Diana Cosby

by His Seduction

  He reached out, tousled her hair, and smiled. “On with you now and try to rest.” He dropped his hand to his side, and his smile faded. “I love you, Rois. Whatever happens after this night, always remember that.”

  Tears welled in her throat at his soft words. He worried about her, about the dangers of the impending battle. What would happen if he didna return? Nay, he would come back. More, he would stand with the other Scots, victorious.

  Shaken, she headed to her chamber. Inside, she shut the door and pressed her hand against the sturdy wood. An ache built in her chest. So many men lay camped in the nearby fields, men she had grown up with, men she called friends. Rois made the sign of the cross and said, “Please, God, keep them safe.”

  With a heavy heart, she looked around her chamber, taking in the small gifts given to her by her father throughout the years. She walked over to the table and lifted the bejeweled comb he’d surprised her with upon her ten and second year. She slid the pad of her finger against the crafted ivory, the ridges of teeth a soft tickle against her skin. Her smile of remembrance faltered. Many years had passed since, and so had the innocence of her youth.

  Innocence?

  Warmth slid through her at thoughts of Griffin’s touch, the intimacy, of how he’d made her body feel. Never before had she experienced anything but a kiss with a man. But he’d made her skin tingle, her body ache with . . .

  Ashamed, she closed her eyes. How could she think of him or the things she’d allowed him to do?

  On a shaky breath, she opened her eyes and took in her room, that of a child. A room where she now stood as a woman, and one who’d known the caress of a man.

  God forbid if Lochlann found out.

  Her fingers trembled as she replaced the comb. Exhausted and overwhelmed by the myriad of thoughts, she quietly changed, then crossed her chamber. The softness of her bed was welcoming, but far from alleviated the worries of the morrow. So much was changing. This day had proven, in moments, one’s entire world could be tossed upside down. For her, a temporary issue her father would see repaired. She wished only she could dismiss as quickly her worries for her father’s safety in the battle ahead.

  At a distant yell, Griffin withdrew his dagger beside his head and shoved to his feet. Naked, he blinked, fought the haze of sleep, and struggled for cognizance.

  Embers smoldered in the hearth exposing a chamber adorned with simple furnishings; a bed and a small stand cluttered with a plate of half-eaten bread, cheese, and an empty goblet of wine.

  No threat in sight. He lowered his weapon. Where was he?

  A man yelled from the bailey.

  With a frown, he strode to the carved window. The first hints of day exposed the dying fires scattered about and the thousands of men encamped around them.

  Memories of yesterday rushed him.

  De Moray’s refusal.

  His debacle of a marriage.

  His wedding night spent alone.

  Rubbing his face, Griffin took in his bedding scattered about. Not from overuse, but as if thrown about while caught up in a dream. A dream?

  No, a nightmare.

  His marriage was real, not a delusion from which he could awaken. And standing here was not settling the issues of his unwanted wife, his upcoming meeting with de Moray, or that with his secret contact.

  A rough snore sounded from the corridor.

  The images of the drunken Scots celebrating his sham of a marriage last eve etched his mind. He grimaced. They’d passed out.

  A muscle worked in his jaw as he splashed water onto his face and dried his hands. He tossed the rumpled bedding onto the mattress, dressed.

  Through the window a somber blanket of clouds smothered the sun, casting ominous hues of purples and grey upon the earth. The somber colors as if an omen foretelling of emptiness, coldness, and death.

  Griffin shook off his unease and focused on the men outside the castle as they tended to their horses, sharpened their blades, or practiced with their swords.

  The warriors were on edge, and rightly so. They’d received word that the Earl of Surrey was leading thousands of seasoned English troops north. When the Scots stood their ground at Stirling Bridge, many untrained and holding naught but the weapon in their hand, they would face their opponent greatly outnumbered.

  Many would claim the rebels faced sure death, a slaughter in the making. Except they underestimated the courage and the heart of the Scots.

  Against incredible odds, Griffin had faith, believed de Moray and Wallace would find a way to outmaneuver the English. They knew the land, how to motivate their men, and with de Moray having trained with the Swiss mercenaries, he held the skill to exploit every opportunity and lead the rebels to victory.

  The Scots had not asked for war. King Edward’s greed after the Scottish King Alexander III’s death was the catalyst for this upheaval. Now, confident that mere pockets of resistance remained in Scotland, clad within his arrogance, he’d sailed to Flanders and to yet another battle, leaving the Earl of Surrey to cleanse Scotland of the remaining unrest.

  Little did the king or his minions understand the Scots’ determination, nor that true credit for such a well-planned uprising against the English belonged to the Bishop Wishart. King Edward embraced suspicions of the bishop’s loyalty but, against the church and without solid evidence, he could bring no charge.

  By the time King Edward returned from Flanders, the fate of this day would be long past. Griffin prayed that given the size of the English force, the planned strategies that he’d pass to de Moray would give the rebels an edge.

  God help Scotland if the rebels, standing their ground against the English at Stirling Bridge, failed.

  With a heavy heart, he strode to the door. A slight scrape sounded as he removed the wooden bar and edged it open.

  Soft snores mixed amongst an errant guttural grunt echoed from the corridor.

  Had he expected any man able to crawl to his feet this early after their drink-fed night? With a grimace, he set the bolt aside, opened the door wider.

  A man slumped half inside, his red beard laden with an indefinable nasty glaze. With a mutter, he shifted, grumbled, and then let loose a hearty snore.

  Griffin shook his head in disgust. The entry and the corridor were littered with casualties of too much drink, some with their bodies contorted into awkward angles, while others lay sprawled with their mouths oozing drool. At least someone had enjoyed the last few hours. He shook his head. Given the reason for their celebration, he would have chosen to spend the night on this side of the door as well.

  And belaboring the point changed naught.

  With careful steps, Griffin picked his way through the casualties reeking with soured ale and odors he’d rather not identify, thankful when he reached the turret.

  He started down the curved steps. With each, the murmur of voices in the great hall increased along with the scent of fresh-baked bread and roasting meat.

  A deep hearty laugh sounded near the exit. “Did you see the baron’s face when the lass accused him of leaving her as well as carrying his babe?”

  Three paces from the bottom step, Griffin halted. Blood pounding, he waited, willed the man to reveal the name of the woman he’d married.

  “Stunned he was,” a second man agreed. “And rightly so. I doubt before yesterday past, the lass ever laid eyes on Lord Monceaux.”

  Chapter Five

  Hands curled into fists, Griffin fought the surge of anger. These two Scots knew she’d lied? Knew yesterday he’d never set eyes on the woman before? A sinking in his gut assured him that more than these two men knew the truth—likely everyone in the chamber.

  Anger pumped through his veins, a raw, scorching slide that burned through his hard-won calm. His body trembled with the urge to confront the men, to demand why they’d allowed this farce of a marriage.

  No, if asked, neither would tell him.

  They knew not that he was Wulfe, the English noble who worked in secret to aid the re
bels. To them he was King Edward’s man, the enemy, which again raised the question of why no one had halted his marriage. However frustrating the situation, he must tread with care. Something was greatly amiss for the powerful men at the meeting yesterday to have allowed such an ill-fated event.

  “Lady Rois has made a muck of it this time,” the first man said, his burr deep.

  Lady Rois. Her name at last! And as he’d suspected, she was of nobility.

  “Lady Rois,” he breathed, savoring the rush of victory in learning this critical fact. He frowned. His secret contact had a daughter named Rois, but never would he have allowed her such foolery. For years he’d met with Lord Brom, who was a man with a clear mind and a firm hand. Though he’d never met his daughter, no doubt she was as rational and clear-sighted as Angus. Besides, Rois was a name common enough. That she was of nobility would make her easy to find.

  His mood lighter, Griffin dismissed the name befitting the feisty woman, a woman who if he allowed would linger in his mind. Now, to learn her surname and clan, then he would track her down.

  “Do you think her father will save her this time?” the second Scot asked.

  “’Tis dealings with the church he will have to do,” the first Scot replied. “But, he is an influential lord with many a connection. And aye, methinks he will save the willful lass.”

  Willful? Griffin scoffed. The woman didn’t need to be saved, but held accountable. Not that he would be landed with that task of teaching her responsibility. Her father could keep it. ’Twas a motley-minded fool that allowed his daughter free rein, and according to the warriors’ account, a foolish path she often trod.

  Neither did the men’s confirmation her father was powerful yield surprise—since Rois had been allowed entry into yesterday’s war meeting.

  Where had her father been yesterday? Not in the chamber to witness his daughter handfasted to his enemy. Even a lackwit would have stepped forward and halted the insane event. Or would he? Unease churned in his gut. With the woman a handful, had he remained silent out of relief at having found someone on whom to foist the responsibility for his daughter?

  But who was her father? To end this unwanted union, they would have to meet. And, unless the man was known to him, it would be far from a pleasant affair. As if any occasion since his catastrophe of a meeting with Rois could be deemed affable.

  Guilt edged through him. Yes, it could. Last eve he’d found pleasure in her body, her taste, and in the way she’d responded to his touch.

  A virgin.

  With the way she’d responded to his caresses, he’d assumed she’d had lovers before. A foolish assumption. Except, caught off guard and his body burning hot, he’d followed his instincts.

  Instincts? No, desires. He had wanted her every alluring inch. Griffin muttered a curse. And when was the last time he gave in to lust? Not since he was a lad often and six.

  “Aye, but did you see the baron’s face when she agreed?” the first man said, breaking into Griffin’s musings. “I wonder what the Sassenach would have thought if he had known that everyone in the chamber had suspicions he had nae seen Rois before?”

  Laughter, hearty and whole, rang out. “Aye, furious he would be.”

  Furious? No, furious was too kind a word. The entire time he’d stood surrounded by the Scots, held beneath the warriors’ threatening glares, they’d believed the woman had never seen him before. And when she’d spoken of carrying his babe, they’d thought that a mistruth as well.

  Yet, all had remained silent.

  Amused at his quandary.

  Entertained as they’d witnessed a hated Englishman make a complete arse of himself by his offer of marriage to a stranger. Not one blasted man had stepped forward and halted her foolery.

  Which returned him to the question of why?

  Had his offer left them stunned? Had each man believed that however impetuous in the past, Lady Rois would never agree to this lunacy?

  Regardless, ’twas too late to change the outcome. From the men’s discussion, her father was a man who held connections with the church, and could intervene to end this marriage. Nor would he be learning the noble’s name standing here. On a deep exhale, Griffin took the last few steps and entered the great room.

  The gazes of the men inside riveted on him. The chamber grew silent. Tension hung in the air, thick and potent like a storm brewing.

  “Is Lady Rois abed?” a nearby Scot with his claymore secured at his back asked.

  Laughter sprinkled about.

  Jaw tight, Griffin met his gaze. Did they know he’d slept alone on his wedding night as well? God’s teeth, at this point, he’d believe anything.

  “Lord Monceaux,” Andrew de Moray called.

  At his friend’s voice from the front of the great room, relief swept Griffin.

  De Moray motioned to an empty chair at his side. “Sit beside me as we break our fast.”

  Aye, but he needed a friendly face. Well aware of the distrustful glances of many of the surrounding warriors, he wove his way through the rough mix. As he neared the dais he caught a glint of humor in de Moray and Wallace’s eyes. Unease sliced through Griffin. His friends could not approve of this abominable situation. So why had neither intervened at the woman’s ridiculous challenge?

  Once seated, a platter of meat, porridge, and bread was placed before him. A serving woman filled his nearby goblet. “My thanks.” Griffin waited until the woman had left, then he met the gaze of his friend, thankful they were seated out of earshot from the hostile crowd. “Blast it, one would think I had three eyes and four ears.”

  De Moray chuckled.

  Griffin shot him a hard look. “’Tis far from a laughing matter.”

  “’Tis but a touch of levity as we prepare for battle.”

  Aye, the days ahead weighed heavy in Scotland’s bid for freedom. Griffin took a drink of wine, set the goblet down. “If I had not wedded the lass, I would share your humor.”

  His friend’s smile widened. “I think you and Rois will make a fine pair.”

  Griffin choked as he tried to swallow the wine. Coughing, he worked the chunk of bread down. “Fine pair? You both knew I had never seen the woman before.” He pressed his hands on the table, a wedge of anger slipping past. “Why did neither of you stop her?”

  His friend wiped his hands and tossed the towel aside. “’Twas nae my place.”

  “Nor mine,” Wallace added.

  “Not your place?” Griffin asked, sarcasm dripping from his each word. “And whose was it then?”

  “The lass’s father,” Wallace replied.

  Griffin sat back in disbelief. “Her father was in the room?”

  With a nod, de Moray chewed his bread leisurely as if they were discussing a mundane topic such as the weather of the day.

  “Then why,” Griffin said, struggling to accept the shocking news, “did he not stop her?”

  “’Tis a question you need to be asking him.” De Moray lifted his goblet in a mock toast. “With his silence, I am thinking he approved the match.”

  Griffin’s mind rolled through the faces within the great room. “I know but a few Scottish lords with a daughter in the chamber. More so, none who would have allowed such misbehavior from their daughter.”

  “’Twould seem,” Wallace said, “you didna see the lord who sat at the front of the chamber. He mentioned late last eve when we spoke that you were to meet with him this day.”

  It couldn’t be. Throat dry, Griffin worked to accept what de Moray had revealed. “Angus Drummond, Earl of Brom, is Rois’s father?”

  A lopsided smile grew on de Moray’s mouth. “Aye.”

  “He said nothing,” Griffin rasped, needing to say the words, to find a token of sanity in this chaos. “Lord Brom must have heard when his daughter accused me of taking liberties—of getting her with child.”

  “Aye,” de Moray replied, “which is what leads me to believe he approved of the match.”

  “God’s teeth.” Griffin pi
cked up his wine, drained it. He’d married Angus Drummond’s daughter! Sweat clung to his brow. Thank God King Edward was in Flanders. It would be weeks, mayhap months, before news reached him of Lord Brom, one of the king’s most trusted Scots, renouncing his oath and having sworn his fealty to Scotland. Or, of Griffin’s marriage to a traitor’s daughter.

  De Moray arched a brow. “You are fine with the marriage then?” He took a long drink of his wine. “Happy I am to hear it. She is my cousin, and well I expect you to treat her.”

  Rois was de Moray’s cousin? Griffin managed not to spew the wine. Fingers trembling, he set the goblet on the table. Should he be shocked by the latest twist in this mire of events? Another reason no one had halted their marriage. With her father and de Moray in the chamber, none would question their judgment, nor allow their own anger at the handfasting to interfere.

  “Griffin?” de Moray asked.

  “I must speak with Angus immediately,” Griffin replied.

  Wallace laughed. “One would be thinking you would still be abed with your wife.”

  If Wallace or de Moray knew that his wife had escaped, never would he live it down. “There is much to do before I return to England.”

  De Moray sobered. “Aye.”

  Relieved the topic of Rois was set aside, Griff in turned his thoughts to a more serious matter. “Sir Andrew, when King Edward learns you refused his offer to replace your father in the tower, he will be furious.”

  “Aye.” De Moray’s eyes narrowed. “Dimwitted he is if he believes me foolish enough to walk into the Tower of London. He thinks to lure me by sending his seal upon a letter for my safe passage and my father’s plea.” He grunted. “King Edward cares little about my father supporting him in battle.”

  “Indeed,” Griffin agreed. “He has received word of your success in sweeping through the Highlands, and now moving troops south. He wants you stopped.”

  De Moray wadded the cloth before him, tossed it aside. “He can rot in Hades.”

  “An opinion I share.” Griffin held de Moray’s gaze. “But eventually he will learn of your refusal to replace your father.”