent half my time pulling him out of fights when he was young, and he has always been quick to take offense and quicker to use his fists, but the lad always struck me as sensitive.”

  Mary tried not to choke. Sensitive? “Are we speaking of the same man? Sir Kenneth Sutherland is too arrogant, too bold, and too popular with the ladies by half.” What does that have to do with us? Those were not the words of a sensitive man. “He would probably take the child from me out of spite for refusing him.”

  Sir Adam lifted a brow. “So he did ask you to marry him? I was surprised to think he hadn’t. The lad always had a fierce streak of honor in him.”

  Mary refrained from commenting on “the lad.” It wasn’t honor that had precipitated his offer—or rather, non-offer—but Robert the Bruce. Now that he was no longer Bruce’s man, pleasing Bruce would not force his hand. “Please,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “Please promise me you will say nothing.”

  His gaze fell to her hand. Mary felt her cheeks fire at the unconscious gesture, not realizing how it would seem. She moved it away as inconspicuously as she could.

  “It is your secret, Mary. I will not interfere. Not unless you want me to. There are other choices, if you do not wish to marry him. I will protect you any way I can.”

  She knew what he was offering, and was deeply touched by it, but she would not do that to him. She would not take advantage of his feelings for her and marry him just to give her child a name. She cared about him too much to hurt him, as her feelings—or lack of them—were bound to do. “I know,” she said softly. “And I thank you for it, but I can do this on my own.”

  He nodded as if he’d expected her to say as much. “Then we will go to France in the spring as planned.”

  Despite the fact that she had to leave Berwick, Mary felt a surge of relief knowing not all her plans had gone awry. And it was comforting to have someone share her secret.

  Sir Adam stood. “I will have my men escort you to Ponteland tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” she said. He started to turn away, but she stopped him. She couldn’t believe she’d almost forgotten to ask. She took out two silver coins from the bag she wore at her girdle. “I was planning to send a man around to the local churches. Would you do it for me, and give him this for his troubles?”

  Mary did not have to explain, and he didn’t have to ask why. Sending men to the local churches to inquire about her sister was a common request. He took the coins reluctantly but did not comment. He didn’t need to. She knew how he felt: that this was a waste of time and money, and that her inability to put her sister’s death behind her was preventing her from moving past it.

  The subject of her sister had always been a difficult one between them. Ever since that night, he’d been uncomfortable speaking of Janet. Almost as if he, too, felt some of the blame for what had happened. But he’d had nothing to do with it. If it was anyone’s fault, it was hers.

  She glanced out the window again and frowned. This time, it wasn’t just Sir Kenneth and her son, but
Sir John as well. They seemed to be having some kind of argument, but after a moment, Davey left without the eager bounce in his step.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It seems Davey has taken a liking to Sir Kenneth, and I admit, it makes me uneasy.”

  Sir Adam’s brow furrowed. “You mean you do not know?”

  “Know what?”

  “It’s the talk of the castle. Sutherland saved the boy’s life.”

  By saving the young earl’s life, Kenneth had become an instant hero among the English ranks and, in the process, had made a bitter enemy. If Felton hadn’t liked him before, he despised him now. Not only had the heralded knight been bested by one of the rebels and suffered the indignity of being set on his arse, he’d also nearly been responsible for the death of the young Earl of Atholl. That Kenneth had been the one to save him, he seemed to take as a personal insult. The fact that the young earl seemed to have transferred his idolatry only made it worse.

  Kenneth had just learned from the lad that his mother was once again intending to flee, when Felton interrupted and sent the boy on some fool’s errand. “Stay away from my squire, Sutherland. I do not wish the lad to pick up any bad habits, and you are keeping him from his duties.”

  Kenneth quirked a brow. “Your squire? I thought David squired for Percy.”

  Felton flushed angrily. “As his champion and the best knight in his retinue, Lord Percy has entrusted me with the earl’s training.”

  Kenneth wanted to ask him whether that included falling on his arse, but he knew it was wise not to antagonize the knight any further. He was already out for blood as it was, and Kenneth knew Felton would be watching him closely. He needed to keep his temper in check.

  But Felton made it damned hard to turn the other cheek. The knight leaned closer so his words would not be overheard, his eyes narrow and hard. “I know why you’re doing this. But it won’t work. Winning over the boy won’t win over his mother.”

  The mention of Lady Mary was enough to loosen Kenneth’s tongue. “And getting him killed will?”