by Nancy Morse
Truth be told, while she’d asked about the keep where he’d grown up, she wasn’t really listening to Tavis’s account. The history of the fortress was undoubtedly important, but the tale of one castle was much like another to her. However, she was happy to listen to Tavis talk, so she could savor the sound of his words. He had a most delicious voice: slightly husky in tone, deeper than her sire’s, and thick with an accent that was very different to her English one. A little shiver rippled through her, for when he’d said her name, her stomach had swooped in a most scandalous way. Just by reading a list of goods to purchase at the market, he could make a woman swoon.
She discreetly studied him, the lord who might become her husband. Tavis’s silky, shoulder-length dark brown hair was overly long, and yet the unruliness of it suited him; it complemented the roguish gleam of his blue eyes and the mischievous curve of his full mouth when he grinned. She liked his smile—they way his eyes softened, the way his lips drew back to show his straight, white teeth.
Her teeth were a bit crooked on the bottom, like her late mother’s had been, but that couldn’t be helped.
“Of course, my father wanted only the best for Dumfries,” Tavis continued, opening a wrought-iron gate and motioning her through, “And so…”
Nodding, pretending to be intrigued, she went through the gate and smoothed back the strands of hair that the brisk wind had loosened from her braid. Her gaze discreetly slipped down to Tavis’s broad shoulders, defined by his cloak and the well-cut black tunic he wore underneath that matched his black hose. The blood-red glass of his cloak pin glinted in the sun, as though ’twas illuminated by fire from within.
Her gaze slid lower, down his broad torso and to his muscular arms. He was a handsome, strong-looking man. Her younger sister would be pleased to hear that, for she’d expect a full description of his appearance—among countless other details—once Helena returned home.
Light glinted off his cloak pin again. Did the jewel bear an inscription? She thought she saw engraved lettering, but might be mistaken. She wanted to ask him about the jewel, but she didn’t want to be rude and interrupt him again, so she’d let him finish his story. She’d promised her sire, after all, that she’d be on her best behavior during this visit, for Matthew de Rowenne was one of her father’s allies. Her sire had insisted that alliances between lords were crucial, especially when great discontent was spreading throughout England.
She didn’t understand much of English politics, but she did know King John wasn’t well liked. One night last week, her father had been upset and had stormed off to the solar without finishing his meal. Later, her ear pressed to the door’s keyhole, Helena had heard him telling one of his trusted knights about a lord whose estate had been seized by the King for no sound reason, the whole family dishonored and forced out. Her father had also scorned the King’s unwarranted imprisonments and increasing taxes. Dangerous, treacherous words, but she’d never repeat them to anyone; she loved her father and would never betray him.
Still, she couldn’t help feeling somewhat upset about her current situation, for if her sire loved her as much as he said, he wouldn’t have involved her in his alliance with the de Rowennes. Why couldn’t he and others opposed the King sort matters out themselves? Why did she have to be forced to consider marrying?
She wanted to wed because she was so deeply in love, she’d simply perish without her beloved, just like the ladies in the chansons—not because her sire believed ’twas advantageous to unite her family with a Galloway lord’s.
She slowed as they approached the tiltyards and set her hand on the rough-hewn fence. Inhaling a steadying breath, she forced her discontent aside. When she returned home, she’d talk again with her father. Somehow, she’d convince him she shouldn’t have to become betrothed yet, even if that meant asking him what her mother would have wanted. It pained him to discuss Helena’s mother who’d died three years ago in childbirth, but from what Helena remembered of her parent, she wouldn’t have agreed with a marriage that Helena opposed.
“You are awfully quiet,” Tavis said, leaning both arms on the fence.
“I have been listening to you.” As he chuckled, her gaze settled on a clump of thistles swaying in the breeze. Pointing, she said, “Thistles are common in Scotland, are they not?”
“They are. My mother likes to pick them and hang them upside down near the hearth to dry. If I may ask, how is your headache?”
“Much improved.” Indeed, she’d felt better upon leaving the hall, where she’d felt suffocated by the crowd and the expectations thrust upon her.
“Good.” Tavis smiled. “I was worried I had bored you with my tale.”
“Not at all,” she said brightly. Gesturing to the empty tiltyard, she said, “Do you ever wonder about all of the men who have fought in this field?”
His dark brows rose. “All of the men?”
Her words had sounded rather shameful. A flush warmed her face. “Well, not really the men, but all of the fights that have taken place here. How often have you jousted in this tiltyard?” Surely he, like most young lords, would be eager to boast of his fighting skills.
He shrugged. “I have trained here several days a week, ever since I arrived at Bremworth.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Almost two years ago. I would have been happy to stay and train at Dumfries, but my parents felt I would benefit from living and training in an English lord’s household.”
“I see.” How disappointing that he hadn’t rambled on about his triumphs; then she could have enjoyed more of his wickedly appealing voice.
“I am intrigued to see the tiltyards in London, where I hope to be moving in a couple of months.”
“London?” Her heart fluttered with excitement.
His piercing blue eyes met hers. “Have you ever been there?”
“N-nay, but I would love to go.”
“Then you must,” he said, folding his hands. His palms bore calluses from long days using weapons, while hers were smooth, nourished each night with heavy creams so they’d stay unblemished, as was expected of a lady.
Helena stared out across the windswept field, longing burning within her. Tavis spoke of her going to London as if ’twas simple to arrange; and yet, despite her pleading, her sire had refused to take her with him when he’d gone to the city on business matters last autumn. He’d insisted ’twas a long journey on horseback and that London was no place for a young lady of refined sensibilities. When she’d protested, he’d refused any further discussion.
For years, she’d wanted to see more of England than the heavily guarded grounds of her sire’s keep. She’d love to see where the sailing ships docked in London to unload the costly spices, luxurious silks, and other exotic goods they’d brought from French and far off Eastern lands. The city streets would be filled with interesting folk, and the shops would offer all manner of items she’d never seen before. ’Twould be a marvelous experience, filled with new sights, sounds, and smells—if only she could get to London to have that adventure. “Why are you moving to the city?” she asked, trying not to sound at all envious.
“Bremworth’s captain of the guard says I have skill with a sword. With Lord de Verre’s permission, the captain wrote to a friend in London, asking if there is a place for me in the garrison there. I would train with a nobleman who has tutored many of the King’s personal guards.”
“How exciting.”
Tavis shrugged again, but she saw pride in his eyes. “My father encouraged me to accept the offer when ’tis made, since I plan to become a knight.”
“You might become a warrior as legendary as your sire.”
“I see no reason why not.”
Arrogance threaded through Tavis’s words, as though nothing—or no one—would stand between him and knighthood, not even the woman he married. Helena struggled to tamp down rising annoyance. She wasn’t going to wed him; it didn’t matter what he did with his life.
“I wish you the best of luck with your ambitions,” she said.
“Luck?” He snorted. “’Tis not a matter of luck, but of hard work and skill.”
True, in part. His sire’s reputation, though, would surely help Tavis get that position in London.
“My father didn’t become the man he is because of good fortune,” Tavis continued. “His skill at commanding armies, his ability to fulfill the King’s orders, earned him impressive rewards, including Dumfries and its surrounding estate.”
“So you intend to have a castle of your own one day?”
Tavis’s mouth tilted in a lop-sided grin. “All knights want to be awarded rich lands and a keep—”
More arrogance. Her irritation bloomed again.
“—as well as a beautiful bride.”
His tone softened on the word bride, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. Helena went still, for heady warmth suddenly hummed in her veins, as if his gaze held the power to enthrall. When his attention wandered down to the embroidered, scooped neckline of her modest but well-fitting gown, her breath lodged in her throat. Why was he looking at her so intensely? Judging by the smoldering heat in his eyes, he admired what he was seeing.
How astonishing.
And thrilling.
She’d always thought she was rather plain in looks. Certainly not as lovely as her sister, who’d inherited their mother’s curly brown locks and delicate features.
Helena’s body seemed to understand Tavis’s gaze, even if her rational mind did not. Anticipation skittered through her. Her skin tingled, the sensation curious but also wonderful. The wind sighed around them, and she longed to cross her arms, but she simply couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. Her whole being was caught up in a captivating sense of waiting for something new…and magnificent…
His gaze narrowed and flicked away, an unspoken dismissal. Shock rushed in to knock the breath from her lips. Embarrassment swept through her, followed by confusion, and her hand tightened on the fence.
What had just happened between her and Tavis? Judging by his expression, he didn’t care to acknowledge that something—however subtle—had transpired.
Heat filled her face again, and she bit down on her bottom lip. She hated blushing. Her face always turned so very red, and she loathed that she couldn’t stop it. Yet, she especially resented that she hadn’t understood what had just occurred, but sensed that Tavis had.
She wasn’t going to ask him for an explanation.
With the swish of silk and wool, Helena spun away from the fence and started back toward the keep.
“Helena?”
“I hope you will be very happy with your castle and your bride,” she said over her shoulder. Tears threatened, but she had no idea why. Oh, but she wanted to go home.
Tavis caught up to her, and his strides matched hers. “Have I offended you?”
“Nay, milord.” Staring straight ahead, she kept walking.
“Milord.” He laughed roughly. “I had hoped you would call me Tavis.” When she didn’t answer, he added, “’Tis what my friends call me.”
She abruptly halted and faced him. “I am hardly your friend. As you surely must know, I am here because our sires believe there is benefit to uniting our families through marriage. Our marriage.”
Anger hardened Tavis’s gaze. “I am aware of the reasons for your visit.”
“We hardly know one another,” she went on, the biting words tumbling from her lips, “but you must have guessed by now that I resent being offered to you like a piece of chattel, without any consideration at all as to my wishes or what I want to accomplish in my life.”
Strong sentiments, but it felt gloriously good to voice her frustrations.
Tavis studied her, his expression thoughtful.
“To be perfectly honest, I have no wish to wed anyone,” she continued.
“No interest at all?” He sounded surprised.
“Not at the moment. Not until I fall thoroughly and completely in love.”
Relief spread across his features. “I feel the same way.”
“You do?”
“Aye. I do not want to wed either, but my sire insisted that I meet you. Even in his letters, when he insists in that forbidding way of his…” Tavis shook his head. “I had no choice but to obey him.”
A pang of sympathy wove through her. “My father can be awfully formidable, too.”
“Of all ironies, we share a reluctance to disobey our sires.” Tavis’s mouth curved in a wry smile.
She grudgingly smiled back, even as mischief glinted in Tavis’s eyes.
“So. Would you like to see more of Bremworth?” An odd note underscored his words, almost as if he hoped she’d decline.
Refusing to acknowledge a glimmer of disappointment, she said, “To be honest, Bremworth is not all that different from my sire’s castle, and—”
“Would you prefer to return to the great hall?”
She’d rather eat raw slugs. “Well…”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Judging by your expression, I am guessing your answer is nay.”
She sighed. “I probably should return to the festivities. My father is rather protective, and will be wondering where I am. However—”
“—we can delay a little longer if you wish.” Tavis reached out and, so very gently, tucked stray hair back behind her right ear. “Would you like a bit of an adventure, Helena?”
A delicious shiver raced through her. “W-what do you mean?” What kind of adventure was he offering her? If he was a mischievous rascal like her brother, he’d probably end up taking her on a tour of the dungeon. Frowning, she said, “Are you teasing me, Tavis? If you are—”
He rolled his eyes and grabbed her hand. “Come on.”
Chapter Two
Tavis pulled Helena through the postern in the castle’s rear wall and urged her to a run. She laughed, stumbled in the long grass, regained her balance, and then raced on behind him.
Breathing hard, he slowed as they reached the stony lakeshore, for her shoes were made of flimsy, embroidered leather. He didn’t want her to lose her footing and fall on the rocks. Still holding her hand—she hadn’t even tried to tug her fingers free—he led her to the wooden dock that stretched out onto the dark blue water. Damned cold water, as he well knew from days spent swimming in it.
At the end of the dock, he paused near several tethered rowboats. She stopped beside him, her cheeks flushed, wild strands of hair sticking out around her face.
“What a beautiful place,” she murmured, gazing across to the opposite shore and the blue-green, tree-covered hills beyond.
“’Tis indeed. Along the River Nith near Dumfries, however, there are spots that are even more spectacular.”
“Of course there are.”
He laughed, acknowledging her teasing. Gesturing to the boats, he said, “Shall we?”
Her free hand flew to her throat. “Y-you want to take out one of the boats?”
“Why not? We do not have to sail for long.”
Helena gnawed her bottom lip. Suddenly, he wanted to lean in and kiss where she’d just bitten—the desire as strong as earlier, by the fence, when he’d been tempted to press his mouth to hers, to see if she tasted as sweet as he expected.
Forcing the tantalizing thoughts aside, he eased his hand from hers. “Do you not want an adventure?”
“I do, but…”
“Are you afraid of the water?”
“Afraid of it, nay. Respectful of it, aye.”
“Respectful?”
“I…cannot swim,” she admitted. “I have wanted to learn, but I…”
Tavis had swum from a very young age; he’d been determined to keep up with his older brother. He glanced at the shore, wondering if he should take her back to the castle, but there was no mistaking the yearning in her expression. “You do not need to know how to swim to enjoy a turn in a boat.”
&
nbsp; “Well…”
“You are not afraid to get into a rowboat, are you?” he taunted.
Frowning, she glanced across the water.
The chill wind gusted in across the lake, and she hugged herself, shivering. Born and raised in Galloway, Tavis didn’t mind the cold, but she obviously was uncomfortable. Even though she already wore a cloak, he removed his and fastened it securely at her throat with his pin.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded. As he lifted his hand from the garment, he longed to brush his fingers down her cheek, but resisted. He moved to the edge of the dock, stepped down into the boat, and then helped her in. She gasped as the vessel rocked from side to side and quickly sat down on the wooden slat that formed a seat, while tucking her cloak and gown around her legs.
Tavis untied the moorings, shoved the boat away from the dock, and sat opposite her. After picking up the oars lying on the bottom of the vessel, he began to row. The boat glided, moving almost silently. After all of his years of boating, rowing was as natural to him as breathing.
He caught Helena’s gaze wandering over his torso and smiled.
“You seem comfortable in a boat,” she said, swiftly glancing away.
“When I was a boy, I spent many summer days sailing on the river.”
She drew his cloak tighter around her. “Did you go with friends?”
“Not always. Some days I was with my brother. Most times, though—especially after James and I had fought—I was alone. Rowing helped me…work out my anger.”
“You and James do not get along?”
“We do now. Well enough, anyway.” With a lazy wink, Tavis added, “He has always been a bit of an arrogant knave.”
She giggled. “You, of course, are not arrogant at all.”
He liked the melodic sound of her laughter, and the way her face warmed when she smiled. Pretending to be miffed, he said, “Did you just insult me, Lady Marlowe?”