His Border Bride

by Blythe Gifford

  These lessons would protect her virtue and her reputation. They would keep her safe.

  They would keep her from losing anyone ever again.

  She crossed the courtyard towards the darkened mews, wishing she could afford to keep lights burning there as she knew the kings did. Yet she paused, fingers on the door.

  It was too late to visit. She would only disturb the sleeping birds.

  ‘You’ve been left alone early. Where’s the Frenchman?’

  Her heart skipped at Fitzjohn’s voice.

  A soft glow spilled from behind the shutters of the servants’ quarters at the top of the tower, throwing a faint light on his face.

  ‘Alain went in.’ He need not have asked. They must have passed on the stairs. She started back to the tower. ‘I was just going to bed.’

  He fell into step beside her, clucking his disapproval. ‘And by yourself.’

  ‘I don’t like what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘That a woman might want to spend her nights with her man? That’s no insult.’

  ‘In your mouth, it sounds that way.’ Yet he seemed to know she had waited for a kiss that never came. ‘I am a woman of virtue.’ So she prayed, hating Fitzjohn for making her feel as though she were something different.

  ‘I’m not sure you’ve had enough experience to know what kind of woman you are, Mistress Clare. I’d be happy to help you find out.’

  ‘I would rather be dead.’ She regretted the words as soon as she spoke. A folly to speak lightly of death. Both of them had seen too much of it.

  There was a long silence before he answered, ‘Well, you’re very much alive tonight and you could live any one of a number of ways if you choose.’

  ‘You offend me.’

  ‘Is it offensive to know what I think and say it?’

  ‘It is offensive to imply that I would be so reckless as to listen to your lewd suggestions.’

  There was that smile again. The one that said I know what you refuse to admit. ‘And you’re never reckless.’

  ‘I cannot afford to be reckless. Not with my birds, my brew, or my reputation.’

  He flinched and she realised she had returned his insult. He could be careless with his reputation, for he had none to lose.

  ‘You ought to try it sometime. Try mounting that big horse of yours and ride across the hills, so fast the wind snatches the breath out of your chest.’ He moved closer, snatching away her breath as she stood. ‘And when you can breathe again, howl at the moon.’

  How did he know she had ridden just that way? How could he sense that she craved…something? Something that would put everything she wanted at risk?

  She struggled to speak through a ragged breath. ‘Why would I do such a thing? It would only frighten the horse, panic the bird and curdle the brew.’

  ‘Then try more quiet pleasures.’ He grabbed her hand, his palm warm and tempting on hers, then he bent close, whispering in her ear, ‘Let’s go search for a needle in the tall grass.’

  He was so close she was afraid he could hear her heart whisper do it, just to see how it feels.

  She pulled back and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘You mistake me for Euphemia. That is not in my nature.’ But she was afraid, now, that she lied.

  ‘How do you know unless you try?’

  ‘I know myself.’ Or she knew who she must be. ‘And I know men like you. You may fool my father, Fitzjohn, but you don’t fool me.’

  ‘I don’t fool your father a bit. I think he knows exactly what I am.’

  ‘You and he are two of a kind. Rude rascals, both of you.’

  ‘Unlike your French friend?’

  She stiffened. It was true. Alain did not belong here. Well, neither did she. ‘I won’t allow you to disparage him, too.’

  ‘I didn’t. I said he was nothing like me. Besides, a knight can defend his own honour.’

  ‘But he’s not here to defend himself.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Or me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to defend. For either of you. I respect you. I even respect him. He’s got wonderful manners and can make pretty speeches that King Jean le Bon would applaud. I might even envy that chateau that’s been in his family for five generations.’ His tone was teasing, as if manners, honour and family were trifles. ‘But if you are saving yourself for him, you’ll be waiting a long, long time.’

  The accusation jolted her. Did he know something she’d only feared?

  No. No. He would ask for her. He must. ‘You’ve no right to speak so. Our future is between Alain and me.’

  Gavin took her arm and swung her towards his chest. ‘If it had been me, I wouldn’t have left ’til dawn.’

  The coarse words grabbed her more tightly than his hand. ‘If it had been you, you would have spent a long, cold night alone.

  He lowered his head, lips too close. ‘Would I?’

  Just an inch more and she would have the kiss she had wanted. Rich, hard and deep.

  Everything stopped. Breath. Heart. Thoughts.

  His lips, firm and warm, met hers.

  A rush of feeling, strong as the wind, scooped her away from earth.

  Struggling to cling to the ground, she braced against the onslaught, telling herself she fought against him.

  She did not.

  She fought against herself.

  Arms, legs, lips—she stiffened them all, fearing that if she didn’t, all the lust locked inside would roar forth and she would be exposed as no better than the lowest limmer he’d ever bedded.

  A rough laugh broke the spell and they stepped apart.

  Arms around each other, her father and Murine teased each other as they came out of the tower. Clare tried to hide in the shadows, but they didn’t look around as they walked to Murine’s cottage.

  Again tonight her father would sleep in her bed instead of his own.

  ‘Yes,’ Clare said, drawing a shaky breath. ‘You will sleep alone. And so will I.’

  ‘Don’t wait too long.’ He, too, was struggling to breathe and his smile had disappeared. ‘Life is short.’

  She knew that better than most. Had her mother ever howled at the moon or ridden faster than a falcon before she died? Was there a side of her mother that a child could not understand?

  That only a husband could know?

  ‘Yes. Too short to waste an evening with you. Goodnight.’

  His smile returned, quickly as if a gust of wind had blown the darkness away. ‘Don’t be afraid of your dreams, Mistress Clare.’

  She ran into the tower, gripped by a desire to live. To ride, wild and dangerous in the dark. To fly like the falcons.

  To lie with a man.

  No recollected lessons could crush those urges, urges that had stayed safely dormant until now.

  Too late to discover that Fitzjohn’s irreverent views could taint her, as they had Angus and Euphemia. Yet tonight, she felt as if she had been hoarding her life like a squirrel who refused to eat an acorn all summer because he feared that winter would come.

  What happened when the squirrels died before winter? All those lost acorns they had buried just rotted in the ground.

  A man’s booted step gained on her as she climbed the twisting stairs. She turned, wanting, fearing, to see Fitzjohn again.

  Instead, her father climbed behind her.

  ‘I thought you’d gone to the cottage,’ she said.

  ‘Needed to talk with me girl. Was that Fitzjohn with you?’

  He would notice, of course. ‘We simply said goodnight.’

  ‘Where’s the Frenchman?’

  She glanced up towards the family floor, where Alain had a room. ‘Getting a good night’s sleep, I presume.’

  ‘Alone?’

  Of course, she thought at first. Then had to speak the truth. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Well why not, girl? Has he had you yet?’

  ‘Da!’

  ‘No, of course not. I should have known. Well, I let you two alone long enough. The time has
come. The man must speak, one way or another.’

  Her hand touching the stone wall for balance, she looked behind her as she mounted the winding stairs, afraid her father would stumble. ‘Is that the only thing you can think of to talk to me about?’

  She lowered her voice as they climbed past the darkened kitchen and on to the next floor, where the men-at-arms lay sleeping in the Hall. ‘Do you never want to know anything about me, what I want, who I am? I’m quite a good falconer. Even Neil says so. You drink my brew and sleep under blankets I’ve woven and never ask a question about how all this came to be. Did you treat my mother the same way?’

  His face sagged, sorrowful, as they reached the third level and she regretted her angry tongue.

  ‘I’m not here to talk about her,’ he said, stepping on to the floor. ‘I’m here to talk about you. And my grandchildren.’

  She looked at the door to the comte’s chamber, thankful to hear a snore. ‘That’s all we ever talk about.’

  ‘And that’s all I will talk about until you do something about it!’ He braced himself against the stone wall as if the climb, or the anger, had tired him.

  ‘Are you all right, Da? Here, lean on me.’

  He pulled away when she reached for his arm. ‘Just tired,’ he snapped. They had reached the door to his room and he stood straight again, but he let her lead him to his chair. ‘Some day, I won’t be here, you know.’

  He said it, she knew, to raise her guilt, yet he played to her worst fear. ‘That can’t be. You’re too stubborn.’ He had fought in wars all her life, yet like a child, she had thought that since God had taken her mother, He would not leave her fatherless, too.

  ‘I want to see you married, both you girls, before I depart this life. Now Euphemia, she’ll marry the first man who asks her and ride off to who knows where and have a gaggle of children and grow fat.’

  Clare frowned. ‘I do not care what Euphemia does and I don’t know why you do either.’

  She knew his teasing smile and his cantankerous temper, but this expression was new. Sombre.

  ‘Ah, daughter. Some day you’ll learn to forgive yourself as well as others.’

  Startled, she studied his face. Did he know, then, all the blame she had heaped on his head for her lonely years? For Murine?

  Did he know how she scolded herself for every misstep on the path Alain’s mother had taught her? For tonight, most of all?

  Her expression must have been answer enough. His face softened. ‘I want to see you settled. You and the lands you’ll carry.’

  ‘I know you do, Da.’

  ‘You may know it, but you’ve done nothing about it! I’ll speak to the man if I must.’

  ‘No!’ She flinched, thinking of the embarrassment. ‘He will speak in his own time.’

  ‘That time must be soon. You’ve until summer, girl, to get that Frenchman to commit to you and to Scotland. I need an heir and without a son, if I don’t populate the premises soon, the Inglis will sweep it back. Douglas won’t see that happen and neither will I, do you hear? Dead or alive, this land will belong to men with my blood in their veins!’

  He paused, out of breath. This campaign, she realised, had been difficult.

  ‘I understand, Da,’ she said softly, knowing her heart had not yet accepted all that he meant.

  ‘By Beltane. It will be decided. One way or the other.’

  ‘Alain will speak soon. I’m sure of it.’

  Yet she was sure of nothing. Even if Alain did speak, he would never commit to a life on the Scottish border. And neither would she.

  Murine appeared at the door, soundless, as if knowing the conversation was over. Clare rose and passed her, without speaking, as the woman helped the baron towards his bed.

  She chided herself as the door closed behind her. Of course it was time she married, but it must be done properly, not with her father’s blunt tongue.

  Yet the time for patient waiting was over. Beltane Eve and summer’s beginning was only weeks away.

  Perhaps she could put Fitzjohn’s rude intentions to good purpose. Alain had no more love for the man than she did. Perhaps a little rivalry would persuade the comte to declare himself.

  But she must carry out her plan with care. Stirring Fitzjohn’s interest could be dangerous. To herself above all.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Fitzjohn watched, astonished and wary, as Mistress Clare approached him in the Hall with a sway in her step and a smile on her lips.

  A forced smile, but a smile, none the less.

  ‘Good morrow, Fitzjohn,’ she said.

  ‘Mistress Clare.’

  Silent, she nodded, the smile firmly fixed, looking, to his eyes, nothing like the self-controlled, sharp-tongued woman he’d come to know. He’d spent a sleepless night reliving the kiss. She was a woman of passion, that was clear, but it was passion denied, and he’d concluded that the Tweed would be frozen mid-summer before she would ever speak a friendly word to him again.

  ‘What is it you need from me?’ he asked, finally. Nothing else would have brought her to him. More was the pity.

  ‘Need? Oh, nothing.’ She looked down at her shoes, then gazed up at him with a flutter of her lashes. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Well?’ He recognised the seductive glance. He’d seen Euphemia use it, but on her, it came naturally as her breath. Clare looked as if she had practised without yet attaining perfection.

  Then he saw her furtive glance over to the hearth where the Frenchman stood and recognised unwelcome disappointment. ‘He’s not watching, mistress. If you want to raise his interest, it will take more than a sideways glance at me.’

  Her soft, welcoming expression disappeared. ‘What do you mean, I’m not…?’

  Her protest trailed off as she realised she had turned her head to see whether Alain was watching.

  ‘If you want to make him jealous, you’ll need to give him something to be jealous about.’

  In fact, based on what he had seen of the man, jealousy would only raise his interest in besting his rival, not in Clare herself. Still, her plan would give him an excuse to linger in her company.

  She stepped out of reach, though her scent, like sweet white flowers and tart red berries, still enveloped him. ‘You are imagining that.’ But her eyes no longer met his.

  ‘No. I’m not.’ Though he wished he were. ‘I’d be glad to help you, Mistress Clare.’ He moved closer and looked over her shoulder. ‘Your Frenchman is watching now. I haven’t touched you, but I can.’ He put his hand on her waist, feeling that dark recklessness rise in him. ‘I think we have his attention now.’

  ‘Stop,’ she said, but her breath was short.

  Yet when he touched her back to guide her out of the comte’s sight, she came with him. He led her up the winding stairs to the watch tower, above and out of sight of the sentries.

  Outside, he breathed in the cool air, full of the smell of fertile earth and new grass, waiting to be born. Through the narrow openings in the turret wall, the hills spread out before him like his own private country.

  He looked back at Clare, but she neither saw him, nor the hills. Instead, she looked over her shoulder and down the empty stairs.

  He touched her cheek, wanting her gaze again. ‘Do you think he’ll come?’ His voice, harsher than he intended, as if he were the jealous one.

  ‘Yes. It is his chivalric duty to protect me.’

  Anger came first, then fear for her if she thought the rest of the world would follow her pretty rules.

  ‘Well, yes, he may, but if you expect every man to do the same, you’ll be eaten alive, Mistress Clare. This world belongs to warriors and they don’t care who they hurt as long as they get their way. That’s the only lesson that matters on these Borders.’

  He had her eyes, then. And they flashed like green fire. ‘That’s why I want to leave. These hills are full of men who’ve never had a scruple they couldn’t squash. And you’re like all the rest. Or worse.’


  ‘That’s a harsh statement, demoiselle.’ Yet, he feared, true.

  She blinked to hear the French he’d spoken at court. He smiled, knowing his accent could match Alain’s.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, finally, ‘but if you weren’t, you would defend yourself with the truth.’

  The truth. He had seen too many battles fought between men clinging to mutually exclusive truth. He was no longer sure what the word meant.

  He brushed his lips with a smile again. ‘Well, if I were to sort out the false from the true for you, it would take hours.’ Blood fired, he leaned closer, so close that if she parted her lips, she would feel his words on her tongue. ‘And there are much better ways to spend time alone with a beautiful lady.’

  She swayed towards him. Just a little closer and he would kiss her again. They could start where they ended last night, but this time, she would truly surrender.

  Her lips touched his, feather soft. Something more than lust answered this time. He cradled her gently, breasts warm against him. Soft and slow, he explored her sweet mouth with his tongue, wooing.

  He felt her yield.

  Then, she pushed him away. ‘No!’ Both of them staggered at the separation. ‘I don’t need you. I don’t want you.’

  He willed his pounding heart to slow. For just a moment, he had glimpsed what it might be like, to share so deeply that he could be fully known.

  And be loved anyway.

  Difficult for most, impossible for him, particularly with this woman.

  ‘Pardon, demoiselle.’ His accent mocked her. Or did he mock himself? ‘I thought you needed me to make le comte jaloux.’

  ‘He is not here. He cannot be jealous of what he can’t see.’

  The smile returned. ‘Au contraire. What is not seen must be imagined. Many people will describe events in detail that they never witnessed.’ He leaned against the hard stone walls, crossing his arms to keep from reaching for her. ‘I will say a word, two perhaps, and then it won’t matter that he wasn’t here to see us. He’ll believe whatever I say.’