His Border Bride

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His Border Bride Page 19

by Blythe Gifford


  He stood and backed away from her, as if he could not bear to be so close. ‘You? My wife? How can you—?’ His throat tried to force words that would not come. When he spoke again, she could barely hear him. ‘Do you really believe that? After—’ he looked at the bed, then back at her ‘—everything…how can you believe that?’

  Pain. That was what was in his eyes.

  She dropped her glance to the bed. They had been naked together there. Souls as well as bodies. Guilt swamped her now. She should have told him long ago.

  ‘Thom.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It might be Thom. Euphemia said…it was so little. Just a sentence.’

  ‘What did she say? Tell me!’

  ‘She said Thom was…unhappy with you.’

  ‘He has been since before Beltane.’

  ‘He said you were more Inglis than Scots.’

  The sentence lingered, floating in the air. She watched him suppress his pain and anger, so he could examine the idea. ‘But if he’s such a Scot, why would he let a Robson in? What if they had won? Why risk that? It makes no sense. Unless…’

  His eyes met hers. ‘Unless he wanted people to think as you did. That I was the one.’

  ‘Could he hate you so much?’ Her faith so weak that she would even think Gavin could betray them. Yet she had. For a while, even she had.

  Gavin’s expression darkened. ‘I will find out.’

  As he left, she prayed she had named the right man.

  He went down to the hall, pulled Thom awake, and forced him outside. Damp, chill fog smudged the waning moon.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Do what?’ he sneered the question.

  Gavin’s fist caught the man without warning, knocking him into the dirt. ‘Because of you, one of our men is dead, there’s a family homeless, and we lost twenty sheep, a mews and a trained goshawk.’

  Slow down, he thought, grabbing hold of his fury. A falcon circles until the right time to strike.

  Realising he was caught, then looked up, defiant eyes blazing with hatred. ‘And because of you, good Scots men have to bow to an Inglis bastard who has already killed too many of our own.’

  ‘Are there more?’ How many? Did all the men think the same?

  Thom laughed. ‘What if I said all? What if I told you that none of them think you have any right to be master here? They would rather see the Robsons rule than you.’

  Gavin fought the hum of rage in his head. To slay the man at his feet would only raise more suspicion. He could not be the only one to hear his confession of guilt.

  ‘But I am master here. And I am going to let you get well acquainted with the Robsons.’

  The man turned pale. Gavin pulled him to his feet. ‘Yes, spend some time in the cell with them and see if you think the same.’

  But as he locked the man in the cell, his feeling of triumph ebbed. He had done everything he knew to make this his home, to protect it, yet he had not found peace. How many thought as Thom did?

  Even his own wife doubted him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In the end, it seemed, Thom had acted alone.

  Neither the baron’s interrogation nor Euphemia’s casual questions uncovered any allies in the man’s plot. Instead, one by one, the men came to Gavin to pledge their loyalty anew.

  A few even offered to wield the sword to execute the culprit, but Gavin persuaded them to wait for Douglas’s return. He wanted justice, not vengeance.

  They did not have to wait long. November’s crisp frost sprinkled the Cheviot, when Lord Douglas and his men rode up to Carr’s Tower.

  Gavin smiled at his wife as she stepped forwards to greet their guests. She had begged his forgiveness for doubting him. He had given it. And yet as he saw her with Douglas again, he felt his own doubts rise anew.

  ‘Lord Douglas,’ Clare began, in her most ladylike voice, ‘your presence honours us, and we—’

  Douglas spat in the dirt.

  Clare crossed her hands over her ribs, recoiling. Gavin stepped in to shield her. ‘Lord Douglas—’

  ‘We’re finished. Hundreds dead. French, Scots. Edward now holds two kings prisoner, the French Jean beside David.’

  Even Gavin, who knew the strengths and weaknesses of both opponents, was stunned.

  The local war forgotten, they brought the men into the hall, offered food and drink, and listened to the tale of the battle at Poitiers. The English, outnumbered but still victorious. Arrows raining down on the charging chevaliers. Horses and men left dying in the dirt. Thousands dead or captured.

  ‘And the comte?’

  Clare’s quick glance told him she was surprised that he asked.

  ‘Captured,’ Douglas said. ‘Held for more than a thousand pounds. As are some of our best men.’

  Gavin refrained from asking by what miracle of chivalry Lord Douglas had escaped the same fate.

  Gloom settled over the hall as Douglas’s words died away in defeat. Gavin exchanged a silent glance with the baron.

  England had not simply won the battle. The war was over.

  ‘Edward will turn his attention to Scotland again,’ Gavin said, ‘now that he does not have to fight on French soil. And this time, we’ll be alone.’

  ‘The French were little help to us,’ the baron said, with feigned bravado. ‘We don’t need them.’

  Gavin shrugged, not disagreeing. Edward now holds both Kings prisoner. But Douglas was to have met with Edward’s commissioners before he left for France. Why was David still in exile?

  ‘Perhaps,’ Gavin began, ‘Edward would negotiate for David’s release now. This war has been expensive. The ransom would be welcome.’

  Lord Douglas stared into the fire, nodding.

  Edward had not been the obstacle to bringing David home. In the last ten years, Stewart and Lord Douglas had divided the country and ruled it as they chose, in no hurry for the return of the rightful King.

  The Lord finished his ale and wiped his lips. ‘Aye. I guess it’s time to bring the poor man home.’

  Relief released a smile. Home. David, too, could come home.

  ‘I’ve already applied for a safe conduct to send some men to England.’ Douglas raised his gaze from the flames and smiled at Gavin. ‘Join them.’

  ‘I am honoured, Lord Douglas—’ Douglas, no doubt, could hear the edge in Gavin’s acceptance ‘—to represent Scotland.’

  Peace between Scotland and England. David restored to the throne. It would be all he had ever hoped.

  And his return to England? Well, it was time to make peace with his uncle. And to get the answers to questions he should have asked long ago.

  ‘I’ll call a council meeting. We will set the parameters, pick the rest of the delegation.’ Douglas looked at him. ‘But this isn’t the first time we’ve tangled with the Inglis over these terms.’

  Douglas’s power, it was clear, was not based solely on his prowess in war. If Gavin came back with terms he did not like, he would blame Gavin and reject them.

  No matter what happened with King David, Gavin thought, Douglas would have to be reckoned with.

  ‘I promise you,’ he replied, his gaze never faltering, ‘it will be the last.’

  With the plan settled, he and the baron spoke of their battle, the betrayal, and the prisoners held beneath them.

  ‘When did they attack?’ Douglas asked.

  ‘October,’ the baron answered. ‘Early.’

  Douglas shook his head. ‘They waited until the truce expired. Clever bastards.’ He looked into the fire, silent for a time, and then raised his head. ‘Kill them.’

  One more night, Clare thought, tucking a sprig of lavender into Gavin’s bag to remind him of home. One more night and he would be gone.

  Her weeks of doubts, their tug of war, all those things had defined the ebb and flow of days. Yet she had expected them to have time. Time to forgive. Time to reconcile fully. Time she had foolishly wasted.

  Now t
here was no time.

  She clung to him, not wanting to face the coming months she would spend alone until he returned.

  She tugged him towards the bed for a last joining, a memory to last the empty months.

  He did not move. ‘It’s time for your maiden flight.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You must take off the hood, unleash the tether and test your wings.’

  She covered her eyes with her hands, frightened of the very thought. She could never fly without the freedom of darkness; never dare look at him as she became this other being. In the dark, she could pretend she succumbed only because he insisted. Eyes opened, she would have to admit her own desires.

  ‘I can’t.’

  His hands circled her wrists and he pulled them away from her eyes. ‘Can’t?’ Quiet, he searched her eyes, and she glimpsed in his the doubts of the boy with no father and no home. ‘Or haven’t the courage?’

  Did he, too, wonder whether his partner came from choice or from duty? How strange to think that a man could know the most intimate secrets of her body and still not know her heart. ‘I fear my flight will disappoint you.’

  ‘I am willing to take that risk. Are you?’

  No, she wanted to scream. What if I fail? What if I disappoint you? What if I am awkward and it becomes a chore and not a pleasure?

  Yet the question in his eyes was so strong, she had to answer it. She had to try for his sake, so that he would know how much he had brought her to herself.

  ‘Yes. Yes, and because I want to.’

  But this time, she would not expect to reach the soaring freedom she had come to love there in the dark. How ironic that she must be tethered to feel free.

  ‘Begin,’ he said, ‘by disrobing.’

  Since that first night, she had not undressed herself. He had always done it for her. Self-conscious, she reached for a lace, unable to look at him.

  Yet something still tickled deep inside her as she felt his eyes on her, knowing what was to come. Knowing what had come before. He had trained her body to crave the mating. That desire, at least, had not disappeared with the blindfold.

  The frisson of longing gave her confidence.

  She lifted her eyes to his. There was a strange sense of strength, having her clothes, the power, in her own hands. As she removed the gown, she watched his eyes. Without the blindfold, she could see for the first time how just the sight of her sparked his desire.

  It caught on the dry tinder of her body, giving her hope.

  Finally, she stood naked before him. The heat in his eyes warmed her, but she did not know where to look with eyes now free to see, or where to touch with hands free to feel. ‘What do I do now?’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  When had she ever been allowed to do that?

  What did the falcon want? To fly. To hunt. To eat. To mate. ‘I want you to be naked.’

  He opened his arms as if offering himself to her. ‘Then make it so.’

  She knelt at his feet as he sat on the bench, taking off his boots, using the excuse to explore with her fingers and her eyes. First, she touched his hair, golden like the eagle’s, but with gentle waves hidden for her fingers to find. Then, she slipped her hands under the loose sleeves of his tunic, feeling the strength just beneath his skin. Arms as powerful as wings, able to propel death as well as love.

  ‘Stand,’ she commanded, wanting free access.

  He did.

  She pulled down the chausses.

  She had left the tunic on, but he could not hide. He was aroused. More than aroused. Ready.

  His eyes closed. She caught the whisper of a moan. ‘Now,’ he said, reaching for her.

  She stood and held him at arm’s length. He opened his eyes and she smiled, savouring her unaccustomed power. ‘Not now. When I say.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I have unleashed a monster.’ But when his eyes met hers, the hot desire was melded with something else. Trust. Love.

  Had it been there all along, beyond the blindfold, out of her sight?

  Could he indeed love someone so imperfect?

  Could she?

  She pointed to the bed. ‘If I am free, it is time for you to taste darkness and feel leather’s hold.’

  How simple men are, she thought. For he was unable to hide his reaction, unlike a woman. She had hidden from him the excitement she felt at their joining, even hidden it from herself until his hands, fingers, tongue, staff swept her away and she could hide it no longer.

  But he could not. ‘I am not well trained enough to wait on your convenience, wife.’

  ‘Then I must train you. The tercel is not allowed to hunt when he chooses, but must wait upon the falconer.’

  She made him lie on the bed, draped the leather straps over his arms and legs. The bonds were only symbolic. She would not want to wait long before feeling him surround her.

  Then she tied the scarf over his eyes.

  Restless beneath her hands, he could not lie still. ‘I must trust you with my life now, wife.’

  ‘Have you the courage to take the risk, husband?’

  His sigh, like a growl, rattled in his throat. ‘I have trained you too well.’

  She left his tunic on, remembering the rough feel of fabric against skin, the contrast between nakedness and covering that had heightened her pleasure in both.

  His staff waved like a banner’s stick, as if determined to get her attention.

  She rubbed her palms along its length. Miraculously, it seemed to grow longer.

  ‘For the love of God,’ he said, barely able to grind out the words. ‘Have mercy.’

  She laughed. How strange to laugh in the middle of lovemaking. But it was their world here in the dark. No rules but those they created together.

  ‘I don’t recall,’ she said, ‘receiving any mercy from you when I begged.’

  But she knew, now, what that meant. That he was on fire. That his desire was straining to break free.

  She decided to give him release.

  She opened her lips and took him fully inside her mouth.

  Gavin, in shock, struggled for control, afraid he would let go immediately.

  ‘Clare, you can’t, are you sure…?’ He couldn’t finish the question, uncertain now how to speak.

  All he heard was a murmur. All he felt was the track of her tongue swirling warm and wet around him. Then, her lips tightened at the tip of his staff.

  After that, he knew nothing but the freedom of the falcon in flight.

  This time, she held him as he fell back to earth, knowing, finally, she was truly mated.

  He whispered, near her ear, as his breathing slowed, ‘My falcon has become the falconer. You have trained me in truth. No, more, tamed me.’

  Her arms tightened as he slipped into sleep.

  She lay awake, unable to lose one moment of their last night. No longer blindfolded, she saw only her fears. More than vows bound them now, yet she still did not know this man. Tomorrow he would fly alone. And she could not be sure whether he would return or, like the falcon, escape to the victorious border.

  And what will happen, her heart whispered, if you lose him now?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Spring had come to the south by the time Gavin confronted the King face to face.

  He had spent the months since leaving home meeting with the council, where Stewart and Douglas had wrangled over whose men would travel to England to represent Scotland and what terms they could accept.

  Then came the long, hard trip south. With each mile, he retraced the path that had brought him north, remembering how Edward had left France when he heard the Scots had taken Berwick. How they had galloped north, heedless of the winter cold, to wrest the town away from the enemy. And how he had crossed the border, riding by Edward’s side, until he realised he could not make war on his own people.

  Since arriving in London, he’d been in endless meetings and negotiations with Edward’s representatives.

  But
never with Edward himself until now, when, finally, his uncle had granted his request to meet alone.

  He stood before the man’s chambers, uncertain how Edward would receive him. The last time they had seen each other, Fitzjohn had thrown his torch to the ground and ridden off without a word to join the enemy. No apology would salve Gavin’s rejection of their shared blood.

  But Gavin had not come to apologise.

  The King dismissed the servants and they were alone. He bowed and waited as Edward examined him.

  It was for the King to speak first.

  ‘You’ve chosen a side, then,’ he said, finally.

  Gavin swallowed. Edward had been uncle as well as King, as much of a father as he had ever had. ‘It is my hope, your Grace, that with this peace, I will have chosen a side of the border, not of a battlefield.’

  Edward, flush with his victory in France, smiled, triumphant. He held both the King of Scotland and the King of France captive. He expected no more battles. ‘So you’ve finally convinced those stubborn Scots to accept the terms.’

  He nodded. ‘We are very close, your Grace.’

  ‘Scotland will be mine in the end, you know.’

  ‘Or Lionel’s.’ David had been open to letting one of Edward’s sons succeed him, something Douglas and Stewart were reluctant to accept.

  ‘It is the same thing. My son. Myself.’

  ‘Not always.’ He knew that now.

  Edward studied him in silence, and Gavin wondered whether he saw his brother in his brother’s son.

  ‘You wanted to see me,’ he said, finally. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have questions.’

  ‘You have questions?’ The King’s temper threatened. ‘You were not the one left sitting in the cold looking at the charred remains of his dead brother’s coat-of-arms heaped in the mud!’

  Gavin paused. ‘I could not set the church afire.’

  He knew that now. Not only did not, but could not. He was not perfect, no man was, but he was not as evil as he had feared for so long.

 

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