Diana Cosby

by His Seduction

  Memories of his carrying her in the bailey over his shoulder came to mind. The arrogance of this man would make a toad’s blood boil. “Are you threatening me? ’Tis nae English soil you stand upon, but Scottish, my homeland. If you think my servants will allow you to haul me out, a fine lesson you will be learning.”

  He crossed his arms against his muscled chest. “I am your husband; none will stop me.”

  “My father—”

  “Has passed orders to the servants forbidding them to interfere.”

  Hurt swamped her. Would her father request such?

  “Rois,” he said, his words tender, “Throughout my life, never have I treated a woman harshly. Nor will I begin now.”

  She would ride out with him with her dignity intact, but if he thought she’d remain with him until her father’s return, he’d soon learn otherwise.

  “I will leave with you.” And when the opportunity arose, she would slip away.

  “Good, ’twill make it easier for us both.” He caught her hand and led her from the keep.

  Servants outside continued their work, but Rois caught their covert glances, their curiosity as she followed Griffin toward the stable. However, they didn’t hurry to aid her, or use the sticks with which they turned the wash upon him. Was it true? Had her father indeed warned anyone to nae help her if she wished to leave the baron? However much she wanted to dismiss it, ’twould seem the truth.

  Inside the stable, a large steed stood readied and a small leather bag lay secured behind the saddle.

  She gasped. “My garb?”

  “Your father had a servant pack what you would need.”

  Tears burned her eyes. How could her father be so blind?

  Lord Monceaux urged her forward.

  Her each step as if weighted with stone, she walked toward the horse. Her time with this English noble would be brief. Once she escaped and after she’d spread the warning about the rebel hideout being exposed, she would remain far from home until her da came back.

  If he returned.

  Emotion choked her. Nay, she refused to believe he wouldn’t return. Rois shoved aside the terrifying thoughts and focused on now. She had friends with whom she could stay, knew people who would help pass word that Dunagn was known to the English.

  Lord Monceaux helped her mount, then swung up behind her.

  “Why do I nae have my own steed?” Rois asked.

  “To ensure you do not escape.”

  She stared straight ahead as they cantered through the bailey, ignored the people around her and focused on the roll of mountains ahead, the land barren of color except for the aged whisky tumbles of brown and battered grass and decaying scrapes of green.

  Against the clack of hooves, the morning breeze carried with it the smell of change, and a hint of winter chill.

  Her breath shuddered out as she scanned the break of dawn into which her father had ridden to join the other Scots, his weapons readied, his face proud. A burst of cool wind drew her from her heavy thoughts. Above, clouds clung low upon the rock and earth like an ill omen. She shivered.

  “You are cold?”

  Griffin’s voice swept her, the rough deepness a potent reminder of the formidable man she must escape. She shook her head.

  “Tell me if you are. If we make good time, we will arrive before sunset.”

  As they rode, his mount began to climb the steep weather-buffeted land. Wisps of white swirled around them, chilled fingers of clouds severing her view of Kincardan Castle.

  Within the haze of white, Rois identified weathered landmarks, the rough land blotched with fading patches of green in an ode to the oncoming winter, a time when the scent of peat wafted in the kitchen along with stews laden with meat and herbs, and the rich aroma of bread. She’d always loved the months held captive by the snow-laden land, the time spent with her father, and his stories of the past warming her heart.

  Griffin’s mount snorted, and she struggled for calm. Would her father return? Would the rebels win?

  Enough!

  To ponder circumstances she could nae change would but undermine her already strained control. She refused to give in to doubt, or forget the reason she must escape. If indeed Griffin knew of the hideout, she must warn the others.

  Hours later a murky outline of jutting rocks came into view before her; the entry to the hideout.

  She swallowed hard. He indeed knew the whereabouts of Dunagn, had nae once wavered as they’d ridden. In this cloud-soaked land, only a man familiar with the terrain could have found the rebel hideout.

  Or known that it sat empty.

  What other rebel secrets did the Englishman know? How much about the rebels had he gleaned or shared with his murderous king? Emotion burned her throat. Damn him, and those who would betray the rebels’ cause.

  The scrape of brush had her focusing on where the baron shoved aside the thatch of brush, a mangle at first glance that would encourage most to ride past. He removed another branch to expose the entry.

  Tears burned her eyes. The Scots lay outnumbered against King Edward’s armed force, and here was this Englishman who knew of rebel secrets that could erode the delicate hold they had upon winning their freedom.

  However much she wished to be free of him, to warn the others of Dunagn’s exposure, she would remain a wee bit longer and learn what other rebel secrets he knew.

  Had Lord Monceaux nae asked for peace between them? Well, that she would give. And if he believed she’d make a truce with the enemy, then ’twas his error to regret.

  Chapter Eight

  At the cave’s mouth, Griffin leaned forward in his saddle and tossed aside the last of the branches shielding the entry.

  Golden streams of sunset struggled against the creep of night, exposing dust motes caught inside the cavern in a playful dance. A place to take refuge and get his thoughts in order.

  As if the next few days cloistered with Rois would offer a sliver of peace? With a woman as beautiful and stubborn as she was, their time alone would be a test of his will.

  He dismounted, his grip on his horse firm. Griffin glanced toward the woman who had dismantled his carefully constructed life, far from fooled by her feigned display of ignoring him. Well he’d learned to not underestimate her. The intelligence lurking within her mind was as potent as the emotions roiling in her heart, the reason her father and others loved her.

  Rois sat astride his mount, her body straight, her gaze unflinching, and her tightened jaw exposing a hint of nerves. Indeed, she would be on edge. Her father rode off to war without a guarantee of return while she hid with an English lord she knew little about, or believed she could trust. A mire she’d made, and yet . . . her reasons were those he could admire.

  What would it be like to have a woman love you with such completeness that she’d risk everything to protect you? A familiar ache of loneliness trickled through him. Senseless musings. With his life embroiled between his guise of serving King Edward and his true loyalty given to the Scots under the identity of Wulfe, no time existed to entertain the thoughts of a woman in his life.

  Or love.

  The weight of his blade sat heavy in its sheath, prodding him to join the rebels marching toward Stirling Bridge. As if he held such a choice?

  Except for a few Scots who knew his secret identity, the rebels would view him as their enemy. Neither could he raise his blade with the English, wield it against those whose plight he sought to rectify.

  Bedamned this entire situation. Bedamned that he would remain safe while his Scottish in-laws and friends battled for their lives against the English.

  “Griffin?”

  At the uncertainty in Rois’s voice, he set aside his mulling and scanned the familiar curve of land, the blackness of night smothering the last hues of sunset with steadfast intent. He was here and considering everything, ’twas for the best. Not that he had to like it.

  “The days will pass quickly,” he stated.

  “Will they?”

 
Through her bravado, he caught the edge of doubt, her strong features almost fragile. Her father’s explanation that her mother’s death when Rois was a child had caused her to grow up too soon echoed in Griffin’s mind, and he softened further.

  “No harm will come to you while you are with me.” He found his words mattered, wished she would believe him, believe in him.

  She eyed him, wary. “Because of your vow to my father.”

  If he could only tell her the truth of his loyalty, but he wanted her to know he understood the sensitive woman she was. “Yes, because of your father. But also because you care about the fate of others when many a person in this war-torn land has become bitter with hardness. That is a testament to how unique you truly are.”

  “Fine words, my lord.”

  Tired from the last few days of travel, he remained silent and guided his mount inside. The scent of time and quiet infused the cavern’s air, the clop of his mount’s hooves somber. Near the back wall, Griffin halted his steed. He stepped to his mount’s side to help Rois dismount.

  With expertise she swung down. The moment her foot touched the timeworn dirt, she stepped several paces back.

  He exhaled. The tension between them was not what he would wish. What was he thinking? Wishes were for the innocent, for those not scarred by life. Mayhap ’twas better that between them lay distrust.

  At a darkened indent, he secured his mount, fed him the stored hay, and turned. She hadn’t moved.

  “Rois?”

  Silence.

  Within the shadows playing upon her face he caught the nerves. God, she was beautiful. Memories of her taste, of his hands skimming along her supple curves, filled his mind. The image of her beneath him ignited.

  “We are safe here. I will make a fire to ward off the chill.” On a hard swallow he strode to the stacked dry tinder left for such a purpose. Keep your mind on the task. He angled his flint, struck hard with his dagger. Sparks sprayed the dry wood in a brilliant tumble.

  At the curl of smoke, he gently blew on the flame. Dried grass crackled, sputtered with hues of orange and blue. In a steady slide, he fed bits of wood to the fire until it built to a steady glow.

  Pleased, Griffin sat back and found Rois unpacking bread, cheese, and wine. Had she decided that a truce could be found?

  She glanced back, her chestnut hair rich against the burst of flames, her face embraced by the fire’s glow.

  Too aware of her, he stood. “I will make a pallet.” With his body aching for her, the last thing he needed to be thinking of was bed.

  “’Tis unnecessary.”

  At the nervousness in her words, he faced her. “I am making two separate areas for us to sleep.”

  Her face remained impassive. “My thanks.”

  Though she thought herself immune to him, the way she responded to his touch last night proved otherwise. As if thinking about the intimacy between them helped anything.

  Disgusted with his weakness when it came to her, he busied himself preparing where they would sleep. After, he strode to where she’d poured them each a cup of wine. He lifted the goblet and downed it in one swallow.

  Eyes veiled, she watched him, her hands slowly rubbing her arms against the cold.

  On a muttered curse, he refilled his cup, wishing for several bottles to empty. Griffin lowered the half-filled goblet. No, with her he needed his every wit.

  He nodded. “Please, sit.”

  After a long moment, she knelt beside the flames.

  Griffin joined her. He reached over and picked up the wedge of cheese and slab of bread, split both, handed Rois her share.

  The crackle of flames punctured the silence as they ate. A gust swept inside, the scent of smoke pungent against the cool September air.

  “’Twill be cold this night,” he said.

  She kept her gaze averted. “’Tis fall in Scotland.”

  “At least,” Griffin said, keeping his tone soft, “there is nae snow.”

  “But it will come.”

  He exhaled. “Rois,” he said, “I am but trying to make time pass in an affable manner.”

  Her fingers around her wedge of cheese tightened. “Time will pass, regardless of what either of us wishes.”

  “It will, but the tension between us is something we can dictate.”

  “Dictate?” Cool eyes met him. “’Tis an expected word choice from an Englishman.”

  “I did not ask to be handfasted to you,” he said, anger trickling into his voice.

  In the glow of firelight, guilt swept her face. “Nay,” she said, her words soft, “that error was mine.” She looked away.

  Her abrupt admission had caught him off guard. “Rois?”

  The concern in Griffin’s voice touched Rois. Heaven help her, if he knew the yearnings his presence invoked, if he realized he made her care for him, he could hurt her.

  “You are right.” The whisper of her voice faded as she faced him. “We have but days together. Anger will only make each difficult.”

  Intrigued eyes assessed her, the intelligence within assuring her he missed little.

  Why had she believed that by spending a bit more time with him, she could learn his secrets? Days together offered little time to earn more than a token of his trust. And with her feelings toward Griffin growing, ’twould risk personal disaster to remain. At the first opportunity, she must escape.

  Through the opening of the cavern, she scanned the gloaming sky, a hint of stars within the darkening heavens. Well she knew how to protect herself, live off the land if necessary. Once he slept, she would leave. First, she needed him to lower his guard.

  “You are from a large family?” At his silence, she cleared her throat. “Never mind. I should nae have asked.”

  “A sister,” he replied. “Nichola.”

  From the warmth of his tone, one he loved. Many a time she’d wished for a sibling, someone to talk to when winter surrounded her for months on end.

  “The way you hold yourself, your confidence, I would have taken you to have brothers.” Rois took a bite, swallowed. “She lives with you in England?”

  “No.”

  She tore off another bit of bread. “She is married, then?”

  Griffin ate a piece of cheese, swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Your sister lives in England, near you?”

  “No.”

  At his hesitation, she studied him. “If nae in England, then where?”

  His jaw tightened.

  Her question had upset him, but why? Careful nae to expose her interest, she pretended interest in eating, then shot him a teasing smile. “Is where you sister lives such a mystery?”

  He shrugged. “Scotland.”

  Scotland?

  “You are frowning,” Griffin said.

  “Why would I be pleased?” Rois replied. “My father rides off to war against England, and I learn your sister’s English husband has been granted Scottish land seized by your king’s army.”

  He lowered his cup of wine, leveled his gaze on her. “My sister’s husband acquired nothing.”

  What trick did he play? “You stated she lives in Scotland with her husband. Is that nae how an English noble would claim Scottish land?”

  With slow precision, Griffin set his goblet aside. “You assume she married a man of nobility.”

  Rois hesitated. There was something she was missing. Curious, she nodded. “With your rank and position with the king, I would think you would allow no other.”

  “My sister married a man she loved. As her husband is a Scot, she resides in his homeland, as one would expect.”

  “A Scot!”

  At the incredulity in her voice, satisfaction filled Griffin. He’d surprised her, not that he’d meant to tell her anything about his personal life. But given his request to try to make time pass in an affable manner, if sharing a bit about his family would help, so be it.

  “Yes. Nichola’s husband was born and bred in the Highlands.” Questions flickered in her eyes. Her sho
ck matched his own when he’d learned his sister had fallen in love with the Scot.

  “How?” A flush rose up her cheeks. “Do nae answer. ’Tis nae of my affair.”

  “’Tis not,” he agreed.

  “But you will tell me?” she prodded with a gentle smile, her passion to know—that same passion which often resulted in ill-gotten decisions—rich within her words.

  Charmed, he weighed the ramifications of divulging more about Nichola, and decided it offered little threat. “Her rebel husband abducted my sister for ransom.”

  Her eyes widened. “She married her abductor? It makes little make sense.”

  Griffin smiled then, her surprise well worth the disclosure. “I agree. But my sister is not a woman to follow a path given.” He sobered. Due to the trauma of her youth. Instead of growing up in a home with parents who loved her, his poor judgment had delivered her a life of having to run their household while he was away on dangerous missions, an arduous life for a child of eight summers to shoulder, more so after the tragic loss of their parents.

  “You accept her marriage to a Scot?”

  He hesitated. He’d give her the truth. “At first I was furious, but I love my sister and would do anything for her. After I came to know him, watched them together, I saw they truly loved each other.” He studied her a long moment. “To find love in this difficult time is a rare gift.”

  “It is,” she replied, her words cautious. “Does your king approve of her marriage?”

  Griffin stared out the cave’s entrance. “King Edward’s agenda is filled with trying to quell the Scottish uprisings and war against Flanders. Little time remains to concern him with my sister or her decisions.”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You kept it from him?”

  The woman was too perceptive. Griffin faced her. “At times, life’s complications offer choices far from clear. Nor can decisions be easily made.”

  Rois thought of her father, his false loyalty given to the English king, and wondered if Nichola’s husband had done the same? Emotion built inside her. How close was her da to Stirling Castle?

  “You are quiet,” Griffin said.

  She shrugged. “I am thinking.”