Surrender to the Scot

by Emma Prince

  “Aye, well…” She was saved from having to form a reply by the sound of an approaching rider. At the very edges of the light cast from the dying fire, she spotted de Soules dismounting and guiding his horse to where the others were hobbled.

  Jerome must have followed her gaze, for he rose suddenly.

  “Dinnae fight me on this, Elaine,” he said tightly. “Go back to the tent. I’ll speak with de Soules.”

  She rose and reluctantly turned toward their tent, which the King had again placed farther away from the others. Before she moved off, however, she caught his arm.

  He froze, and she could feel the coiling strength in the taut muscles of his forearm.

  “Be careful,” she breathed.

  He gave her a nod, but then to her surprise, he dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers. Before she knew what had happened, he’d slipped away into the darkness toward de Soules, leaving her to pick her way back to their tent, her mind swirling with renewed confusion and his soft kiss burning her lips.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jerome tried to push all thoughts of Elaine out of his head as he strode toward de Soules. Damn it all, why had he kissed her? There had been no one to see it, no excuse to pretend to be lovers. Yet her slightest touch left him dunderheaded, so he’d acted on instinct.

  He had to stop mooning over her and come up with a way to approach de Soules without raising his suspicions—and fast. Just as de Soules turned to him, squinting through the dark, an idea came to him.

  He slowed his steps, dragging his feet through the grass and letting his body sway.

  “De Soules?” he said, slurring his speech. “Is that ye, man?”

  “Munro,” de Soules replied coolly, the tension in his shoulders visibly relaxing. “What are ye still doing up?”

  “Needed to piss,” Jerome said, stumbling to a halt before de Soules. “My God, man, ye missed a hell of a night. King Philip invited us to dine in his tent, and let me tell ye, he was more than generous with that wine of his.”

  A slow smirk pulled at de Soules’s mouth.

  Good. Jerome had the man right where he wanted him—thinking Jerome was drunk, inattentive, and unaware of what de Soules was about.

  “Aye, these French treat their wine like ye Highlanders treat yer whisky,” he said. “They take great pride in its strength.” He began to sidestep around Jerome, but Jerome pretended to stumble and catch himself on de Soules’s shoulder.

  “I’ll tell ye this much,” Jerome went on, swaying slightly. “I’ve never kenned a Highlander to be so generous with his whisky as King Philip was with his wine. Every time I looked, my goblet had magically refilled itself. Ye should have been here, man.”

  Though he kept his body loose and his words thick, Jerome sharpened his gaze on de Soules. Even in the low light, he could see de Soules considering his next words carefully.

  “Aye, well,” he began slowly. “What with my estate in this area, I felt bound to check on things.”

  Jerome grunted in understanding. “Of course, ye must see to yer responsibilities.” He cocked his head as if remembering something. “But I thought the King mentioned that we wouldnae be close enough to yer lands to allow ye a visit.”

  Beneath his hand, which still rested on de Soules’s shoulder, he felt the man stiffen. The silence stretched for a heartbeat, then two.

  “It seems ye caught me, Munro,” de Soules said at last.

  Jerome’s blood turned to ice. Somehow, he willed himself to maintain his drunken act. His sword was still strapped to his belt—next to the Bruce’s declaration. If he had to, he could draw his blade like lightning, but not unless de Soules made the first move.

  “Ye are right, I didnae go to my estate,” de Soules continued, his voice even.

  “Nay?” Jerome replied, feigning confusion. “Where were ye, then?”

  “Come, Munro,” de Soules coaxed, “what do ye think? I went looking for a whore.”

  Jerome turned his sharp exhale into a chuckle. “Oh, aye? Ye couldnae simply wait to reach the French court, where I’m sure a chamber maid or widowed noblewoman would gladly lift her skirts?”

  De Soules chuckled tightly. “Ah, I think ye forget that the rest of us dinnae have a bonny lass bouncing in our laps all day—and warming our cots all night. Ye cannae fault me for wanting a wee bit of pleasure, too.”

  Red rage crashed over him at the comparison de Soules was drawing between Elaine and the whore he claimed to have sought that night, but Jerome tamped it down. He needed to keep his wits about him if he were to draw aught of use from de Soules.

  He forced himself to make a sound of amusement. “Aye, well, ye have me there. Still, ye missed a most enjoyable evening. While ye were wiling away yer night in Amiens with some whore, we were dining with the King of France himself!”

  Though King Philip had chided Jerome for his lack of knowledge about French geography, he knew enough to be certain the town of Amiens lay roughly east of where they were camped—the opposite direction Elaine had seen de Soules headed.

  Jerome’s past had made him careful. Aye, he was quick to anger when he believed those to whom he’d pledged his fidelity were threatened—and even quicker when his loyalty came into question. Yet his father’s actions had taught him to be wary of jumping to conclusions—and declaring others guilty by association.

  He believed what Elaine had overheard, that de Soules was involved in some plot to countermand the Bruce’s efforts. But it was possible that de Soules truly had simply slipped away to visit a whore, which would put them no closer to learning what he schemed. Jerome wanted de Soules himself to prove his guilt. So he laid a careful trap, waiting for de Soules to lie again.

  Just as Jerome suspected, de Soules took his bait without blinking an eye.

  “Mayhap ye wouldnae be dallying with that English chit if ye kenned what these French whores are capable of,” he said.

  Jerome ignored the fury that once again roared in his veins. De Soules hadn’t refuted his comment about riding to Amiens. It was enough to set off the warning bells in Jerome’s head.

  Yet confirmation that de Soules schemed something wasn’t enough. The man had yet to make a move against Jerome, either to steal the Bruce’s declaration or ensure that Jerome wouldn’t get in his way if he did. Damn it all, he needed more information.

  But it seemed he wouldn’t get it tonight. De Soules moved away, and Jerome couldn’t halt him again without drawing suspicion.

  “Speaking of yer English chit,” de Soules said, stepping around Jerome. “Ye’d better piss quick and be back to her, else she may go looking in MacAdams’s tent for another Highlander to scratch the itch, eh Munro?”

  Despite the burning rage clawing up Jerome’s throat, he forced himself to chuckle and stumble off into the copse of birches. He hummed a tune as he pretended to relieve his bladder, all the while listening to de Soules retreat to the camp and enter his tent with a soft rustle of canvas.

  When he was sure de Soules wasn’t coming back out, Jerome quickly rifled through the man’s saddlebags, for he’d hobbled his horse but left his saddle on the ground nearby—likely because of Jerome’s distraction.

  Naught of interest lay inside, however. With a soft curse, Jerome strode back to his and Elaine’s tent. He doubted she had done as he’d ordered and gone to sleep already, but he was glad, for repeating to her what de Soules had said would help him think through the man’s words and consider their implications. Elaine was smart and observant. Mayhap she would notice something he hadn’t.

  The thought surprised him. He hadn’t placed his faith in anyone since his father’s betrayal of their Laird fourteen years past. Yet in the space of little over a fortnight, Elaine had managed to earn his trust.

  Aye, just as she’d said, she was as much a part of this mess as he was. They were in it together now.

  Chapter Twenty

  Elaine stifled yet another yawn despite the midday sun shining brightly overhead.

&nbs
p; When she’d returned to the tent last night, it had already been late. But she hadn’t been able to sleep knowing Jerome was speaking with de Soules, and then when he returned, she’d listened eagerly as he’d recounted their conversation.

  Even once Jerome had settled himself on the ground next to the cot and she’d pulled the coverlet over herself, sleep had eluded her. Like Jerome, she was frustrated not to have learned more about de Soules’s motives or aims, yet though she’d tumbled his words over and over in her mind, no answers had presented themselves.

  “Rest against me.”

  She started mid-yawn when Jerome’s gruff, low voice rumbled through her. They swayed together with his horse’s steps, she perched across his lap and he with both arms encircling her so that he could hold the reins.

  She had already given up yesterday’s effort to put even a hair’s breadth of space between them. Today, she was too tired to care.

  And besides, the tension that had crackled in the air around them yesterday had apparently fizzled away now that they were both so focused on unraveling de Soules’s scheme. She hadn’t forgotten the fact that he’d rebuffed her, yet his suggestion now to lean against him and take some rest seemed a peace offering of sorts.

  Gratefully, she eased back against his chest, her head fitting beneath his chin and her shoulder tucking under his arm.

  “Ye’ll run yerself ragged if ye arenae careful.” The words were spoken so low that she felt more than heard them where her ear pressed against the base of his throat.

  “I can’t help it,” she murmured. “I can’t stop thinking about what de Soules could be about. If he wants to steal the Bruce’s declaration, why hasn’t he made a move yet?”

  “I dinnae ken,” he replied. “Mayhap he plans to wait until we are closer to Avignon. Or mayhap he doesnae wish to steal it at all and is scheming something else.”

  “And why did he slip off last night?” she continued, casting her gaze on de Soules’s back. He rode with Kieran and the bishop behind the King. Though the guards rode on either side of Jerome’s horse, there was no chance she could be overheard, what with the rumble of the wagons behind them.

  “Might he have been meeting with another conspirator? And if so, who?”

  She felt Jerome shake his head slightly. “Good questions, all, lass, but we simply dinnae ken enough to answer them. I ken ye dinnae like it, but all we can do is continue to wait and stay alert.”

  But her tired mind could not drop the matter, so she went back over the words she’d overheard in Scone. Though no new insights miraculously came, one tidbit niggled at her.

  “De Brechin called you the Munro lapdog. What does that mean?”

  He stiffened, and she drew back her head to look at him. She found his jaw clenched and a muscle jumping behind the dark stubble on his cheek. He stared forward, his eyes hard and flat.

  “‘Lapdog’ isnae new, though they usually call me the Munro hound—behind my back, of course.”

  Ire rolled off him just as surely as his heat and masculine scent did. This was clearly a delicate subject, but Elaine couldn’t help her curiosity. Considering all they’d shared in the last fortnight—intimacies she’d never experienced with another man—she knew little of Jerome’s life outside this mission for the Bruce, and even less about his past.

  “Why?” she asked tentatively.

  He remained silent so long that she thought he would refuse to answer. But when she settled her head against his chest once more, he spoke.

  “I am known to be loyal to my Laird—to the point of being rabid, some say.”

  “Oh?” she murmured. “And why is that such a bad thing?”

  “It isnae—no’ in most circumstances, anyway. My reputation for fiercely protecting my Laird is why the Bruce brought me into his Bodyguard Corps. And why I was selected for this mission. He and my Laird decided—rightly—that my loyalty could be harnessed for the larger cause.”

  “I still don’t understand,” she said carefully. “Hound, lapdog—the epithets clearly bother you, but why?”

  He let a slow breath go. “Because most who throw around such descriptions dinnae ken why I am this way.”

  Elaine waited, listening to the steady thrum of Jerome’s pulse beneath her ear. Though tension still radiated from him, his heart beat true. Yet without having to ask, she knew they now skirted a topic which had wounded that strong, noble heart long ago.

  She had seen his features harden and a shadow cross his chestnut eyes enough times to know that some unhealed hurt lived deep inside him. He compensated for it with unbending dedication and unquestionable loyalty, yet the wound was still there.

  “Tell me,” she breathed.

  He shifted, and she feared he meant to pull away, but instead he simply lowered his nose to her hair and inhaled deeply.

  “Like ye, I grew up surrounded by war and strife,” he said at last, his breath stirring the locks at the crown of her head. “But in the Highlands, we were no’ only fighting the English, but also each other. When the Bruce crowned himself King in 1306, it divided the country—and many a clan.”

  She felt her brows furrow. “I didn’t realize all of Scotland didn’t immediately fall behind the Bruce.”

  “It nearly tore us apart. Many Scots had supported King John Balliol, the Bruce’s predecessor, despite the fact that he’d practically been selected by King Edward I and was little more than England’s puppet. But there is a certain security in kenning who yer master is. Freedom is far harder—and more dangerous.”

  “And some Scots wished for Balliol over the Bruce?”

  “Och, nay, Balliol was deposed back in 1296. Of course, this was all well before yer time, and nearly before mine as well, so I am no’ surprised ye dinnae ken about all the tangled knots in Scotland’s history, but we Scots tend to have long memories—and hold grudges.”

  A smile curled her lips. “But I want to know. Scotland is my adoptive country now.”

  He chuckled softly. “I’ll give ye the short version for now. Before Balliol, King Alexander III was Scotland’s King. When he died, there wasnae a clear line of succession, and several rivals competed for the crown—including the Bruce. But Edward I hand-selected Balliol kenning he would be easily controlled, making Scotland more a vassal state under English control than a sovereign country in its own right. We called Balliol Toom Tabard—‘empty coat,’ for he was naught more than Edward’s puppet.”

  “Then how was he deposed?”

  “Scotland’s nobles and lairds rose up against Balliol and established a council of twelve men to lead the country instead. But of course Edward didnae like that, so he launched the first of his wars against us. With his puppet King Balliol abdicated and held in the Tower of London, Edward sought to make himself King of Scotland—and bring us to our knees as his subjects. But as I’m sure ye ken by now, Scots dinnae like being told what to do. So we rose up. William Wallace was one of the first to show us that we could fight for our freedom—and mayhap even win.”

  “I’ve heard tales of him,” Elaine interjected.

  “Aye, he was the stuff of legends, but even he eventually fell to the English. Still, we fought on, despite no’ having a King of our own—until the Bruce crowned himself and began mounting a true effort for freedom.”

  “And some didn’t like that.”

  “A few Scots remained loyal to Balliol even after he was removed, for they saw rule by the English as a better alternative to the messy, complicated prospect of true independence. Though Balliol wasnae an option anymore, those who’d stood behind him tried to argue their own claim to the Scottish throne. John the Red Comyn was one such claimant, and a Balliol sympathizer. But just before the Bruce took the crown, he killed Comyn.”

  “What?” How had Elaine never heard stories of that?

  Jerome sighed. “No one truly kens what happened, for they were alone in a church together. They were meeting to discuss the Red Comyn’s support of the Bruce’s impending reign, but appare
ntly Comyn reneged on his word and withdrew his support. Things escalated, they fought, and Comyn ended up dead. The Pope excommunicated the Bruce for killing before the altar. That’s one of the many reasons why the Bruce’s petition to the Pope now to acknowledge Scotland’s sovereignty and the Bruce’s claim as King is so important,” he said, his hand unconsciously dropping to the pouch where the declaration lay.

  Elaine chewed on all this information for a long moment.

  How little she truly knew about the intricate and chaotic machinations of war, politics, and power, she realized. For so long, she’d idolized the Bruce’s cause, thinking it pure in its quest for freedom. But now she saw that such simplicity was childish and naïve.

  Of course there had been strife and struggle along the way. It didn’t change her belief in the rightness of the Bruce’s efforts, but rather cast a new light under which to examine herself. Things were so much more complicated than she had ever thought when she’d dreamed of joining the cause. Yet if she wished to leave such naïveté behind, she had to be willing to see all the shades of gray in the world.

  When the silence stretched, a question rose to her lips. “And…and what does this have to do with you? Certainly you were too young when all this happened to have played a part in it.”

  She felt Jerome’s throat bob with a hard swallow. “Aye, I was only fourteen when the Bruce killed Comyn and crowned himself King. But as I said, many clans were nearly ripped asunder disputing whether to support the Bruce or the Comyns and others who declared that they had a claim to the throne. Many felt that the Bruce’s acts against the Red Comyn were enough to warrant his death.”

  “And the Munros were one such divided clan?”

  Jerome gave a curt nod. “Our Laird, Donald Munro, decided to throw his support behind the Bruce. It was our first real chance at freedom, and though the Bruce had made mistakes, Laird Munro believed the man to be an honorable, worthy King. But my father, Owen, argued that the clan should back the Comyns, who, like Balliol, would have acquiesced to English control. My father and the Laird fought—to the point that my father challenged Donald for leadership of the clan.”