Surrender to the Scot

by Emma Prince

  “Aye,” Elaine replied, willing her voice to remain light even as foreboding knotted her stomach.

  “It is just…” Lady Vivienne swallowed. “I have seen William de Soules before.”

  “Oh?” Elaine’s heart hammered in her ears. “Here in Paris?”

  “Non. I am from the Picardy region, and I occasionally return home to look in on my father.”

  Elaine’s apprehension abruptly drained away. Of course. She had become so suspicious and tightly wound of late that she saw intrigue everywhere—even when it amounted to naught.

  “Ah. Sir William owns land in Picardy, does he not?” she asked.

  “Oui, but…” Lady Vivienne faltered again. “As I said, it is not my place.”

  Confusion swirled through Elaine once more. It was widely known that de Soules held an estate in Picardy—the Bruce had selected him for his knowledge of France, after all—yet Lady Vivienne’s discomfort was palpable. What did she know? And why was she so afraid to say it?

  It was time to drop her pretenses of casual interest. Elaine fixed the lady-in-waiting with a steady gaze. “Tell me.”

  Lady Vivienne clasped her hands before her, hesitating for a long moment. “I know where Sir William’s lands are, but that is not where I saw him,” she said at last. “I…I saw him paying a visit to…to Château de Hélicourt.”

  Elaine blinked. Curse her lack of knowledge of French estates! “Forgive me, but I do not know where that is.”

  Lady Vivienne exhaled slowly. “Sir William’s lands lie to the east of Amiens. Château de Hélicourt is an estate in the west.”

  Amiens. That was the town Jerome had used to test de Soules when he’d claimed to have sought a whore on the second night of their journey. De Soules hadn’t refuted Jerome’s assertion, despite the fact that he’d ridden in the opposite direction of Amiens—to the west.

  “And…” Elaine had to swallow. “And who owns Château de Hélicourt?”

  Lady Vivienne reluctantly met Elaine’s gaze. “It is owned by the Balliol family.”

  Elaine sat up so fast that water sloshed over the rim of the tub. She saw Lady Vivienne’s lips part with a gasp, but she couldn’t hear the noise over the roaring of her own blood.

  Balliol. The deposed King of Scotland who’d reigned before the Bruce. De Soules was visiting his estate.

  Elaine’s mind flew in several directions at once as she tried to sift through all the implications of this news. She glanced up to find Lady Vivienne staring at her, her beautiful face a mask of worry.

  “You were right to tell me,” Elaine said. “You did naught wrong.”

  From the crease in her brow, Lady Vivienne was not convinced, but Elaine couldn’t worry about that now.

  “I would ask that this stays between us,” she went on.

  Lady Vivienne nodded reluctantly. “Oui. As I said, I do not wish to cause discord.”

  Elaine snatched up one of the fragrant, creamy bars of soap. Her hopes for a long, luxurious bath were dashed, but she would settle for a rushed scrub knowing what she now did.

  “May I ask one last favor of you?” she said, working the soap into a hurried lather.

  “Oui, what is it?”

  “Find Jerome and tell him to come to our chamber with all haste.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jerome paced the length of the palace’s long, well-kept stables, uncaring that he kicked straw as he went.

  The grooms had insisted that, as a guest of the King, Jerome needn’t bother himself with manual labor, and that his horse would be well looked after. But Jerome hadn’t truly come to the stables to shovel shite or even fetch his saddlebags, as he’d told Lady Vivienne.

  Coward that he was, he had been attempting to escape. Escape the luxurious chamber, the sight of the wide, decadent bed—and most of all, Elaine.

  His control was slipping, damn it all. If he wasn’t careful, he’d forget everything he’d worked for, everything that hung in the balance, and lose himself in those vivid blue eyes.

  It had been torture these last few days, riding all day with her in his lap and sleeping within arm’s reach of her every night—damned delicious torture.

  But as they’d ridden into the palace that afternoon, a thought had occurred to Jerome. King Philip would remain here in Paris while the rest of the envoy continued on to Avignon. Which meant that he and Elaine needn’t carry on the ruse of their love any longer.

  There would be no more reason for Elaine to continue on with them—or even to remain in France. Jerome would have to concoct a way to safely ensure her return to Scone, but every time he thought of sending her away, his mind rebelled.

  He told himself it was only because he knew Finn would have his bollocks, followed by his head, if Elaine came to any harm on her way back to Scotland. Whom could Jerome trust other than himself to see her safely home?

  But the truth was, it wasn’t just an overblown sense of protectiveness that threatened his plans. He didn’t want to send her away. He didn’t want to do the right thing, keep his focus on his mission, and put Elaine behind him.

  That realization had sent a cold sweat beading on his brow. When his father had turned traitor and nearly destroyed not only Jerome’s family but the entire clan, Jerome had sworn never to let aught come before his duty—to his Laird, clan, King, and country. And in the fourteen years since, he hadn’t.

  Only a few short months after his father’s death, Jerome’s mother had passed from a failure of the heart. Most in the clan said that the shock of losing both her husband and her eldest son had been too much for her. Ever since then, Jerome had no family other than the clan, no one to come between him and his pledge of loyalty.

  And though he had dallied with a few lasses on occasion, he’d never fallen in love, never allowed himself to care, for caring would make him beholden to something other than his duty. Caring could cloud a man’s mind and make him throw everything away. Just as his father had done.

  The solution was clear. It was time to send Elaine away, to do what he should have done from the start. He would be forever grateful that she uncovered de Soules’s plot, but there was no longer any excuse to keep her near—other than his dangerous desire for her. It was for her own protection. And his.

  He pivoted at the far end of the stables, determined to end their charade and send her to safety, but the sight at the opposite end had his next step faltering.

  Lady Vivienne stood in the stable doorway looking as out of place as a painted doll in the midst of a rubbish heap. Her gaze swept the stalls until it landed on him, and she hesitantly stepped forward.

  He strode toward her, halting her progress in the middle.

  “What?” he snapped, uncaring that his churlish tone was beyond rude.

  Lady Vivienne was at least a head shorter than Jerome, yet at his brusque question she lifted her chin in such a way that she appeared to be staring down at him.

  “Lady Elaine requests your presence, monsieur,” she replied, every inch the proper French lady of court.

  Jerome frowned. Had Elaine come to the same conclusion he had—that their ruse was no longer necessary, and it was time she step back from this dangerous situation? Unlikely, knowing her. Well, whatever matter had her sending for him, he would say his piece and put an end to their charade.

  “Verra well,” he said, sketching the faintest bow and sidestepping Lady Vivienne to avoid any more of her superior looks. But to his surprise, the last glimpse he caught of her face revealed worry more than refined arrogance.

  Something was brewing. Elaine had better be well when he reached their chamber, else the King of France himself would answer for aught that happened to her. Jerome stormed out of the stables and toward the sprawling palace like a bull building up speed to charge.

  Ignoring guards, servants, and even a few clusters of finely dressed nobles, he plowed through the courtyard and into the great hall toward the stairs leading to his and Elaine’s chamber.

  When h
e reached their door, he didn’t bother knocking. Instead, he barreled in, unsure of what he’d find inside.

  He hadn’t given himself time to consider what Lady Vivienne’s fleeting look of concern could mean, but his mind had conjured vague images of Elaine feeling ill, or worse, de Soules confronting her.

  The last thing he’d imagined was to see every sleek, white inch of her stepping from the tub, glistening and bare as a water nymph.

  Her head snapped around, her wide blue eyes fixing on him. A wordless gasp rushed past her parted lips as she fumbled to snatch up one of the drying cloths laid nearby.

  Like a witless barbarian, Jerome stood frozen, his gaze greedily drinking in the sight of her. Even once she’d covered herself, he remained rooted, the gears of his mind locked motionless as his animal body surged with lust.

  “What in…” He swallowed, attempting to clear the thickness from his throat. “What are ye doing, lass?”

  “Bathing,” she replied in a strangled voice. “Obviously.”

  “And ye sent Lady Vivienne to fetch me so that I could—what? Watch ye?” Damn him if that didn’t sound dangerously alluring. But some sliver of his rational mind that wasn’t shrouded in a blinding fog of lust knew Elaine wouldn’t attempt so bold a seduction.

  “Nay!” she squeaked, confirming his suspicions.

  “What then?”

  “I…I didn’t expect you to arrive so soon.” She clutched the length of linen around her middle in a white-knuckled grasp, but it still left her creamy shoulders bare. Her russet locks curled damply there, making her skin look even paler. A flush crept over the tops of her breasts, which rose and fell rapidly just beneath the linen, to her neck and cheeks.

  “Aye, well, I have something that needs saying.” To steel himself, he crossed his arms over his chest, but his resolve faltered when her gaze slid over him, lingering on his body like a caress. Bloody hell.

  Elaine shook her head slightly as if to clear it. “Whatever it is, it can wait. I learned something of grave import and sent Lady Vivienne with all haste to find you.”

  Some sane part of his brain began to function at last. “What is it?”

  Her gaze darted behind him, where he realized the door still stood open. He moved to close it, dropping the bolt as well. “Ye should dress,” he commended over his shoulder, at last thinking clearly—or as clear as could be expected with Elaine standing nearly naked behind him.

  She didn’t respond, but he heard her bare feet padding softly toward the armoire. Its doors creaked open and the rustle of fabric filled the chamber for a moment.

  “You can turn around.”

  When he turned, he found her not dressed in a gown, but rather a delicate chemise with a dressing robe firmly secured over it. He supposed distantly that it had been too much to hope that the armoire would have contained a sensible gown to Elaine’s measurements, especially considering this chamber was clearly not meant for sensible activities.

  “Now, what did ye learn that was so urgent ye couldnae wait to finish yer bath before summoning me?” he demanded, stalking closer.

  She drew in a deep breath. “William de Soules is meeting with Balliol.”

  Jerome jerked to a halt mid-step. “John Balliol is dead.”

  Elaine shook her head. “Very well, but de Soules has been visiting Château de Hélicourt, which is owned by the Balliol family. Lady Vivienne has seen him.”

  The breath rushed from Jerome’s lungs as if he’d received a blow. “Edward Balliol, John’s son, lives there.” Without realizing it, he’d caught the rim of the tub. He clutched the wet wood as his thoughts spun wildly. “Of course. I should have realized it sooner. The Balliols havenae been a consideration for more than a decade, but I should have thought of the fact that John was exiled to France and raised Edward here. If I had been thinking clearly—”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Elaine cut in. “All that matters is that we know de Soules is working with Balliol. I only wish I knew what that meant.”

  Jerome glanced up to find her features taut with worry. Though she’d recognized the importance of this new revelation, Elaine wasn’t familiar enough with the nature of Scottish politics to understand just how dire things truly were.

  He straightened, his voice grim. “It means de Soules isnae trying to steal the Declaration of Arbroath, as we assumed,” he said. “He’s trying to dethrone Robert the Bruce—and put Edward Balliol in his place.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Elaine pulled in a hard breath. “How can you be so sure?”

  Jerome’s dark eyes moved restlessly over the ground between them, unseeing in thought. “What other reason would de Soules have to speak with Balliol?” he asked. “And to do so in secret, supposedly while on an assignment for the Bruce?”

  “But how can you be sure that Edward Balliol even wants the throne?”

  Jerome lifted his head and met her gaze. “John Balliol went quietly enough once England’s King Edward turned on him. But some in Scotland will never let go of the idea of ousting the Bruce in favor of an English-sympathizing King. My father is proof of that.”

  Cold apprehension slithered up her spine, and she pulled her dressing robe closer. Everyone always said that Scots were a stubborn lot unwilling to forgive or forget, but Elaine always took it as a lighthearted jest. Would some in Scotland truly dethrone their own King in favor of a Balliol even after all this time?

  “Unlike his father, Edward Balliol is a grasping man, from what I’ve heard,” Jerome went on. “John was content to take the throne, then cede it and flee to France, but Edward has lived under the shame of his father’s failings nigh all his life. We have to assume he is part of de Soules’s plan.”

  It was a shocking yet sound deduction from all Elaine knew. “And de Soules is using this mission as an excuse to be in France. To cover the need to meet with Balliol.”

  Jerome held her with a grim look. “Aye. And as far as we know, Balliol hasnae turned him away.”

  Mindlessly, Elaine walked to the large bed and sank down on its edge. “Gracious,” she breathed.

  “It explains why de Soules hasnae made any move against me or the declaration,” Jerome continued. “If he’d truly wanted to destroy it or prevent it from being delivered, he could have stabbed me in the back, or at least attempted to trick me out of it. But the declaration doesnae matter. If aught, it provides a welcome distraction, for while we’ve all been focused on its safe delivery, he’s been working on his true scheme.”

  “Then…then what do we do?” Elaine asked. Her head spun with the implications of this revelation. When she’d daydreamed about helping the Bruce’s cause and leading a life of excitement, never had she imagined being thrown in the midst of an attempt to overthrow the King.

  When Jerome didn’t answer right away, she looked up to find him watching her, his eyes unreadable.

  “We arenae going to do aught. Ye need to return to Scotland. I’ll handle this.”

  She bolted up from the bed. “What?”

  He closed in on her, encircling her arms with his hands. But though his eyes remained hard, his voice came out surprisingly low and soft.

  “Elaine. Ye cannae remain in the middle of this danger. Besides, there isnae a reason anymore to keep pretending we are lovers.”

  Pretending. The word slid through her ribs and straight into her heart like a dagger. But she couldn’t lose her wits to emotion now. Not when so much was at stake.

  “You make it sound as though I am naught but a burden, an innocent to protect.”

  His mouth tightened. “Ye are innocent, and ye’d damn well better believe I’ll protect ye.”

  “But you seem to be forgetting that I was the one to alert you to de Soules’s scheme,” she countered. “I am part of this as much as you, Jerome, remember? I won’t simply be shipped back to Scotland as if I’m not.”

  “That’s the problem,” he said, his voice drawn. “Ye are a part of this—and I cannae keep ye safe and unra
vel this plot at the same time.”

  “Then don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. Let me help you.”

  “Elaine—”

  “Nay,” she interrupted feeling her ire rise. “I got myself safely to France, didn’t I? I covered us both with a lie—one that made me look like the most unforgivably foolish girl, I might add. And I’ve helped you at every step to watch de Soules and gather information. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know about him visiting Balliol’s estate.”

  Jerome flinched at that and released her arms. Sensing that she approached a victory, she continued.

  “Have you even considered what you would tell King Philip if you sent me back to Scotland while you continued on to Avignon? Or what you’ll do with de Soules? How will you get word back to the Bruce about Balliol’s plot? And what will you tell him other than the fact that de Soules and Balliol have been meeting?”

  “I take yer point,” Jerome snapped. “There is much to consider, and much to decide. That doesnae mean I’ll leave ye in the midst of this mess, no’ when I—”

  He cut off abruptly and spun on his heels, giving her his back.

  In that moment, she knew the truth like she knew the contours of her own heart. “You care about me,” she whispered. “And that scares you—not just because you don’t want to see me harmed, but because you don’t want to be vulnerable to being harmed yourself.”

  His broad back was like a wall of unmoving muscle before her, yet the faint sound of his exhale told her she’d struck a nerve.

  “It occurs to me,” she began, keeping her voice neutral, “that neither one of us could have come this far alone. I alerted you to de Soules’s plotting, yet you spoke to him that night he rode off to the Balliol estate. And we both likely avoided his suspicion by pretending to be lovesick fools.”

  She took a step closer to him, and although he didn’t turn, she knew by the tensing of his shoulders that he was aware of her nearness. “Is it possible that we are better off working together?” she murmured. “That we need each other?”