Beloved Stranger

by Patricia Potter

  “’Tis daft. No Charlton would shelter a Scot.”

  Rory knew it was daft. But then he knew Lachlan, and how entirely likeable he could be, and how he had an uncanny ability to fit in any role he wanted, mayhap because he had done it as a child. He’d had to, to appease a father who had never approved of him. Lachlan, he’d discovered much to his surprise, was a survivor.

  Jamie shrugged. “I did not see the man, but if Rory thinks there is a possibility . . .”

  The four men rode back to the Armstrong tower and made a proposition to the Armstrong.

  “’Tis madness,” the Armstrong leader said. “But I like madness. I know two who might go. A man and a woman. For a price.”

  “I will make it substantial.”

  “So be it. I will have them here this afternoon.”

  KIMBRA finished wrapping the last wound and her home. stood. She wanted to go back to the cottage. To her home.

  Two men had died. The others should live. The physician had left in anger. But the servants who had assisted her could now do what had to be done.

  The Scot was altogether too close here. Every time she saw him, her body hummed with desire. Heat pooled in the core of her. She longed to reach out and touch him.

  And then there was Cedric.

  She remembered the look on Cedric’s face yesterday when she tended his wound. He’d just returned and had asked her to tend him. ’Twas little but a minor scrape, but his eyes bored right through her as he asked questions about Robert Howard. When exactly had she found him? What exactly had he said?

  She had ignored the questions, concentrating instead on the wound that most men would not have even bothered bringing to her. It was as if he wanted to proclaim his bravery.

  The next morning, she found the Charlton. “I wish to go home. I have chickens to feed. The garden needs tending, and we need more herbs for poultices.”

  “I can send someone to do that.”

  “Nay, they would not know what to fetch.”

  “It is still dangerous.”

  “The cottage is well away from the roads. We have never been attacked.”

  He sighed. “Ye may go. I will send someone to accompany ye, and there are already two men watching your cottage.”

  She found Audra, who did not want to go. Mr. Howard was here, and so were servants who constantly found sweets for her. “No,” she insisted, “we should stay with Mr. Howard.”

  “Bess needs her home, and so does Bear,” Kimbra tried to explain patiently, even as apprehension ran down her spine. Her daughter was becoming all too attached to the Scot.

  “They like it here.”

  It was probably true. Bear was allowed to stay with Audra, and Bess was eating the best of Charlton oats.

  “Mayhap Mr. Howard will visit us,” she said. “But he and the others need our herbs. We have used all we have brought.”

  Audra surrendered then. “But we will come back?”

  “Aye,” she agreed.

  With regret she gathered up what few belongings she had. She probably would not see the Scot again. He had more freedom of movement now, and he knew the danger here. She could only hope he would leave soon.

  Even if her heart broke at the prospect.

  She and Audra went to the stable for Bess and Magnus. One of the stable boys helped attach a lead to the cow. She went to Magnus’s stall and found the Scot saddling him.

  She stilled. Her heart skipped ahead.

  He turned to her. “The Charlton asked me to accompany you and Audra,” he said.

  Audra beamed at him, then at Kimbra.

  Kimbra did not want to admit she shared that spontaneous pleasure. “Are you well enough?”

  “Aye. Your potions seemed to be miraculous.” He wore a crooked half smile as if he knew something, or someone, had taken control of their lives.

  She lost her speech for a moment. She wanted to protest. She had, in truth, been running away from him and her own feelings, but now they bounded to the surface.

  He wore a doublet over a shirt and snug-fitting breeches. She wondered where he obtained them, probably from the Charlton, who had made it plain that the Scot was to have everything he needed.

  The Scot’s elevation from prisoner to favorite had stirred any number of reactions from others in the tower. Some were thankful to him. Others jealous. And there were questions. Too many questions.

  He was one of two reasons she’d decided to leave the Charlton tower. Someone she hated and feared, and another she feared she loved. And now the latter was with her, his proximity causing shivers of a different kind than those caused by Cedric.

  Had the Charlton planned this as a way to keep Robert Howard among the Charltons?

  A stable lad saddled a second horse. The Scot tied bundles to both saddles, then helped her mount Magnus. He passed Audra up to her and mounted his own horse. He led Bess at the end of a rope.

  The day was peerless. The skies were clear, the sun bright, and a gentle breeze cooled them.

  “You really should not be riding this far this soon,” she said.

  “I think I rarely do what I should,” he replied.

  “And if you did, you would be somewhere else far away.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, “but then you might have Cedric escorting you home.”

  “The Charlton would not do that to me.”

  “You thought differently several weeks ago.”

  “He has come to know Cedric better.”

  “Aye, I think he has.”

  He started whistling again. It was maddening. Carefree. When he should be concerned for his life.

  They rode out of the gate and toward the cottage. Bear followed.

  She was silent, though Audra chattered about the various people who had taken turns looking after her. Kimbra had seen little of her, having stayed with the wounded most of the time. Now she relished having her daughter in her arms and the quiet companionship of the Scot.

  For the briefest moment in time, she was content.

  They rode leisurely to the cottage. As promised, two Charltons were there.

  One—Timothy—looked over the path that led to her cottage. Timothy approached them, appraised Robert Howard, and touched his forehead in respect for her. “Gibb’s Geordie is in the stable.”

  “Have you seen anything?” Robert Howard asked.

  “Nay, no one,” Timothy replied. “What news do ye bring?”

  “You heard of the ambush?” Kimbra asked.

  “Aye, word was sent.”

  “Two more men died. Rob’s Sim and Jack Carey. The rest are healing well.”

  “Bastards,” Timothy said. “When are we going to strike back?”

  “Soon enough, I think,” she added.

  “Why is he here?” Timothy nodded toward her companion.

  “The Charlton sent him to accompany me. He saved the Charlton’s life during the ambush. Took a wound himself.”

  “Are we to return?”

  “Nay,” her Scot said. “I will stay only a day or two. The Charlton wants the cottage guarded, and I do not wish to compromise Audra. I will sleep in the stable.”

  Timothy nodded, and they continued on down the path to the cottage and the barn.

  “I will look after the horses and cow,” the Scot said.

  He dismounted and was at her side, lifting Audra down. Then he held out his arms to her, and she slid down into them. He held her for a moment, and heat shimmered between them. His eyes met hers, and she felt devoured by them.

  “I want to help feed them,” Audra said.

  The Scot took a step back. “Aye, I would like the help,” he said.

  “But first you must feed the chickens,” Kimbra said. “Run inside and get the feed.”

  Audra did as she was told, and Kimbra had the first moment free of young ears. “You must go while you can.”

  “With two guards here?”

  “They were not told to keep you here. Ride to Scotland. To Edinburgh. This is th
e best opportunity you will have.”

  “There is no certainty I will find out who I am.”

  “You must try.”

  “Why?”

  “Need you ask? Even if you did save the Charlton’s life, you cannot stay here. Your future would not be his decision. It is the king’s decision.”

  He touched her shoulder. “This is home,” he said simply.

  How much she wanted it to be. “It is not,” she replied harshly. She had to say words that broke her heart. “You do not belong here. This was Will’s cottage, and I do not want you here. You have no right. And the Charlton cannot give it to you.”

  His blue eyes met hers, and she knew he saw the lie for what it was.

  “You will endanger both of us. Is that what you want?”

  “Nay. I want . . . blazes . . . I want you. And Audra. Come to Scotland with me.”

  “I cannot do that. This is my home. It is Audra’s home.” But that was not the real reason. She wanted to trust him, but she knew what was real and what wasn’t. How could she, the widow of an English reiver, go to Scotland with someone obviously a lord? She would be an embarrassment to him, her daughter an oddity. She could never be more than a mistress, and she would not do that.

  He touched her face. “I will not let you go,” he said softly.

  “You are grateful.”

  “I am grateful, and I am in love.”

  “You neglect to mention you may also have a wife.” She turned and almost ran to the cottage before he could catch her. When she reached the door, she looked back.

  The Scot was watching her, his face still. Then he turned with the horses and went to the small stable.

  TIMOTHY and Gibb’s Geordie ate with them as Bear stood watch. Kimbra made oatcakes and served cheese. Neither Timothy nor Geordie had been able to find game.

  At the demand of the two Charltons, the Scot told of the ambush, how the Armstrongs appeared almost out of nowhere.

  “They had to have been told,” Timothy mumbled.

  The Scot did not say anything.

  After grumbling, the two left, one to watch the path that Bear was guarding, and the other to sleep in the stable.

  The Scot stayed as they left. He sang a lullaby for Audra who went to sleep in his arms. He carried her into the bed and laid her there, tenderness softening his face. Kimbra thought how naturally he fathered her daughter, as if he had children of his own.

  He stood, and they were close. Too close. She felt herself leaning toward him, and then his arms were around her. Not burning this time. More as if they simply belonged there. Passion simmered between them, but there was also a peaceful calm, a sense of belonging that, as much as she cared for Will, she’d never known with him.

  My Scot.

  He was that only for a brief time.

  “Come,” he said and took her hand, leading her to the main room. “I have something for you.”

  He released her hand and leaned down to the bundle he had dropped inside the door. He brought out a book and handed it to her.

  “The Charlton gave it to me.”

  She took it in her hands. Felt the rich leather, then the vellum pages. Her eyes feasted on the illuminations inside, the elaborate drawings of animals. They were lovely, glorious pictures. She ran her fingers over a word. “I know these letters,” she said.

  “And before long, you will know all the words,” he said.

  Her heart swelled. It had been the one thing she had always wanted. A treasure. More valuable than jewels.

  She traced the title with her finger.

  “The Thrissill and the Rois,” he said. “’Tis the tale of the marriage of James IV and Margaret Tudor. The Charlton took it in a raid, and he said he had no interest in a Scottish tale.”

  His fingers ran over the book as well, hesitating on the title. She saw a muscle throb in his throat, then he started from the chair.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I am not sure. I did not look at it well when he gave it to me. You were ready to go. But it is familiar. I . . . I know the king and queen. I have been with them. I have seen them dance together. They were in love. And the man who wrote this . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “The man who wrote it?” she prompted. This was what she’d wanted, for him to regain his memory. She wanted it, but she feared it as well.

  “A friend, I think. I . . . blazes, I just have pieces.”

  “You said the Charlton gave it to you?”

  “Aye. He asked me what I wanted, that he owed me a boon. I mentioned a book. I knew you wanted . . .”

  He could have asked for anything, but instead he’d thought only of her. The thought sent frissons of warmth through her, even as she realized that one by one his memories were returning. She would lose him then.

  How can one lose what one has never had?

  She watched intently as expressions changed on his face. He was remembering more. It was like a wall had started to crumble. Each collapse caused others.

  “Who was he?” she asked. “The man who wrote the book?”

  “I do not know. I just see him in my head. A friend . . . I saw him at court. A scribe. More than that . . .” His voice faded away.

  “What else do you remember? When did you see the king and queen dance?”

  He shook his head.

  “You still do not remember your name?”

  “Nay.”

  “If you watched the king dance, then you must be known at court. You can leave tonight. You merely need to go to the Scottish court.”

  “Blazes,” he said. “Why can I remember some things, but not all?”

  “Read the story,” she said. “Mayhap it will bring back more memories.”

  He closed the book and traced his fingers across the title engraved in the leather.

  “You remember the letters I taught you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then you know what this one is.” He pointed to the first letter of the engraved word.

  “Aye, it is a t.”

  He led her through the other letters, and she was pleased she remembered them all. But then she had practiced while he had been gone, drawing them in the ground.

  “The first word is The,” he said. “The t and the h together sound like this.”

  He was a patient teacher even though she knew that memories were knocking at his mind. Nonetheless he sounded each word for her, explaining how the sounds fit together to make words. He led her to read the word thrissill.

  She had not heard the word before.

  “It is a prickly plant with purple flowers that grows in the Highlands,” he said.

  Something else he’d remembered.

  Because of the book?

  What would he remember if she showed him the crest?

  It is too late now. He will no longer trust me if I produce it now. And the need was gone. He was remembering on his own. He would find his home, while the crest remained her only means to protect her daughter.

  The Scot opened the book and started to read.

  “Now fayre, fayrest off every fayre,

  Princes most pleasant and preclare,

  The lustyest one alyve that byne.

  Welcum of Scotland to be Quene.”

  She listened to the tremor and rhythm of his voice. He obviously loved the words. He made her want to love them as well.

  Hours sped by, as he led her word by word, making her sound out each one. Then the letters started running together.

  “’Tis enough for tonight,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. He seemed to do that entirely too often.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Nay, it was my pleasure.”

  She believed him. It was in his voice, in his smile, in the warmth of his eyes. He was a natural teacher.

  “We will continue tomorrow,” he said.

  “You should go.” How many times had she said that? But she’d never meant it less than at this moment. She knew he should go. But her h
eart and soul wanted him to stay.

  “I will sleep in the stable,” he said. “I will not endanger your reputation further.”

  She did not want him to sleep in the stable. She wanted him next to her. She wanted the heat of his body and the comfort of his arms. She wanted so much. Instead, she held out the book to him.

  “Nay, it is yours.”

  She clutched it in her arms. Next to Audra and Magnus, it was her greatest treasure. More important even than the crest hidden above them.

  She could not speak.

  He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek, then straightened. “That, lass, was the most difficult thing I’ve done.”

  “Kiss me?” she asked.

  “Nay, kissing you so primly when I really want to consume you.” His voice was hoarse with wanting.

  She recognized it because she was raging with the same need. But she also knew he was right. They had risked conceiving the other night. The next day she’d realized the reality of that folly. She could barely take care of Audra. What if she were to die in childbirth? What then would happen to her daughter? All those thoughts had plagued her since she left his bed days earlier.

  Never trust a noble. She trusted this man, but could she trust the one emerging from his memories?

  As if he understood her inner turmoil, he took a step back.

  She gave him one of two candlesticks in the room. His hand went over hers for a moment, and the heat from the flames was nothing compared to the heat that exploded between them. She thought the cottage might erupt with it.

  But then he turned and left without another word.

  She placed the book on the table. The candle cast shadows over the printed words and the illuminations as she turned pages. One was of a wedding gown. A picture of a man and woman looking at each other. She saw the love in the look.

  An illusion? Did nobles and royalty marry for love?

  She finally quenched the candle and went into the other room. She undid the laces of her gown and took it off, then, clad in her chemise, lay next to her daughter. She put the book at the end of the bed. She was not going to allow anything to happen to it.

  Read. If he stayed long enough, she would learn to read.

  And he might die.

  He most certainly would tempt her. Even now her body ached with wanting, with remembrance of the night they had coupled.