The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Malcolm was a little stunned. “Ye mean…ye mean to dress yer men in Scott colors to make it look as if the Scott’s are attacking?”

  “Exactly, laddie,” Dunbar said smugly.

  Malcolm nodded. “Well and good. But what of Jordan? Do we, in fact, rescue her?”

  Dunbar shrugged. “She would recognize that the men baring Scott tartan were not Scott soldiers. She should be killed.”

  Malcolm balked. “I shall not take part in murderin’ my own kin. And I might remind ye that Jordan was not happy about the arrangement. She’s not a willing bride.”

  “But she’s doing it, is she not?” Dunbar shot back. “Aye, Malcolm, she’s as guilty as sin. Even if she is not happy, as ye say, she’s still doing it.”

  Malcolm was torn with indecision. Dunbar had been more of a father to him than his own and he wanted to please him, but he wasn’t sure about murdering Jordan.

  Dunbar could see the dilemma and stood up. “Now, lad, ye’ll inform me when the army is to arrive so that we can begin making preparations. And I shall be needing that tartan as soon as ye can get yer hands on it,” he clapped Malcolm on one shoulder. “Yer a fine, loyal Scot, lad. We canna have an English ally so close to us, can we? Aye, nor can we have a weak Scot ally. Thomas Scott is not fit to be laird. But ye are.”

  Malcolm looked up at him with puzzlement. Dunbar smiled.

  “Think on it, lad,” he said. “With Thomas Scott gone, it would only be a matter of time before Nathaniel and Matthew followed him in death. Then that would leave Benjamin, Donald and Cord between ye and being laird of Clan Scott. Ye could easily take care of those three foolish young lads.”

  “Kill them myself?” Malcolm echoed.

  “Aye, but kill is such an ugly word,” Dunbar said. “I prefer ‘eliminate’ myself. Or, if ye hasna the stomach for it, then I am sure we could arrange to help ye out. Anything for an ally.”

  Malcolm’s head was spinning. What Dunbar was suggesting was incredible. Slowly, he stood, only to be embraced by the stinking man. Dunbar, in faith, was quite pleased with himself for throwing young Malcolm a bone to chew on without revealing his true plans.

  “Be gone wi’ ye, lad,” he told him firmly.

  Malcolm did go, still reeling, still uncertain.

  *

  It was later that night. The camp fires glowed softly into the chill night, the faint crackling of wood and the smell of smoke filling the air.

  William liked this time of night, when most of the camp was asleep save for the sentries and a few servants. He found he did his best thinking at night.

  And think this night he did until his mind was a muddy bog. All he could see and hear was Lady Jordan. Lady Jordan sleeping in his arms, Lady Jordan smiling at the creek, Lady Jordan telling him flatly that she did not wish to eat. He thought of her until she overwhelmed him, running his hands over his eyes as if he could wipe her from his sight. Why did this woman infatuate him so?

  A body sat next to him over the fallen log he was using as a chair, startling him from his thoughts. Just by the movements he knew it to be Paris.

  “Posts are set for the night, my lord,” Paris said.

  “I know,” William replied. “I checked them myself a half hour ago.”

  “Then pardon my incompetence,” Paris said dryly. “I should have realized that The Wolf had already been on the prowl.”

  “Cease your jibes, Paris, I have no patience this night,” William said, talking into his folded hands.

  Paris regarded his captain with a faint smile on his lips. He knew exactly what the problem was. It had been obvious all day.

  “What has that woman done to you?” he asked with a slow shake of the head.

  William’s head came up and he looked sharply at his friend. Paris fully expected to be reamed up one side and down the other, but instead William let out a sharp exhale and faced back to the fire.

  “Shut your mouth,” he said simply.

  Paris pursed his lips. “I do not know how,” he said. “Tell me, William….what are you thinking?”

  William breathed deeply, not answering for a moment. He seemed hypnotized by the flames of the bonfire in front of him. Paris didn’t think he was going to answer him until finally, quiet words began to come forth.

  “When I was injured in the border clash last year…do you remember?” he spoke hesitantly. “Do you recall that you found me a few days later…?”

  Paris cut in with a nod of his head. “Aye, I do. You were walking deliriously, with your leg nearly cut off. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I thought we had lost you.”

  “Do you also recall that my leg was tended, stitched up, and you asked me who did it?” William continued. “What did I tell you?”

  Paris cocked an eyebrow. “You told me an angel had come to save your life,” he said. “ ’Twas all I could get out of you.”

  William stared into the flames for a moment. Then, slowly, he turned to look Paris in the eye.

  “That woman in my tent; that Scot,” he said quietly. “She was the angel. That was the woman who saved my leg and my life.”

  Paris’ eyes widened. “What? Her?”

  William didn’t say anymore. He continued to stare into the fire, his mind a hundred miles away. Paris sat with him, wanting to pepper him with questions but, for once, not following through with his desires. It was clear that William was troubled by the situation, but Paris could not honestly figure out why. Did William not want this woman to marry their lord because she was a Scot or because…possibly because William himself wanted her?

  God only knew, she was beautiful. Too beautiful for their ancient lord, although the earl was a decent man. But so was William. Paris had never known a more brave or moral man. The thought that powerful and perfect William had possibly fallen for a woman brought a smile to Paris’ lips. He never knew he had it in him.

  Then mayhap it would help his captain to talk about his feelings. William was as closed-mouthed as they come, but mayhap he would unload to Paris. He had done it before. And, besides, Paris was damn curious. He weighed the consequences and decided it was worth the probe even if William slugged him.

  “My lord is troubled,” he began nicely enough. “Can I help?”

  “Nay,” William replied.

  Undaunted, Paris pressed on. “Try me. Mayhap I can. Do you not trust me with your private thoughts?”

  William looked over at him and Paris inwardly braced himself for a blow. But it did not come. Instead, William merely shook his head.

  “I do not even know my private thoughts,” he said quietly. “How can I give them to you?”

  A dead end. Paris was about to give up when William suddenly stood up as if agitated. “Paris, have you ever known me to be a fool for woman?” he demanded.

  Paris shook his head. “I have never known you to be a fool.”

  William clenched and unclenched his huge hands. “This woman affects me like no one has ever affected me. I say yea, she says nay, and I bow to her wishes without a fight. She makes a request and with every fiber of my being I am moving to grant it.” He was pacing. “It is possible that the debt that I feel to her makes me weak, that I would cut off my own arm if she wished it simply because I am indebted to her for saving my life? Is that possible?”

  “It is possible,” Paris concurred, shocked to see the power of emotions within his friend. “But is it not also possible that you feel something other than being indebted to her?”

  William stopped pacing and stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  Paris cast him a long look. “Evaluate the situation for what it is, William,” he said softly. “She is a beautiful, desirable woman and you are a virile, powerful man. Is it not possible that you are attracted to her as a woman, that you may lust for her, and that thought is making you daft?”

  “Nay,” William snapped. “Oh, hell… I do not know. But I do know one thing – she is to be de Longley’s bride, no matter what I feel.”

  �
��Mayhap not,” Paris said. “But you had better deal with your emotions now and sort them out or you will be living for the rest of your life in a castle with a woman who turns you to putty with a glance.”

  “She does not,” he said indignantly.

  Paris was surprised to see that his usually calm captain was raging like a bull. He could not remember when he had ever seen William this passionate about anything. His captain’s nickname, The Wolf, was bestowed upon him because he was as cool, vicious, and cunning as his namesake. On the battlefield, he was feared and admired for his skill and sheer strength, and Paris in all of his travels had never seen a better soldier. Perhaps that is why he pledged his loyalty to William; he had finally found a man who could best him in a fight.

  To see him like this, pacing and disturbed, amused him greatly for he truly believed nothing could upset this man. He had not obtained his auspicious reputation by being an emotional bundle.

  “My lord,” he began in a tone that made William stop and look at him. “Could it be that you have found the woman of your dreams and you are destitute because she cannot belong to you?”

  Instead of becoming incensed, as Paris expected him to, William actually seemed to grow sedate. He looked away from Paris, the muscles in his jaw ticking beneath the stubbled skin.

  “Impossible,” he replied hoarsely. “There is no woman of my dreams.”

  A direct hit. Paris knew it and was gladdened and saddened at the same time. William longed for a woman he could not have, yet a woman he would spend his entire lifetime serving.

  He stood up and went to his captain, thousands of words of comfort and encouragement tumbling in his mind, but he could not sort them. Words seemed inadequate. He no longer felt the need to tease William but to offer him some sort of solace.

  “Yes, there is, and her name is Jordan,” he said with understanding. “There is no shame in admitting she infatuates you. But, pray, admit it to yourself and deal with it now or it will eat you up.”

  William glanced at him, trying to remain totally impassive but failing. He attempted to match Paris’ knowing gaze but could not maintain it; the man was right and they both knew it.

  “Paris, if you breathe one word of this conversation, I shall….”

  Paris threw up his hands. “Say no more, my lord,” he said. “I know exactly what will happen to me, and by your own hand. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “I have no secret,” William insisted weakly.

  Paris cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “Of course not.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When William finally did go into his tent later that evening, he was surprised to see that Jordan was still awake, sitting on a small collapsible chair.

  He dismissed the two knights he had placed there for her benefit. Marc Fitz Gerald, a knight who had fostered with William, had long reddish hair that gave him the look like a Viking. He had taken his captain’s orders literally and never left Lady Jordan alone for a moment, whereas Lewis Arnsworth, young and taken with her beauty, had spoken to the lady in broken Gaelic and generally acted the part of an eager puppy. Once, she had asked for some water and he had spilled it all over himself in his haste to pour it for her.

  Marc put a firm, fatherly hand on Lewis’ shoulder as William moved into the tent and all but shoved him out. The young knight would have been fully content to stay there all night. If William noticed the foolish behavior, he didn’t let on. When his knights had gone, he eyed Jordan curiously.

  “I thought you said you were tired,” he said. “Why did you not go to sleep?”

  She frowned at him. “Do ye think that I could sleep with my two watchdogs scrutinizing every move I made? Nay, sir knight, I was content to sit right here until I could go to sleep privately.”

  He nodded silently, unlatching the leg armor he still wore and letting it fall to the floor. His squire, from nowhere, surged into the tent and began to pick it up.

  Jordan watched the young boy. He moved eagerly and efficiently, but she thought he looked more like a frightened rabbit. The boy eventually scurried out, leaving William clad only in his quilted linen tunic and snug breeches that clung to his muscular legs. Jordan was a little taken aback at the sheer size of the man; she had seen those legs, once, but had failed to remember just how big they really were. He was intimidating, but she was not frightened of him. It was a strange, giddy sort of intimidation.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, still standing over by the tent flap.

  She shook her head. “Nay, my lord. I am exceedingly tired.”

  “As you wish,” he replied, walking towards her. “I apologize for the tent. ’Tis quite barbaric for a lady. But at least we will be dry should it rain.”

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. Slowly, she looked up at him.

  “We?” she repeated suspiciously. “We?”

  He fixed her with a firm gaze. “I promised Lord de Longley that I would protect you always, day or night.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Then ye are saying that…ye plan to sleep in the same tent as me?”

  “Not only in the same tent, my lady, in the same bed,” he replied, pouring himself a cup of wine.

  It was ridiculous and completely improper. Her mouth opened in astonishment. “In the same be…?” she gasped in outrage. “I will sleep alone, sir knight. I am not here for yer convenience, to warm yer bed.”

  He gave her a wry scowl. “Do not flatter yourself. I am simply following orders.”

  Now she was deeply insulted as well as angry. So she was not good enough to warm his bed, eh? But, then again, why should she care? The more she tried to fight off the snub, the angrier she became at herself and at him.

  “Then, pray, what else do ye plan to do with me?” she demanded. “May I at least relieve myself in private, or must ye tend me that as well?”

  Her anger left him unfazed. “Nay, my lady, I will not tend you so long as I can see the top of your head.”

  “Oh.” she gasped furiously. “I do not know much of English women’s habits, but we Scots find that there are certain tasks that we must complete in private.”

  He faced her. “My lady, I will allow you all the privacy you desire so long as it does not compromise your safety.”

  She eyed him, visibly calming. She looked down at her hands, turning them over in her lap and he could tell that she was not finished with her tirade. He wondered what was going on in that lovely blond head.

  “So yer men would kill me at the first opportunity, then,” she stated quietly. “They know that I am their enemy.”

  The woman went from one emotion to the other with such speed it left his head spinning. Now she was subdued and docile again, and her vulnerability was apparent.

  “You personally are not their enemy,” he replied. “ ’Tis what you represent.”

  She chewed on that for a moment, her head still bowed and her hands still twisting. Then, to his surprise, he caught the glisten of a fat tear on her cheek.

  Jordan was humiliated that hot tears were forcing their way from her eyes. She was so tired and emotionally unbalanced that everything was spilling out all at once. Unlike most ladies, Jordan could not and did not even try to keep her feelings under control. She was trying to right now, as not to embarrass herself in front of an English knight, but she’d had little practice.

  “I told my Da not to send me into the lion’s den,” she whispered. “I wunna live to see my next birthday. Every person in the Godforsaken country hates me and wants to kill me.”

  William felt a stab of pity for her. If the roles were reversed and it was he who was thrust into the heart of Scotland, he was not even sure that he would not be terrified. She had taken all of the events of the day remarkably well, but he knew everyone had their limits. She had reached hers.

  Setting down the cup, he went to her and sat down beside the chair. He tried not to look directly at her, but from the corner of his eye he could see her shaking with quiet sobs. There was a sof
t white hand resting on her knee and he impulsively reached over and clasped it in his big, warm grip. He half expected her to pull away and was pleased when she didn’t.

  “No one is going to kill you, Lady Jordan,” he said softly. “I swear it on my oath as a knight of the realm. As long as I have breath in my body, you shall be safe from harm.”

  She turned to face him; she was very, very close. He found himself gazing into those incredible green eyes and his mind went to mud. She was so unbelievably beautiful, even with her eyes wet with tears.

  “Why would ye pledge this?” she demanded gently. “Ye are my sworn enemy, English. Do ye not hate me?”

  “Do you hate me?” he countered huskily.

  She blinked at him as if the question confused her. Then, slowly, she shook her head. “I should.”

  “So should I, but I do not,” he replied. “How could I possibly hate the woman that saved my life?”

  Her gaze was intense on him and he could almost see the thoughts rolling through her brain. The tears were gone now and she seemed to be a little more at ease. He didn’t even realize he was still holding her hand.

  “When I first saw ye today, English, I though ye might have come to kill me,” she said.

  His eyebrows rose in mild surprise. “Why on earth would I do that, my lady?”

  She dropped her head again shyly. “Because I dinna do a very good job of tending yer wound those many months ago and I thought ye were there to seek revenge.”

  When she repeated her thoughts, they particularly sounded silly. She wished she hadn’t said anything at all. For his part, William was surprised.

  “Why would I do that?” he asked, perplexed and concerned. “You saved my life, my lady. I do not make it a habit to kill people who have shown me kindness, not even Scots.” He peered more closely at her. “Did you really think that?”