"Ay, yes, revenge can be sweet!" He stared at Brendan again. The anger left his voice, replaced again by a touch of amusement. "I wasn't, however, suggesting that you should kill the lass. All men must draw a line, you know." "I wasn't intending on an execution." "Aye, then. 'Tis up to you." "She was traveling to a French fiancé" "Then remember her value. And that we are always in need of funds. And greater diplomacy. And that many in the world see us as beasts." "Are you saying that I must treat her as a valued guest?" "The choice is yours, my friend. And bear in mind—I didn't say that it was at all a bad thing that the world sees us as beasts!" He rose, stretching his great length. "I'm for sleep. Eric stays awake by darkness; his woman is with him. I've been offered the comfort of his bed. I accepted—before I had heard you were displaced."
"The men sleep below in close quarters as they have on many a battlefield; I can curl up anywhere and rest. Last night, I slept in a chair. I can do the same again. I have been taught well," he said with a grin. "Still—" "Sir, you've not had near enough peace in your life. You are welcome to the cabin," Brendan assured him. Wallace paused a minute. "Don't be downhearted, and certainly not for me, Brendan. Don't you remember Stirling?" He clenched a fist. "The feel of freedom, the taste of it! We lost at Falkirk, but not so greatly as you might imagine. Aye, we lost good men. But the whole of the country tasted that freedom. They saw the possibilities of what could be. That's why I fight. Even if I die, our people have the taste in their mouths, and that is something that Edward will never be able to take away. It is for Scotland. All for Scotland." "Aye, for Scotland!" Brendan said, and he remembered his own battlefield vows. For Scotland, and for freedom. Goals worth fighting for, in whatever form the battle might take. Goals worth dying for. With a nod, William left him.
She had dozed on and off, but she woke with a strange, uncanny fear. She bolted up, then realized the source of her unease. He was back. A candle burned on the desk. It was a dim light, but bright enough to show the man who stood just inside the doorway, watching her. She had no concept of how long he had stood there, just an acute unease. "So you're alive," he said softly. The words seemed to carry no emotion, as if it made no difference to him whether she survived or perished.
She didn't reply; the answer was evident. She watched him, and he waited for a moment, then ignored her, unwinding the woolen tartan from his shoulders, and hanging it upon a hook by the door. He walked to the desk, picked up the candle, then came toward her. Despite herself, she edged back against the bunk, gritting her teeth. The candle was all but in her face. "What are you doing?" she asked sharply at last, completely unnerved. The fever had left her, like the storm, it had raged and gone. But she still felt weak. Like a kitten with no strength. "They say you are worth a great deal. I'm just trying to see why."
Impatiently, she reached out, thrusting away his hand with which he held the candle. Then she was afraid of her own action; she might have knocked the candle from his hand and caused a fire. But she didn't knock the candle aside, and he didn't seem angered or bothered by her action. He returned to the desk, setting the candle down. Then he took the chair at the desk, leaned back, and stared at her. "What are you doing, and why are you here?" "This is my place aboard this ship." "Indeed. Then why am I here?" "It's a large and excellently crafted ship, but even aboard the Wasp, Lady, there are only so many places where ... a guest might be kept. Especially an unwilling one who might enjoy a cold swim in the middle of the night." "Guest? I am a prisoner." "Prisoner—guest. Sometimes there is little difference." "Pirates, murderers—Scotsmen. Sometimes there is little difference."
She couldn't see him well in the candlelight, but she was sure his features tightened. He shrugged. ' 'The same, and far worse, could be said of the English." The depth of his tone assured her she wanted to go no further in that direction, and yet it seemed she had no choice but to meet his gaze, and converse with him. She shook her head, still weary, and angry that she should feel so weak when she wanted so badly to have all her wits about her to fight. "Have you come just to torment me?" she demanded. He arched his brows. "Am I tormenting you?" She didn't reply. She wished that she had. He stood and walked to her side, sitting on the bunk next to her, his eyes very intent. "Am I tormenting you?" he repeated. "Aye, that you are!" "Well, good. I didn't think it would be so easy." "You're very cruel—" "You nearly killed me. When I had given you mercy." "We were on a battlefield." "And I might have been buried there." "That is long ago now—"
"And you are the lady to the manor born, flying across the seas into the arms of the rich and noble lord who would be her husband!" "Yes." "Alas! There's a small fly in the ointment. Hies. Pirates, murderers—and Scotsmen." "Would you please—" "Aye?" "Leave me be." "Ah. Show you mercy?" "Yes, if—" "I showed you mercy once before." "Indeed!" she flared suddenly. "So take care—I am crafty and cunning and enormously talented with a sword, and you can easily be buried at sea!" A slow, rueful smile was curling his lips. He leaned toward her. "You don't look so dangerous now!" he said softly. "You are a wretched creature, even for a Scot!" she told him. "I've been ill ..." "Very ill," he agreed. "Go away." "Nay, I think not." She lay back, closing her eyes. "What is it, then? My value does not appear so great. I have been very ill, burning with fever. I must be pathetic, hardly appealing—" "Not in the least," he assured her pleasantly. Her eyes flew open again. He was still wearing a small, subtle smile. His eyes widened and his face lowered toward hers. "Maybe I feel that tormenting you ... in any way ... is my sacred duty!" His face was close, very close. She should be longing to strike him. And she did, naturally. But she also held her breath, closing her eyes again, strange rivulets of fire tearing through her while she rued the wild tangles in her hair, the certain pallor of her cheeks.
She opened her eyes. He was still there. Unnerved, she cried out in anger, attempting to strike him. "Leave me—" "Nay, lady, nay!" He caught her flying hand. His eyes never left hers. She trembled, gritting her teeth despite herself. "It's my place aboard this vessel. I intend to sleep here." She sucked in her breath. "But—" "I slept here last night as well." "What? Oh, you are wretched. So it's your duty to torment me? Then go ahead. Be aware, of course, that a tarnished heiress is not worth nearly so much as a pure piece of property, that you risk the anger of the French king—" "The anger of the French king? Are you that valuable?" he marveled, and she knew that he was mocking her. "Aye," she informed him icily. "Imagine that, lass!" His eyes skimmed down her length. "Who would have thought ..." His tone was light, but then his blue shadowed gaze met hers once again. "And what of the English king, m'lady. Do we risk his anger?"
"That goes without saying," she informed him, fighting for calm and control. "Good," he said, dropping her hand, rising. "I may be forced to greater lengths than I had thought." She lay silent, wishing she had a sword at the moment— and two strong English soldiers to hold him down while she cut him up, since she wasn't quite so confident in her own abilities. He walked to the desk, found the carafe upon it, and poured himself water. He drank it reflectively, then took the chair once again, propping his feet up on the wood and leaning back. "I'm sure you'll improve as the illness passes," he mused. She wanted to throw something at him. She realized that she had just been told she wasn't appealing enough to be ravaged. Thank God, you idiot! Shut up and keep it that way! she implored herself.
But she couldn't seem to do so. "DearGod!" she exclaimed. "Surely, the illness has wasted me tragically, since I've heard that your people are exceedingly fond of even sheep!" He had closed his eyes; he opened one, eyeing her casually. "The sheep usually look a lot better," he told her. "I do then," she whispered, "most heartily thank the Lord for good-looking sheep!" She managed to turn on her side, staring into the wall of the cabin, stunned that she could have gotten into such a discussion with this, of all men. A second later she nearly screamed, and almost leaped from her skin. No sound had warned her of his presence, not the slightest whisper of air. But he was there, by her side, whispering into her ear.
Chapter 4
Corbin Clarin had just sat down to a breakfast of delicious baked fish and fresh bread when the storm swept back into his life. Petite, dark-haired, sharp-featured, Isobel was attractive— as a deadly viper might be. She preferred London to Clarin, or even the great castle at York, perhaps because the Scots had been known to venture so far, or perhaps because she simply enjoyed the amusements to be had in London far more than the monotony of the north country.
Corbin loved London himself, but he despised his wife, and he dreaded waking each morning among the king's court to wonder with just which courtier she had spent the previous night. He had long ago learned to find his own quest for love— or the pretense of affection—elsewhere.
She walked into the great hall unannounced, drawing her gloves from her hands as she did so. "Miles!" I have come miles, and there is no one to greet me!" she said, striding across the room to him. Corbin leaned back, but didn't rise. He folded his arms over his chest.
"Had we but known, my dear, we could have thrown flowers before your feet! Alas, you sent no word of your arrival." Flowers? Had he known, he would surely have found some business to be about elsewhere. God knew, Edward nominally held Scotland now, but the whole of the country lay in Scottish hands, few of the southern castles were even under his control, and the unruly barons were always attacking somewhere, begging the king's pardon, running back with their tails between their legs, and failing to support one another in their fear that they should support the wrong man to take the crown—if Edward should ever tire of his subjugation.
Ah, yes! There were always Scots to fight somewhere! She tossed her gloves on the table and stared at him with sharp dark eyes. "I should like some wine after my long journey. I am parched." He rose, bowing to her with mockery, and approached the sideboard to supply her with a silvered glass of the requested beverage. He mused over the wine service as he poured. Venetian glass, beautiful. She had brought it to Clarin, part of her dowry.
He handed her the wine. She nodded her head in acknowledgment, her fingers brushing his in a way that was oddly suggestive for Isobel. They had married at a time when Clarin had still been great, when his uncle Leo still lived, and when the lands were not just vast, but rich. He and Alfred had expected to reap the rewards of titles stripped from defeated rebels and lands generously bestowed upon them by the uncle who had raised them, a just and giving man. She had brought wealth; he had brought valor. They should have been a beautiful couple.
The Scots had changed all that.
He poured himself wine and lifted his cup to his wife.
"To Wallace," he said with dry humor.
"One day that monster will justly burn!" she said. "He will suffer the greatest penalty that the law will allow, and when that day comes—"
"You will be there, watching, enjoying every bloodthirsty moment!"
She arched a brow, then pouted slightly. "You would call me bloodthirsty, when your beloved little cousin led more men into battle than you did yourself?"
"Not by choice."
Isobel turned away from him, looking about the room. "Fine tapestries."
"A gift from the Flemish villagers."
"Ah, for Santa Lenora!"
"Isobel, is there a point to this conversation?"
"Just that saints are better off dead."
"So are rabid bitches," he remarked smoothly.
She didn't take offense. "Where is Alfred?" she inquired, looking about. "Poor, dear, long-suffering Alfred. Riding expanses of land that will never be his!"
He stared at her without replying.
"Well, where is he?"
"Riding expanses of land that will never be his," Corbin answered.
She smiled. "And Eleanor has been packed off to France, there to meet her aged betrothed!"
"Aye," he murmured carefully.
"Well, then I shall stay awhile."
He arched a brow sharply. "Whatever for?"
"To spend time with my husband, of course."
"Why?" he demanded flatly.
"Eleanor is crossing the Irish Sea ... my lord, you fool! Have you no idea of the dangers? The king has offered large sums to any seaman who brings in rebel Scots seeking aid in other countries, and dozens of pirates and misfits, murderers and thieves have joined in the quest!" Isobel took a seat at the table, loosening the tie of her traveling cloak. ' 'Poor dear, she may not come back. And then, of course, should she reach France, she will wed Alain, is that correct? And there, I've no doubt, go her chances of creating the required male heir for the property."
Corbin walked over to her, planting his hands on the table before her. "You'd best pray that she does reach Alain; his fortune is necessary if we are ever to regain the riches of Castle Clarin, and turn the land back into a productive region. And though Alain may be old and doddering, many an old man has fathered a child."
"I don't believe he is capable; his first wife had children by a previous marriage. She was still very young when they wed. No, I have studied this situation carefully." She drew a finger idly over the flesh of his hand before her. "Doesn't it ever irritate you that Eleanor is a countess, and that you are Sir Corbin Clarin, and no more? Have you no ambition?"
"Aye, once, Isobel, I thought to conquer the world and make my own way within it. Then life happened. Ah, yes, and you are a part of that life!"
"Yes, I am."
"My dear, I've yet to understand your point." We can inherit." "Isobel, Eleanor is the lady of this manor, and if she were not, I have an older brother, one who actually works hard, and is deserving." "Ah, yes, but he has no wife, no prospects before him, and ...""Isobel, I am still confused. Nothing has changed." "Ah, but things have changed!" She rose, placing a hand on his chest. She had her talents. She chewed mint constantly, and her breath was as sweet as the morning dew. Her perfume was delicate and arousing. Her exploits were humiliating to a husband, but they had taught her keen talents in bed as well. She was charming, sharp, shrewd, and had earned a place at the king's court. He hesitated, wishing to put her away from him, but intrigued as well.
"What has changed? Have you decided upon some foul play for my richer relations?" he inquired harshly. "No!" she protested with deep innocence, and her fingers played down the length of his chest, and lower still, and he grit his teeth, staring at her. "No, dear, how could you suggest such a thing? I've merely thought that the time has come when someone produce an heir for the property, and with Eleanor at sea, where there are Scots, thieves, pirates, and opportunists all about, that leaves ... us."
"Alfred could marry." "Alfred has shown no inclination to do so yet. Alfred is called to battle far too frequently." "I, too, remain at the king's command." "That is true. More and more so every day."
"I see. So you've decided to come see me, and hope that we can conveniently and quickly conceive an heir—die quicker the better, because marital relations with one's husband can be so boring, and because that same husband might be so rude as to die upon the battlefield in the king's command?" She smiled, spinning from him, pulling pins from her hair, dropping them on her path to the staircase. She paused, turning back. "Are relations with your wife such a ghastly thing to contemplate, Corbin? Dear husband, just what is it that I'm asking of you? Nothing more than your marital duty—and a chance for your son to inherit all."
He started toward the staircase, pausing, looking up at her. "And what, my dear, if we are not so magnificently fertile? We have been married some time, and God knows, my lady, as does all of England, that you've not been exactly devoted and faithful." "But intelligent and able, my love. We've not borne fruit, because I'
ve chosen thus far that we should not. Really, Corbin, I'd not have you—or the king or the nobility—question the paternity of my child! The time has come!" "But if it hasn't, Isobel, what then?"
"Then, husband, I will have entertained and enraptured you, and none shall feel pain." She frowned, reaching down, gently touching his face and suddenly looking very small and very beautiful. "We have led separate lives. What I ask is not so much, is it?" Her voice had grown husky, and indeed, she asked nothing but, for a change, to be his wife. His lover. He so seldom trusted her. But they were here, in his family home. And the length of him burned with a fire of long submerged desire unique to this woman. "Most men would be attacking me where we stand, on the stairs!" she reminded him with a whisper that seemed to stroke the length of him, inside and out. Amazing what a voice could do, a look, a touch.
"Aye, that they would," he agreed. He threw up his hands. "As you wish! Dear God, my aim is to please." And he swept her into his arms and carried her quickly up to his room. The stairs wouldn't do at all. His brother would return, and he didn't intend to be interrupted for hours and hours to come. Such opportunities did not come frequently in his life. They were still at sea. In the two nights since their encounter after the storm, Eleanor had seen little of the man with whom she shared the cabin. He came, she knew, because there were traces of him. Once, the length of tartan, left on the hook. Once, a horn of ale left on the desk. Then a book, left lying open. And once ... just an impression of him. A feeling that he had stood near her, looking down at her while she slept.
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