The Border Lord

by Sophia James

  He held her in his arms and whispered the words as his fingers crossed the full stretch of stomach. My child. My wife. I will love you both for ever and ever.

  Grace pondered on the meanings of her daydreams. At Grantley she had had such visions daily. Here, they were fewer and further between and she could not imagine Lachlan Kerr saying anything like those words in reality. This was another change in her. Before she had believed such fantasies as almost real. Now she knew better; the lovemaking in her imagination was nowhere near as wonderful as that outside of it.

  There had been no word at all on Kenneth MacIndoe. It was as though he had disappeared back into the place he had come from and Lachlan had not mentioned the incident again. For that at least she was glad, as some sort of truce settled between them, a suspension of anger, a fragile resurrection of peace, and, although he avoided her bed and this guarded carefulness was tiring, anything was better than anger.

  Today they had visitors at the keep. A friend of Lachlan’s had arrived from Edinburgh and she had been asked down to join the men for dinner.

  The dress she wore was of the darkest blue, almost midnight, and a silver hooped belt sat across the line of her hips. She had left her hair down after washing it in the early morning and her curls were soft with the special soap Lizzie had concocted for the task. Dexter sat by her bed watching, his golden eyes waiting for her to move towards the door so that he in turn could follow, and Grace smiled at his alertness and at his loyalty.

  When she entered the hall Lachlan stood and the man next to him did the same.

  ‘John Murray, Lord of Bothwell and Avoch, I would like to introduce you to my wife, Lady Grace.’

  Murray’s hand was warm when she took it and so was his smile. Lachlan on the other hand looked tired, and there was a new bruise on the line of his cheek. His glance did not quite meet her own as he helped her into her seat, his manners tonight those of the court, his hand staying on the small of her back. A show for the benefit of his friend, perhaps?

  ‘I have heard much about you, Lady Grace.’

  The sentiment seemed genuine enough though she wondered at his sources. ‘I hope it was not f-from the court j-jesters, my Lord?’

  He laughed. ‘Your husband could barely wait to return to Belridden last time I saw him and now I can well see why.’

  For a second her bravado faltered. She was unused to such compliments and even a man as obviously kind as John Murray would have his reasons for lying. Still, her courage was bolstered remarkably as Lachlan poured her a drink, his eyes wandering to the swell of flesh above the neckline of her gown with a glitter of lust and need. Grace breathed in deeply so that the bounty of her breasts would seem larger.

  ‘John is on his way to the court of London, Grace.’ Upending his glass, he helped himself to another.

  ‘One of the reasons for my visit here is that David asked me to see how you two fared. I hope I can tell him that his meddling in the affairs of the heart was a resounding success?’

  ‘You can see that it is such.’ Carefully Lachlan moved, so that his arm lay against her forearm. Feeling the warmth, Grace longed to simply lay her fingers across his and hold on, but didn’t. This was his charade and she wanted to see just how far he would take it.

  Behind them the servants lingered, refilling glasses and restocking plates of food. A flush of want stained her cheeks and she looked down, trying to take stock, trying to be this woman who was a wife and loved, even for a moment in front of this guest from Edinburgh.

  ‘David was hopeful for news of a Kerr heir. With Margaret murdered and Joan sickly, he has need of his nobles’ progeny for the future stability of the Borderlands, Lach.’

  ‘And when there is some news he will be the first to be told it.’ Her husband’s voice was cool, the queries as to his personal circumstances unwelcome, even from a friend, to a private man who gave little away!

  ‘Without a Bruce son there is mounting opposition in Parliament.’

  ‘Then isolate those who would oppose David. Pick the king’s enemies off one at a time and hold them to the royal mercy.’

  ‘Come back to Edinburgh then, Lachlan, and help us do it.’

  ‘Nay. I have served David well for nearly all the years of my life and Belridden’s promise of peace grows on me. Besides, Scotland has a need for strength here in the Eastern Marches.’

  ‘What of the Tournaments? Would ye come for those at least?’

  ‘I never have.’

  John laughed. ‘So Belridden is home? Then I hope God smiles on ye kindly and there will be the promise of many canty bairns.’

  He lifted his tumbler and Grace perceived in his glance, just for a moment, the same look she so often saw in her husband’s.

  Loss!

  The true cost of being David’s minion was not measured in lands or gold, but in the deprivation and forfeiture of home and hearth. She wondered where Murray’s family was as she raised her glass and gave him a toast.

  ‘To y-your quick r-return to Scotland and I hope you will c-come to stay on the way b-back.’

  ‘I would be delighted to, Lady Kerr. Slainte mhath.’

  ‘To your good health,’ Lachlan translated, and in his words she heard a flat undercurrent that made her wary.

  God, Lachlan thought as he looked on, the lies and deceit thick in the air around him and the strong ale making him light-headed. Light-headed enough to say something he might regret later about politicking and the creed of a king who could believe in the possibility of an English succession? Scotland would go to pieces and the world would be damned! He wondered for a frantic second what his whole life’s work had actually been for, and the arrow in his chest at Neville’s Cross which had almost killed him. Twelve thousand men against eight until Dunbar and Steward had turned away, leaving their ranks exposed. He hated such cowardice with the passion of one who would always despise traitors and yet David was shifting away from Scottish independence at an alarming speed.

  Nothing seemed right any more!

  Nothing save for Grace if he could just cast aside his doubts about her.

  Just for this time he wanted to believe in something and someone. His fingers tightened and he was pleased when she did not pull away as he listened to her speak to John. She was a lady who had been brought up with the ability to keep a conversation going despite the stammer. He also noticed how she made it a point to thank his servants for any help given.

  He wished he had not read her love notes in Malcolm’s jewellery box spilling out heart and hopes. She had never said anything like that to him, not once, and he knew that she had seen exactly who it was behind the tithe barn after the arrow had almost killed him.

  Compromised. Again.

  John was laughing at Grace’s retelling of her finding the dog in the bushes earlier that afternoon. She seemed to be calling him Dexter; the right-hand field of a shield perhaps, or some family name, he knew not which. But the hound hung below her chair, his yellow eyes drowning in every move she made, watching, hopeful. He wondered fleetingly if his own eyes mirrored the same emotions. That need for people around him he could trust and depend on amongst the vagaries of policy-making and greed.

  Anger lacerated longing as he drank the last of the ale and he could see on John’s and Grace’s faces a question as to his silence. But he couldn’t help it. Not tonight. Not with the promise of everything he could never have, so damn bloody near.

  ‘You’ll keep the dog then, Lach?’

  ‘I cannot see Grace being able to part with him—besides, his leg is not yet mended.’

  His wife turned at that and gave him a smile that made him want to vouch her any other pet she might wish for, but the servants brought out the dessert and all the room’s attention focused on the platter.

  Save his. At the back of the hall a small group of soldiers congregated. Rebecca stood with them and Lizzie, Grace’s maid. Something about the way they watched his wife made him uneasy and his hand went to the hilt of his swor
d with a mind of its own. Then they dispersed and the moment was gone. He almost wondered if he had imagined the incident or had given the episode a malevolence that it was lacking. Still, he swore himself to caution and decided he would instruct Grace on the morrow on at least the rudiments of self-defence.

  Chapter Nine

  Lachlan took her walking far from the keep and Grace wondered as to his intent. His belt was threaded with a half a dozen daggers and his hair today was pulled back in a tight knot. He did not wait as he strode through the undergrowth, did not hold back the wayward branches or even turn to check that she still walked behind him. No, today he was focused on some inside thing and her presence barely registered.

  Finally he stopped. They stood in a glade of sorts, the trees tall around them and canopied across an afternoon sky.

  With care he took a blade from his belt before opening her palm and placing the weapon on it.

  ‘Belridden is a keep that is divided and if you should be caught in the middle of a stramash, then there are things that you should know in your defence. Have you ever before held a knife against an enemy, Grace?’

  She could only shake her head and watch as he closed her fingers around the leather hilt of the weapon.

  ‘Feel the weight of it and imagine where the true balance of protection lies.’ He jiggled the steel this way and that and bid her close her eyes. Blinded, she focused on what he asked.

  After a moment the shape lay equally poised on her palm, gentle almost with the breeze off the stream beside them and the spongy moss under her feet.

  ‘It feels…still.’ No other words for it. She was pleased that she did not stutter here in the silence.

  ‘Good.’ His finger laid against the base of her right thumb. ‘Now remember that stillness as you open your eyes, for the heft of a blade lies mostly in the weight of thrust and counter-thrust.’ He was beside her, close, the breath of his words on her cheek and the tips of his fingers turning the knife into the space between forefinger and thumb. Hard hooked, the handle sat still, the leather covering unfamiliar as her grasp closed around it.

  He checked the angle and nodded. ‘A dagger like this is best used up close and with the most surprise that you can muster for an attack. They will not expect resistance from you.’

  ‘They…?’ She let her query tail off.

  ‘Anyone is suspect. Remember that. Anyone.’

  ‘Not your friend, John?’

  ‘No, Grace, not him.’

  ‘Or Connor?’

  This time he shook his head. ‘My brother ruled the keep for years and some of his supporters still reside in the castle, waiting for me to make a mistake.’

  ‘Like marrying me?’

  He laughed. ‘If it were just that simple, I should not be out here teaching you the art of killing a man. Nay, I should be enjoying your wares in the comfort of my own bed and behind the safety of a heavy lock.’

  ‘They want you dead.’ Suddenly she understood. ‘And me with you?’

  ‘There are whispers circulating that Malcolm may still be alive and that an heir between us may not be to their liking.’

  A rush of blood covered her face. She had told him nothing of her lack of menses and was pleased to see that his face was blank of any knowledge of it. Just an innocent question, then? But the rumours about his brother…

  ‘Do you think these rumours could be true?’

  ‘You tell me, Grace. The gully was deep and Stephen said that you had it well searched, but with the river at the bottom it could be possible.’

  Dread made her pale.

  ‘And those who support Malcolm are not David’s advocates, are they?’

  ‘Nay, and that is why I am here. The Marches are the buffer between two kingdoms who have been at war for as long as any of us can remember. If Steward or Douglas should lay their hands upon the south and take hold…’

  ‘War would follow. So John Murray did not only visit to see that the alliance we have formed was tenable, did he?’

  ‘No, which is why you must learn to defend yourself.’ He stepped back before extracting his own blade. Grace saw instantly how easily it fitted into his fist.

  Please God let Malcolm be dead. The refrain was like a chant in her body.

  ‘If I came at you like this, what would you do?’

  She raised the knife.

  ‘Nay. From below. You will have more strength that way. And come in hard. Like this.’

  The sound was of air, and the quickness of movement barely seen.

  She copied and he smiled.

  ‘You are a good mimic. If you practise that while I watch, you will get the true way of it.’

  Thrust and step back. Thrust and step back. In a few moments she was as tired as she could ever remember.

  ‘Is fighting always this hard?’

  ‘You have not connected with anything yet.’ He unwrapped his standard and laid it around the bough of a tree. ‘Make for the chevron,’ he instructed.

  When she did so the whole knife jarred against her wrist and she gave a yelp of pain, dropping the knife and holding the sting of her hand.

  ‘Bone is as hard, Grace,’ he said as he took her fingers between her own, rubbing back the warmth and feeling. ‘But if you don’t know these things, then death is harder, aye.’

  The strange rings on his wrists were easy to see as his shirt fell back. ‘How did this happen?’ Her first finger came out to touch the lines of black, and stillness came upon him.

  ‘Vanity. Ancient Catholics viewed tattooing as a sign of maturity. Did you know that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was told so once by a man whom I thought I had much to learn from and over a fire at Vironfosse he drew in the design and filled it with ashes. I was almost fourteen so the thought of such an encryption was powerful.’

  Three strands formed a complex braid, weaving across each other, a scar dissecting the band above his thumb.

  ‘And this?’ She touched the raised welt.

  He shrugged. ‘David had many enemies that became mine as well.’

  ‘Even now?’

  He nodded and the world around them fell still, no birdsong or river running, no wind through the trees or insects around the last flowers before the winter.

  There was only a smile as his lips came down across her own, and again when he undid the ties of her kirtle, her nipples hardening in the breeze, the paleness of her skin startling as his hands followed the shape of her shoulders and breasts and waist.

  ‘It seems that I cannae stay away from you, mo nighean, even though I would will it.’ He took a breath and confessed further. ‘Your body is as a home to me and I have nae had many.’

  The bright chevron banner on the bough unfurled in the wind and floated to the ground beside them. In invitation she was to think later; to a bed in the glade of trees, and the whole world far from here. No enemies or politics. She saw how he hesitated, as though fighting a battle to leave.

  When his breath shook, she knew that she had won and pulled him down beside her on the silk of his family standard. He was a man raised in Europe, so both heraldry and plaid were of equal importance. A complex man, the true pull of Scotland watered down by other teachings. She imagined him with Philip in the French court and again in Edward’s palaces, treading lightly lest those of other persuasions should harm his king.

  He was loyal to the idea of a Scotland no longer under the lordship of the English, starting here in the Borderlands, the first bastion against the disinherited Barons of Balliol and the pretensions of Robert Stewart.

  In harm’s way! Of a sudden she knew that war would come to these lands and soon. The shiver of dread made her skin pucker.

  ‘You are cold?’ He loosened his belt and wrapped the generous standard around them. Cocooned in red and green, the light from the day threw strange hues upon their skin.

  Like bruises.

  Sometimes she hated her imagination. She pushed the fear away and concentrated on now. Just
now.

  ‘I have been away from this land for so verra long…Sometimes I wish—’ He stopped and she waited.

  ‘Sometimes I wish that I had not.’

  Simple, and said like a confession that was for her ears only. It was a gift given in confidence and honesty and, with the battle marks of many years drawn upon him, it was a rare gift indeed. Her hand pulled at the hem of his shirt and she found the burning force of all that was held between them, isolation quashed in the single act of connection.

  ‘You are b-beautiful.’ Far more beautiful than me, she almost added, but the words would not quite come.

  She looked into his eyes, there, six inches from her own, in the light, with their breaths mingling, looked into the depth of paleness and saw desire. For her.

  Powerful and true. Passion felt through a blinded touch. Moving inwards to each other. The centre shifted. No longer just each other.

  Let me touch and forget the world around us. When she groaned it was not in pain but in wonder and the rolling shards of oneness that pinned them to each other were elemental and complete.

  They did not speak afterwards, each locked in a silence that was their own, a thin and tenuous bond against the secrets that would divide them.

  Grace closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of him, the beauty of his body and the wild thumping of his heart.

  He moved.

  Again.

  She closed her eyes and let him do as he willed, the thought crossing her mind that it was more than war and politics after all that he had been taught in the days of his training in France.

  Much, much more.

  Hours later they walked back to the castle, the instruction of defence forgotten under an onslaught of something entirely different.

  It was dark, and the moon illuminated both footfall and path. They did not touch, did not accidentally fall into the sphere of the other. There was too much at stake and too little to stop what it was that they now both feared; that wordless thing that held couples to ransom even as it held the world at bay.