For a moment, she just stared at Helene, wanting to argue, knowing she had all the right words and protestations, but unable to find them. "It is not that I am not free," she said at last. "I am responsible to the country of my birth, and to people of my small part of that country. They have suffered heavily in this war we have waged with the Scots, and most of them are innocent of any wrongdoing against anyone. They seek livelihoods, a way to feed their children, to live, and so much has been decimated—" "And you will marry the Count de Lacville, and your people will live happily ever after," Helfcne murmured. "I have chosen to marry the count," she said quietly. Anne-Marie let out a loud sniff at last. "Ah, yes! In lieu of a monster, so it is said!"
"You really don't begin to understand—" Eleanor protested again. "We understand perfectly," H61dne said. "You are very noble, and very rich, and if you don't make such an advantageous match, then Longshanks will step in and take the matter from the hands of your family—such as they are!" "There you go, hinting again!" Eleanor said. 'Tell me—" "Countess! I am freezing!" Anne-Marie interrupted. "We must get back in the house." "You must tell me—" "You must ask Brendan." "Look, please! I don't understand—" Helene interrupted with a deep sigh. "You must ask Brendan." "I shall." She hurried on into the house ahead of them, walking straight to her room.
He should have stayed away. Brendan knew it. The king's messenger, Count Breslieu, was arriving soon with a welcome and an escort from Philip. They had all known that news of their arrival would reach Paris quickly; today Wallace had sent a personal message to the king. All was in good order: despite the current "peace" the French were enjoying with the English, Philip would prove his independence at any given chance. He was not Edward's lackey.
He should have stayed away. He could not change the situation. Nor could he stay away. When he arrived, Anne-Marie advised him that Eleanor was in her room. He walked up the stairs, saw the closed door, and considered knocking. He tapped lightly in warning, but did not wait for her to bid him to enter. He opened the door, closing it behind him.
She stood by the window, magnificent in soft blue. She had worn no wimples, veils, or headdress of any kind since her arrival, and she did not do so now. The sun in the rectangle o: the window cast a glow upon her and the bound length of he hair down her back seemed in glory. Her features were defined regal, beautiful. His breath caught in his throat; for all his strength in his muscles, they trembled. What had one night done, he wondered bleakly, to a warrior, an outlaw, and a commoner? She knew he was there. She did not turn to him. He walked to where she stood by the window. He didn't touch her. "I warned you: no regrets," he said, and the words were far more harsh than he had intended. She looked at him at last, her eyes grave. "I have none." "The king is aware—" "I know." "So you are safe; you will soon be where you meant to be when you started out across the sea." "Yes, I know."
"Thank God. I had thought you were contemplating the possibilities of flying out the window." A small smile touched her lips. "No." Then she turned to face him squarely. "No regrets. But I am weary of whatever it is that your people whisper about behind my back." He stepped away from her, walking to the hearth with a pretense of warming his hands at the blaze. "If you don't wish to talk to me, sir, you are welcome to depart." His back, to her, stiffened. Ah, yes, there she was—the countess. The noble lady, the tone of voice, the absolute expectation. He turned back to her. "My lady, don't use such a tone with me." "I have suffered much at your hands. My tone is of little consequence." "You've suffered?" he inquired.
She had the grace to blush, but she did not look away. "I have every intention of talking to you. And to Count de Lacville." "What?" she said sharply, and he was certain that the breath was caught in her lungs, that a certain fear crossed her eyes. "De Longueville was paid in Liverpool to go after your ship. Specifically." "I beg your pardon?" "I held such information from you when I deemed that it might be exaggerated, or even a lie. But since you will marry de Lacville and return to Clarin, you must be aware of the dangers you face." "Sir—" "You have enemies, my lady." "You are saying that someone paid de Longueville to come after me? To what end?" "Your disappearance." "That is a bald-faced lie!" "De Longueville had no reason to lie." "If I have enemies, sir, they are the Scots. The people who slaughtered innocents on hereditary estates, and those against whom I took up arms." "De Longueville had no reason to lie." "De Longueville is a rogue and a pirate—" "Out for gain, my lady, not murder." "Oh? And did he intend to murder me?" she inquired scathingly. "No. He probably wasn't sure of his intent. Being a pirate— and a businessman—he would have considered his situation and realized that he would make much more by delivering you to Alain de Lacville and receiving payment from both ends. Then again, a good pirate knows how to sail many seas. You might have spent your days in the company of Moslem infidels. A woman with such coloring as yours is a prized treasure among many a good harem."
She stared at him incredulously, then walked to the door, opening it. "Go, Sir Brendan." He leaned against the hearth, crossing his arms over his chest. "You asked for the truth. I have given it to you. You are in danger from your own people." She shook her head. "No. You don't understand. While I remained at home, unwed, I was the least threat to anyone in my family! If I die childless, the property reverts—" "We both know that when the situation came to the king's attention, he would have found a husband for you. Again, a countess with hereditary lands ... still young, in her child- bearing years, not just retaining all her teeth but an ethereal beauty as well... Edward is no fool. He would have pondered long and hard and chosen for you, had he not approved a marriage to the very rich Frenchman de Lacville!"
She still stood staring at him, fiercely angry. "My cousins are not just good men, strong knights for the king's service, but they are men of honor and integrity as well." "Is this argument for me, or yourself?" he inquired. "It is no argument. I state fact." "As I have done." "Will you please get out?" He walked from the hearth to her at last. Closer. He could breathe her in. He was almost touching her. Not quite. She flattened against the wall. The door remained open. Staring down at her, listening to the ragged intake of her breath and all but certain that he could hear the pounding of her heart, he closed the door. She stared into his eyes. "I will warn Count Alain de Lacville, of course." "He will laugh at you." "Will he?" "He knows my family." "He is an intelligent man." "You have mocked him for being old." "He is old—but intelligent." She lowered her lashes, then her head. He caught her chin with his forefinger, drawing her eyes back to his. "We haven't much time." "You are a liar. A liar, a trickster, a monster—a Scot." "The last, most definitely." "You are the most horrid and despicable man I have ever met." Her breath was coming faster. "I do apologize for that," he said. "We are what we are, and none of what I am could I change, would I change." "I—you ..." "And none of what you are would I change in any way, my lady, for you are a simple taste of beauty, and perfection."
"I still hate you. Absolutely. Completely. You are a monster. A Scot." "You have made the words synonymous." "And so they are." "Such might be, and has been, said of the English." "I loathe you." "Shall I really leave?" "No." "Because it is my turn, you see. I want tonight. I want you. I will remain a Scot. An outlaw. A monster. But Paris is close. Too close. So tonight ..." He lowered his head. Found her lips. They were sweet, tasting of soft mint. Warm, wet, seductive. He was a fool. No matter. Might as well burn in hell for this as well as his other sins. He cradled her chin, tasting her ;lips first, savoring the breath of sweetness, then ravaging her mouth with the evocative weapon of his tongue, hungering to the depths of his soul. He could not drink enough of her to fill himself. He was intoxicated by the scent, the feel, the taste. His fingers feathered over her neck; his lips followed them there. Her clothing seemed the greatest barrier, a bastion like a stone wall, and he fumbled with the multitude of ties that held her tunic at her side. The gown she wore beneath was laced at the back and he swore inwardly, praying that he didn't push too hard as he twirled her about,
fumbling again with linen ties that seemed hopelessly entangled in the length of her hair. Seconds seemed like eons, but the ties were freed, and she was again in his arms, and she rose on her toes to meet him this time, the length of her pressed hard against him, the fullness of her breasts and anguish of seduction against his chest, her hips against his groin, creating an eruption of hunger, raw longing, anticipation. His fingers stroked the sleek nakedness of her back, entangled into the unbound web of her hair. His kiss seared her lips again, her throat, the hollow there, fixed upon the firmness of her breast, focusing upon the hardened peak of her nipple, drawing, sucking, tasting, until she cast her head back, crying out.
He lifted her then; set her upon the bed, his eyes never leaving hers. He would not forget this. For she stared up at him with no inhibition, leaned up as he caught each of her fine shoes and cast them aside, then looked away at last, showing her ankles, her calves, and then the soft inner flesh of her thighs as he drew away the finely knitted hose she wore. He looked at her then, and her eyes met his, and her heart seemed to flutter like a bird's. He pressed his advantage, parting her thighs, burying himself within her intimately, with strokes of the tongue that teased and seduced, drawing her forth, giving no quarter and no mercy, until she called his name. His name. He rose atop her, barely able to deal with the closures of his own apparel, and not at all able to pull it all from himself and cast it aside. He was within her, moving with a speed he fought to control, obsessed, desperate, longing to be forever where he was, gloved within the woman, yet all too aware that his own seduction of her had sent him spiraling toward a fierce and violent climax. He struggled; he fought. To have more, to give more. But she came with him. Flew where he flew. Touched the raw earth, sweated, panted, writhed. And again ... cried out.
He gritted his teeth, jackknifed his body. Erupted. The relief that filled his body was blinding, the warmth engulfing. He'd known his share of women—such was a warrior's fate, and perhaps his reward. And sometimes, his death. He'd known women. None like this. Men would rut where men would rut, so was the philosophy, often, of those on the run. Like food, sustenance, breathing. All were alike in the dark. But not her. Not this woman he would return to, a moral, ethical, noble, and ancient noble at that, but one he admired, and worse. Liked. He fell by her side, but not away from her. Never away, when the time ticked so quickly by. She breathed deeply, breasts rising and falling quickly, flesh damp and glimmering in the glow of firelight. She turned into him, burrowing against his chest. "Perhaps I don't hate you. Just who you are, and what you stand for." He stroked her hair. "You can hate a man for standing for freedom?" he asked her quietly.
"Why do you think that the king's men are not free? Why don't you do as many a Scotsman has done; swear allegiance to Edward, serve him, receive his benefits as Englishmen do—" His hand froze, then his fingers threaded into her hair, forcing her face upward, that he might meet her eyes. "Because I am not an Englishman." "But half of your country—" "My country is afraid." "I'm so afraid that you will die!" she whispered, and he lost the spiral of anger that had been building within him, and he realized he held her hair too tightly. "So shall we all," he said. "But—" "How can you have seen what you have in these days gone by, talked with Wallace, a man willing to risk far more than death, for nothing but freedom, and not understand?" "As you have said, one man's freedom is not another's. I saw what was done to my people. I smelled the horrid, pathetic scent of human flesh—roasting. What, sir, have you to say to that?"
"I was not there. Nor was Wallace. To condemn any people for the cruelty wrought in a war of defense—'' "You would do so!" He clenched his teeth, aware that she rose over him, stared down at him, eyes luminous, hair a fan over her breasts that was far more a tease than a shield." I would have peace for the moment." "But—" "Even France and England have called a truce!" He rolled her over suddenly. "Are you capable of peace?" "Of course. But—" "Are you capable of quiet?" he demanded. Before she could answer, he halted her comments with the fierce pressure of his lips, the assault of his tongue. Soft, muffled sounds escaped her. He lifted himself from her. "Well, not exactly quiet!" she told him.
"Your mouth—" "Can be occupied in other ways!" she assured him. And then she showed him. Oh ... ' She showed him. The soft flick of her tongue was a liquid aphrodisiac, saturating his flesh, rendering his muscle to tar, then to steel. She moved over him, moved ever so slightly hesitant, then bolder, and bolder. She teased with her lips and tongue, her touch, the stroke of her hair. Here, there ... still, teasing, until the blood in him threatened to boil. She teased. He prayed. She settled down lower; her sudden aggression rang a hoarse cry from his lips. He thanked God for the simple moments in life. He forgot there was a God. Then he lost what control he had, reaching her, lifting her, bringing her down upon him ... Thundering into the night. There was no thought then. Not until later, much later. And then his thought was, God, I cannot bear this. But the reply could not change. God, I must.
And curled against him, later still, she whispered, "You know that I do not hate you, nor do I even hate Wallace. But you are still my enemy." Enemy, monster, outlaw, Scot. He rolled her back to him. "Not tonight, my lady. Not tonight." She opened her mouth. But for once ... She did not argue.
Chapter 9
With Helene supervising, the servants had created a veritable feast. Though it was winter, there were preserved vegetables. There were many kinds of fish, dried meats, wines. Theirs was a simple house on the outskirts of the city by the docks, but when they chose, they could create a meal to vie with that of the greatest manor. Eleanor had not yet come down. Brendan sat at the table between William and Eric, unaware that he had been brooding until Eric elbowed him roughly. "Brendan. More wine?" "Aye, that I will," he responded, smiling at H61£ne who had been waiting for his reply. More wine was poured into his cup. Then he realized that William was watching him, and had probably been doing so for some time. "The escort comes tomorrow," William said. "I am aware of that." "Are you? Do you remember that we are outlaws?" Brendan tried not to scowl. "I am aware of that as well." "Are you?" "Indisputably." Wallace watched him still. "We face swords and arrows and therein great danger, but that is to the flesh. I would not see you hurt, lost within your soul."
"Hurt?" he inquired, staring hard at Wallace in return. He shook his head. "I am aware that I am a commoner, knighted on the field of battle, but a commoner still. An outlaw in the eyes of the English king. And I never forget the cause, William." "Really?" William said, smiling slightly. "I do at times. I think of how I would love a home, land to till, children to watch, scold, train, raise into manhood. Sometimes ... sometimes I want life more than any quest." "You could have all those things. You are welcome here; Philip would gladly give you land and a house. The Norse king would just as gladly welcome you there and give you land—" "But they could not give me a home, for their land is not my land," William said. "And the children I would raise would not have the father I would wish to be." "You said—"
"I said that I am human. I have lost a woman I loved with all my heart, but there are still times now when I see a certain face, hear the softness of a woman's voice, and think of what might have been. The moments come—and the moments pass. That's not to say a man should not accept anything from life. Or that I will not marry again. But you, young friend, have strayed into dangerous territory." Brendan lifted his wine, and leaned close to Wallace. "It is you who said that the prisoner was mine." "Aye. But then, she is no longer our prisoner, is she?" "I am aware of that." "By tomorrow, perhaps, we will ride for Paris." "And that is tomorrow, isn't it?" Wallace studied him gravely, then agreed with a shrug. "Aye. That is tomorrow."
Eleanor chose that moment to come down. She was elegant in soft ochre and gold, a gown with long flowing sleeves. She moved with grace and fluidity, but despite her noble bearing, there was an easy smile on her lips when H61&ne greeted her at the foot of the stairs, and when she entered the hall, he was surprised to see that she even had a pleasant nod
for Wallace as he rose to greet her. "My lady," he said, bowing to her. "Sir William," she returned, politely inclining her head as well. He moved his hand with a flourish, inviting her to sit. "You're aware that an escort is coming, and that we'll be traveling to Paris." "I am." "Then you'll be pleased to realize that you need make no more deadly attempts to escape our company." "Aye." "The accommodations may not have been what you are accustomed to, but this house is our best offering."
She smiled. "Sir William, are you afraid of what I might say to the king?" "My lady, I'm afraid of the day that I may be torn limb from limb, and meet my maker. But as to what you choose to say ... that is entirely your own concern." Her smile deepened. "You mean that, don't you?" "Indeed." She raised the cup before her. "To you, sir. I shall be sorry on that day when they do tear you limb from limb." Wallace laughed, seeming to feel it was his turn. "You mean that, don't you?" he inquired. "Indeed, Sir William, I do." At that moment, composed, serene, so regal, she slipped. Her eyes moved down the table, and touched Brendan's. He was startled by the sudden depth of pain in them. And the innocence, the loss, the vulnerability. What you perceive as such! he reminded himself. Yet he smiled, slowly, returning her gaze. Wallace's words haunted him. Hurt to the soul. He did wish to give up his prisoner.
"My lady!" Margot, who had been seated at the side of Eric, rose, smiling with pleasure to see Eleanor again. Eleanor rose again as well. The two left the table to come together, meeting with an embrace. "So you are part of this treachery!" Eleanor scolded. "Only in that I feared you intended to jump from the ship, and gave warning," Margot told her. "When I knew that you were safe in our keeping. And all is well, is it not? Aye, Brendan decided on something of a trick, but... you could have gotten yourself into grave danger!"
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