Beloved Stranger

by Patricia Potter

  “And where would I go?”

  “Anywhere in Scotland.” She hesitated, then asked, “Does ‘Virtue Mine Honour,’ mean anything to you?”

  He repeated the words, then shook his head in denial. “Should it?”

  Disappointed, she shook her head. “I just heard someone says it was a motto in Scotland. I thought it might make you think of something.”

  He repeated the words, tasted them, then shook his head.

  The crest. Tell him about the crest.

  The door opened, and they both turned. Audra held a platter of sweets. Beside her was the Charlton’s housekeeper.

  Kimbra knew Claire well. She was Will’s spinster cousin and had been housekeeper for Thomas Charlton since before Kimbra had married and come to the Charlton stronghold. She was a handsome woman of middle years, and often Kimbra had heard people wonder why Claire had not wed. ’Twas said there had been many suitors. She’d never been a friend, though Kimbra had never thought of her as an enemy, either.

  Claire’s sharp gaze had turned from her to the Scot, then back again. “The Charlton asked me to find ye a gown.”

  Kimbra desperately wanted a few more moments with the Scot, but she knew how dangerous that could be. His position here was full of risk, even more so now that the Charlton was taking an interest in him. She knew the in-fighting among the Charltons, especially since the head of the family had no living heir.

  If the Scot was viewed as a danger to ambitions, there would be no limit to attempts to discredit him.

  It made even more urgent his escape.

  If only the motto—the words—had brought back a memory.

  She left Audra and the Scot to eat from the plate of sweets and followed Claire down the hall to another room. Inside, Claire opened a chest and took out an armful of gowns, all of which were far finer than anything Kimbra had ever owned.

  Kimbra eyed one of dark blue silk. It was of a modest cut and simple lines.

  Claire helped her with the lacings. It was tight in some places, loose in others. Claire called for another woman, a seamstress, and within an hour, the gown fit far better.

  Except for instructions, Claire was silent during the process. When the gown was altered, she looked at Kimbra’s hair and shook her head in dismay. Minutes later, a young girl was twisting Kimbra’s dark hair into an intricate knot.

  When finished, the girl disappeared silently.

  Kimbra turned to Claire. “Why is he doing this?”

  “The Charlton?”

  “Aye.”

  “He is lonely, I think.”

  The reply surprised Kimbra, not as much for the content as for the sadness in Claire’s voice.

  “The Charlton?”

  “He was considering making Will his heir when he was killed.”

  Kimbra remembered the Charlton’s visit when Will was ill, then the last one as Will lay dead. She’d always thought it was his natural concern for one of his soldiers.

  “He always liked you,” Claire added.

  There was something in her voice that startled Kimbra, almost jealousy. She reached back in her memory. Claire was a cousin to Will, separated several times, but she was the Charlton’s first cousin. Could she love . . . ?

  The thought was impossible. It was forbidden by the church. But Claire was obviously privy to the Charlton’s private thoughts.

  “I thought he opposed our marriage.”

  “He did, at first. You brought nothing to the family, nothing to Will, but when you were found to have been riding with the family, he roared with laughter. He said you were worth two of most of his soldiers.”

  She was stunned. So that was why he’d allowed her to keep the cottage. Cedric had obviously been lying about Thomas Charlton favoring his suit, believing that if he convinced her to marry he’d find himself in favor.

  She wondered now whether that was why the Charlton wished her to stay this evening, that he was making it clear she was under his protection.

  She also remembered the fate of one of his favorites four years ago when he found himself betrayed.

  A chill ran through her.

  The Charlton was not a man to forgive betrayal. Nor one who tolerated lies.

  Now that both the Scot, and she, had drawn his attention, both of them were in more danger than ever.

  Chapter 14

  ROBERT Howard felt he was walking a dagger’s edge as he sat among his country’s enemies and tried not to look at Kimbra Charlton. She sat on the other side of the Charlton, a place of honor.

  He was several seats down, among the reivers. Jock was on one side of him. A man called Davey’s Son on the other. Cedric was on the other side of the table, his face set with resentment. A man looking very much like him was at his side. Garrick, he remembered.

  Robert Howard, like nearly every other man in attendance, could barely take his eyes from Kimbra Charlton. The color of her gown turned her gray eyes blue, and her dark hair was pulled back, with several curls arranged around her face. She looked enchanting, and when she’d entered the room at the Charlton’s side, he’d felt an odd jerk in his heart.

  She was as bonny as the sun touching a Scottish loch and as challenging as a storm at sea.

  Where had those images come from? Suddenly he was sitting on a cliff overlooking the sea, waves crashing beneath him. A rock jutted out of the sea. A feeling of malevolence jolted through him, settled in the pit of his stomach.

  Then it was gone.

  “Howard?”

  He suddenly realized Jock had addressed him.

  “Aye?”

  “Ye do not look well.”

  “’Tis nothing. A momentary weakness.”

  “Eat well.”

  He tried to eat well. Platters and platters of food came. Mutton. Beef. Pheasant. As he ate, he tried to concentrate, to focus again on that rock. He saw it in his mind’s eye, but the feelings were gone, the sense of evil he’d felt. The rock had once been important in his life. Of that he was certain.

  He glanced up at Kimbra. She was smiling at something the Charlton was saying, and jealousy coursed through him. The man was nearly three times Kimbra’s age, and he should have no such feelings. But the intensity of them were painful.

  “No one has claimed ye yet,” Cedric said on the other side of the table. “Appears strange that none know of ye.”

  He shrugged and did not reply.

  “Mayhap ye are not a Howard at all,” Cedric continued.

  Robert Howard shrugged again, ignoring him and turning to Jock. “I hear most of Henry’s army is leaving.”

  “Aye. They keep losing horses,” Jock grinned.

  “The Scots, no doubt,” Robert Howard replied.

  “No doubt,” Jock agreed with a chuckle.

  Cedric broke in. “It is said ye fought on the continent. For or against the French?”

  “For whoever paid the most,” Robert Howard said.

  “The French are our enemies.”

  “Not always.”

  Cedric’s face reddened. “I do not believe yer wild tale.”

  “That is your choice,” Robert Howard said mildly and turned back to Jock, with whom he had developed somewhat of a truce in the past few days. They had even shared a pitcher of ale after the Charlton’s first visit.

  “It is as good as yer wild tales,” Jock suddenly confronted Cedric. “Ye disappeared during the battle.” He turned his glance away in obvious disgust.

  Robert Howard glanced up the table. Kimbra looked down at the same time, and their gazes met. Held. God’s tooth but she was lovely. Then her gaze returned to the Charlton.

  He glanced at Cedric and knew from the fury in the man’s eyes that he had seen the exchange.

  Sweets came then. Pies and puddings and fruit.

  Then he heard Kimbra’s voice insisting she must go. She had a daughter to put in bed and a cow to milk.

  “I will send someone to milk the cow,” the Charlton said.

  “You do not know my cow
. She will allow none but myself to milk her.”

  Almost true, Robert Howard thought.

  “I will accompany her,” Cedric said, standing.

  “Nay, Jock will do so,” the Charlton said.

  “I thought he was guarding this . . . man who calls himself a Howard,” Cedric replied.

  The Charlton frowned. “Are you questioning my decisions?”

  “Nay, but . . .”

  “We will talk later,” the Charlton said curtly.

  Kimbra rose, and Jock went to her. Kimbra glanced at Robert Howard. “I have not had a chance to check his wounds.”

  Jock ignored Cedric who was glowering at all of them. “Ye can do that while I get the horses ready.”

  He accompanied them up the stone steps and to Robert Howard’s chamber. As they reached it, he turned to them. “I will see to the horses,” he said, and left them.

  The moment the door closed behind them, she moved closer to him. “You have to leave as soon as possible. If you can get to my cottage, take Magnus.”

  “I have thought about that, Kimbra. I cannot take your horse. If I am taken, you may well lose him.”

  “I will take that risk.”

  “I will not take it for you. I owe you far too much already. And despite the Charlton’s hospitality, I am watched all the time.”

  He moved closer to her. She felt his breath against her cheek like a light breeze.

  She leaned into him, and his arms went around her, his lips touching—barely—her cheek.

  God’s truth, but he felt as if he belonged there. How could he possibly be wed to another and have these feelings?

  His lips moved along her cheekbone, then down to her throat. She made a soft purring noise. He wanted to make one as well. His lips found hers, caressed them with all the tenderness that had been building inside. She responded with a searching wistfulness, and suddenly the kiss turned demanding, the gentleness churning into a want so deep he could barely contain it. He crushed her to him.

  Her lips sought his as greedily as his plundered hers.

  He closed his eyes, soaking in memories. The way she felt. The light scent of flowers. The silkiness of her hair. He was consumed by a glow of light, of a warmth that pulsed through him, and he suddenly knew he had never felt this way before.

  Loneliness was not a new companion.

  She moved slightly, and he opened his eyes. Her gray eyes were tinged with blue as they looked up at him, sooty eyelashes unable to hide the smoldering passion stirring there.

  Then he released her lips as his fingers touched the nape of her neck. “There is enchantment here,” he said.

  “Aye, but it cannot last.”

  “Why?” he whispered.

  “It should be plain.”

  “Nay.”

  “You are a noble or at least of an important family. When you find where you belong, I would have no place.”

  “You have a place wherever I go.”

  She leaned her head against his heart for a moment or more, then stepped back, those striking eyes determined. “Nay. Dreams are for fools,” she said.

  Dreams are for fools.

  He stilled. A tall man with dark brown hair, but the face eluded him.

  We can never marry. Dreams are for fools.

  The words had been bitter, laced with heavy grief.

  Then the image disappeared.

  He shook his head, trying to bring it back. But it was gone, lost with the other images that tortured him.

  “Robert?”

  It was the first time she had called him Robert. It was beginning to feel familiar.

  “I remembered . . . I think I remembered—”

  “What?” Her voice was suddenly sharp.

  “A figure. A man.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I did not see his face.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  He could not relate the words. They were like a brand on his soul. We can never marry.

  “Nay,” he lied.

  “Your brother? Father? Friend?”

  He shook his head. “Blast it, I do not know.”

  “Your nightmares? Have you seen him in any of those?”

  “Nay.”

  “Anyone?” she persisted. “Have you seen anyone else?”

  The laughing girl with brown hair. But he could not say the words.

  Her gaze seemed to be reaching inside him, knowing there was something he was not saying.

  Then she turned away. “I had best look at that wound,” she said. “’Twas my excuse for being here.”

  “Excuse?”

  “Cedric and others will take any opportunity to hurt you if they think I, or you, are a threat to their ambitions.” There was a coolness in her voice, and he knew it was because she sensed he was not being honest.

  He was not sure why he could not tell her about the girl, or the words spoken by the man in that all-too-fleeting image. But he could not, not until he knew what they meant.

  He sat on the bed as she checked his wound. There was no longer a need to wrap it. The scar was ugly because of the burn. Still a bit raw but well on the way to healing.

  “I do not think you will be lame,” she said.

  “A good thing since my left arm is stiff.”

  “How did that happen?”

  He paused. She did that, over and over again. She threw out questions which she obviously hoped would stir memories. He could only shake his head in bafflement.

  He stood again. He wanted to reach out and touch her again, but he feared he could not stop himself from taking it a step further. God knew he wanted to. He wanted to undress her, caress her, carry her to the bed, and bury himself in her. He wanted to hear her laughter and see that all-too-rare smile.

  “I wish I knew,” he said, finally answering her question.

  “It will come back.”

  He did not answer. He wasn’t sure he wanted it to come back. For the first time, he wanted to quiet those disturbing voices inside.

  He touched her cheek again, his hand cupping the determined chin. “I find I do not want to leave.”

  “You must,” she whispered brokenly.“’Tis so very dangerous.”

  “You are worth it.” The words sprung from his mouth before he could catch them. He had no right to make declarations. She was right. He had to find his past before he could claim what he now knew he wanted above all.

  He leaned down and kissed her lightly. “I will try to leave,” he promised.

  They heard Jock’s heavy footfalls then, and separated.

  “I will see you again,” he said in a low voice.

  But doubt was in her expression.

  He wanted to kiss it away, but he could not. Instead he moved to the window as the door opened and Jock entered, a sleepy Audra in his arms.

  “The horses are ready.”

  She nodded. “Good eve,” she said, and went out the door, taking the light with her.

  RORY rode into the Armstrong stronghold. It was near dark.

  He saw Archibald, who was engaged in what looked like a battle to the death with a bearded, one-eyed opponent several stones larger than himself.

  He stopped and watched as Archibald eventually bested the man.

  Archibald saw him and hurried to his side.

  “’ Tis glad I am to see ye.”

  “Any word of Lachlan?”

  “Nay, though the Campbells ransomed Jamie. He is out now searching for Lachlan and news of his own Campbells. I was to wait here for ye.” He paused, then asked, “How is the queen?”

  “Heartbroken and surrounded by vultures. The council is half for a French alliance, half for English, and cannot agree on anything. I fear that the new Earl of Angus is gaining her ear and promoting the English cause. I could not persuade her otherwise. For some reason, she chooses his protection and is siding with those who want a truce with England.”

  “She is King Henry’s sister.”

  “Aye, but there
’s never been any love lost there, especially now that James is dead at his hand.”

  “More at James’s own hand from what I hear,” Archibald said bitterly. “More than ten thousand Scots dead. I fear for Hector and Lachlan and so many others.”

  “Are the Armstrongs helping in the search?”

  “As much as they can. The border has been dangerous, and if Lachlan or Hector are in hiding, the Armstrongs do not want to alert the English that they may be alive. Jamie and several Armstrongs are posing as English borderers.”

  “Aye, Lachlan would be a fine catch for the English throne. Henry would love nothing better than to get his hands on a Maclean. We have always stood against the English.” He paused, then added, “Is there any indication he might still live?”

  “’Tis unlikely,” Archibald said. “Most of the bodies were stripped of every piece of clothing and jewelry. They say all at James’s side were killed. It was difficult to even identify the king’s body.”

  “But no one saw Lachlan dead?”

  “Nay, but . . .”

  “And Hector?”

  “We did find a Maclean who claims he saw Hector die. We have no’ found his body.”

  Pain ripped through Rory. Both Hector and Archibald had been like fathers to him, far more so than his own had been. “We should find the place where Macleans fell.”

  I should have been there! He never should have allowed Lachlan to take his place.

  Several burly men, dressed in heavy jacks, approached.

  Archibald introduced him to the man who appeared to be the leader. “This is Tommy Armstrong. He has been doing everything he can to help us. He has contacted other border families and sent some of his men with Jamie.”

  Rory thrust out his hand. “Our thanks. The Macleans will not forget it.”

  “It will be easier to search now that the English army is leaving,” the Armstrong said grimly.

  “Were the wounded taken anywhere?”

  “The wounded were ordered killed by the English.”

  “Jamie Campbell was taken for ransom.”

  “By a family powerful enough to defy the king. Not many are. Nay, ye would have heard by now, and I would have as well.”

  “Could he have been taken in by someone?”

  “Who would risk death for doing so? Nay, I think not. The only chance is that he survived the initial battle and managed to hide somewhere. But the English have been scouring the countryside. There is little hope he survived.”