My Highland Bride (Kingdoms of Meria Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  We would all be Merians, and Edingham would not exist. And none, not even the most independent among us, could argue we were stronger divided than we would be as one people.

  When she was alive, I told Fara the tales she so loved, La flamme et la fleur and others like it that Ciaran found for her, were nothing more than that. Tales. Life was not so romantic as that. Noblewomen like us typically married for advantage. Land or power. To increase social standing. It was why our family had amassed the greatest force of men in the Highlands. Why Father was so respected. Years of alliances, some of which my stubborn father later broke, for dignity and honor, he would say.

  But now she was gone. Her fanciful notions have become my own, for Fara is not here to live them. She believed love was everything, the start and end to life, and so I feel the need to honor that, her.

  “Lady Reyne?”

  A young man I do not know approaches, but from his clothing, I can guess his identity easily enough. I stand.

  “Bradyn?” I guess. Erik told me of his squire.

  He seems pleased I guessed his name.

  “Aye, my lady. Squire to Lord Erik Stokerton, the queen’s second commander,” he says proudly, chin raised.

  And then he says no more, so I fill the silence. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  He smiles and nods but says nothing. The poor boy seems nervous.

  “Would you like to sit?” I offer.

  He shakes his head.

  “I was sent here by Lord Stokerton to give you a message.”

  Again, I wait. His face contours in anguish, making me want to pull him into an embrace. The poor lad is so young. And as Erik told me, without parents. A fate I’d not wish on anyone.

  My father might lie and withhold information, but I would not part with him for all the world.

  “I—” he stammers, “when my lord gave me the missive, I was polishing his armor, and I . . .”

  He doesn’t remember the message.

  “Please sit,” I tell him, gesturing toward my brother’s empty chair in front of the tent. The boy does, and I resume my seat as well.

  “Are you enjoying the tournament?”

  He nods, most enthusiastically. “Aye, my lady. Very much. I’ve seen so many splendid things since coming into my lord’s service. Breywood Castle and the East Sea. I’d never seen the sea before. I lived on a farm. But my parents were killed. I snuck onto a clothier’s wagon, and Lord Stokerton made me his squire the very day we rolled into the courtyard. I was worried I’d be tossed into the dungeons but . . . I’d heard of Queen Cettina’s kindness. Well, some say she is kind. Others are afraid of her. But I am not.” He scrunches his nose. “Well, mayhap a bit. But she is kind too. As is my lord.”

  Smiling, I say a silent prayer of thanks Bradyn found his way to Erik.

  “He is quite kind,” I say, attempting to quell his fears about forgetting the message from Erik. A man more filled with secrets than my own father. He spoke of honesty, and yet he didn’t see fit to tell me he’d been betrothed before. After the stranger’s insertion into our conversation, Erik told me about his ill-fated betrothal to one of Queen Cettina’s ladies. Something inside of me burned in an unfamiliar way. And yet . . . it is hard to hold a grudge against him in the face of his kindness to this boy. “Did you know I knew him when he was a young lad, like you?”

  His eyes widen. “I did not.”

  “Lord Stokerton’s land borders ours. On one occasion, I accompanied my father to a meeting and saw Erik in the courtyard, surrounded by younger children. He was acting out the story of Aiden’s crossing of the Terese River.”

  “Before this was Edingham?”

  “Aye,” I say, “Lord Stokerton has always cared for others, and he will care for you well, I do believe.”

  I try to ignore Bradyn’s suddenly glossy eyes, but my own cheeks begin to tingle. If I were to cry in front of him, surely it would summon his tears, so I push away thoughts of love and loss. Though I do believe it silly, the idea that boys or men should not cry, I know he wouldn’t wish to do so in front of me.

  “I remembered my lord’s message,” he says suddenly, bolting up from his seat as the smell of smoke reaches us. At least one fire is still burning.

  “He asks that you join him for supper this eve. His tent is so large he eats in it,” Bradyn exclaims. “My lord also bade me to tell you that he begs your forgiveness.”

  After the dual revelations of last eve, I am not surprised. When we parted, I told him I would think on it, his request to court me at this tourney.

  Which I’ve done.

  Unfortunately, no clarity has come to me just yet. I both wish to know Erik and wish to go back home to the safety of Blackwell Castle, where there is no opportunity for my heart to be broken. Again.

  ’Tis just supper, nothing more.

  “Please tell your lord I will have Warin escort me there at sundown.”

  Bradyn beams as if his mission has been successful. Pleasing him is as good a reason as any to sup with Erik this eve. The boy clearly needs encouragement after what he’s been through.

  “Very good, my lady. I shall tell him. My lord will be quite pleased, methinks.”

  His bow is so formal, I cannot help but smile.

  “Good day, Lady Reyne.”

  “Good day, Sir Bradyn.”

  He frowns. “I am not yet knighted, my lady.”

  I make a sound of dismissal. “But you surely will be soon. Best you become accustomed to the title.”

  Bradyn’s broad smile makes my heart so very happy. I tell myself the flutters in my middle have naught to do with the thought of supping in Erik’s tent, alone with him, this eve. If Father allows it, which, given his deception, I do believe he will.

  Perhaps I will not tell my father or brother that I know of their design.

  This may turn out to be quite fun.

  14

  Erik

  “I’m not a goddamn maid, Erik.”

  For all of Gille’s grumblings, he and Bradyn did well. When the idea of hosting Reyne for dinner occurred to me, I became grateful for Gille’s insistence on luxuries I would never have brought with me. The table and chairs offer a place for us to eat. Bradyn found and polished the forks and knives and even rolled up the bedrolls, making it a space almost fit for a king. Or queen.

  Or Reyne.

  “Put them there,” I say of the goblets he’s procured.

  After spending the entire day in this very tent, discussing the plot that seems to be unfolding even now, at this very tournament, my friend is understandably ornery.

  “Take Bradyn around camp,” I say. “Introduce him to the Highlanders. Maybe you will hear something.”

  We’ve agreed this is our best course. To find out what Rawlins is planning, we must both discover the location of the secret meeting and learn who of importance will be attending. Speaking to Rawlins directly would not do. His mistrust of the crown, and therefore of us, would do our cause more harm than good.

  While I am noticed here, Bradyn is completely unknown and Gille can pass mostly undetected. Their goal is to listen and learn.

  “She is approaching,” Bradyn says excitedly from his position by the tent flap.

  I move to leave when Gille stops me with a hand on my arm.

  “You are not doing this for Moray’s support alone.”

  I freeze.

  “I have known you for more than seven years, Erik, and not once have I seen you this way.” His gaze holds mine. “Not even with Isolda.”

  At the mention of her name, I close my eyes.

  “It was not your fault, Erik.”

  Aye, it was very much so, but we will not argue the point again, especially not now. Opening my eyes, I move toward the entrance.

  “I didn’t bring up Isolda to upset you,” Gille says quietly, “only to prove a point. This is not the same. You are not the same.”

  Of course he is right.

  I turn.

  “Aye, she is
. . . different.”

  Gille does not seem surprised by my admission.

  Other than sending Bradyn over with the invitation, I avoided talk of Reyne all day long, all the while fretting that she was done with me, that she’d not speak to me again. Only after my squire returned with the news she would indeed join me this eve did I tell Gille of my admission to her. But he said little about it, until now.

  “I know her from her childhood,” I say, something Gille already knows. “She has grown into a woman, more beautiful than I could have imagined. And the spark of her youth is still there at times . . .” I stop, realizing he does not fully understand.

  “She lost her sister in a drowning, an incident she herself witnessed,” I say in explanation.

  Bradyn pops his head back in through the flap. “She is here,” he says, his face beaming.

  I move to follow him, but Gille catches me by the arm.

  “Do this for yourself. Not for Cettina. Not for Edingham. They’ve both taken more of you than any man I know.”

  I hold his gaze, understanding, although I’m unsure whether I’m capable of doing as he bids.

  “Come outside with me,” I say instead.

  And when I open the flap of the tent, I know Gille is right.

  Though more simply dressed than last night, Reyne is no less elegant. She stands before us, chin held high, Warin on her arm.

  Does he know what transpired?

  “Good eve, Reyne. Warin. I expect you remember Sir Gille Elliot, and my squire, Bradyn.”

  They file out of the tent, moving to one side of Reyne and her brother. She bows not to me but to Bradyn. “Sir Bradyn, if it pleases you.”

  Her deference to him, which completely ignores their relative ranks, makes my squire inordinately happy. He beams and my heart warms toward her even more.

  “He will earn his spurs before long,” I agree. “Will you join us, Warin?”

  Although I hope he will say nay, it would be considered highly offensive if I refrained from asking.

  “I leave that decision to my sister.”

  Reyne gives him a look, and I know she has not told him she’s learned of the arrangement.

  “Lord Stokerton was a gentleman last eve, and I would expect no less at supper.”

  I would not be so sure of that, but I say not a word.

  “Very well. Then I leave my sister to your care.”

  Every single one of us present, save Bradyn, understands the unusual nature of such an arrangement.

  “I will escort her back safely, as I did last eve.”

  It was an easy feat given Reyne was not speaking with me by the time I left her at the tents.

  “Any word?” he asks, and I know what he refers to, of course.

  “Nay. But Gille will inform you of our strategy, if it pleases you.”

  I offer my arm. “Reyne?”

  She hesitates a moment before taking it.

  I lift the flap and escort her inside.

  “A modest supper, if it pleases you.”

  “Oh!” Reyne exclaims as the candlelit table comes into view. “I should have expected as much. You are a Curia commander, of course.”

  If she had come into the tent earlier this day, Reyne might have had a very different reaction. I will have to thank Gille and Bradyn, again, for their assistance.

  When I pull the modest chair out for her to sit, and she does, I move to my own as I fill both our goblets, with her permission.

  “I did not think you would come,” I admit.

  “I wasn’t sure I should.”

  I’ve dined with kings and queens. With nobles so influential they could have changed the course of my life if they’d chosen to do so.

  But somehow this supper, this impromptu affair, feels like the most important of my life. Because something tells me this night will determine everything.

  “Whether ’tis a good decision or nay, I am glad you are here.” I raise my goblet. “To you, Lady Reyne, and your first adventure beyond the walls of Blackwell Castle.”

  She lifts her goblet cautiously.

  We drink, and when Bradyn brings the meat he and Gille cooked themselves, we eat our repast. As the tent grows darker, our conversation deepens beyond politesse. As we finish the spiced pears Bradyn purchased at today’s market, Reyne gives me a probing look and says, “I did not see you today.”

  “We did not venture far. Rawlins’s threat has altered my purpose here.”

  I’m honest with Reyne, telling her all of what I’ve learned . . . which doesn’t go far beyond what she and Warin already discovered. It is unusual for me to be so open—Gille often complains that I am too reticent with information—yet I find I want to share myself with her.

  But as we finish eating, the conversation turns from Rawlins’s plot to last eve’s revelations. I apologize once again.

  “I’d have told you about Isolda earlier.”

  “Will you do so now?”

  Although plenty of people have gossiped about the would-be match, I rarely speak of it. But I will break my silence for Reyne—she deserves to hear the story.

  “As I’ve said, she was a lady in waiting to Cettina. She is the daughter of a minor Borderland lord. For a time, I thought myself in love with her.”

  “Were you not?”

  A question easily answered.

  “Nay. Though we got on well enough.” I’m unsure how to explain. “My father was pleased when King Malcom brought me to the capital, but he was also concerned for our family. As you know, I have no brother or sister to inherit the lands. I promised that I would one day return, when needed, and Isolda, even though a Borderer, seemed a good match.”

  Reyne listed intently, perhaps too much so. But now that I’d started, there is no choice but to finish.

  “She was a beautiful woman. Desired by many men at court, including Lord Bowes.”

  Reyne clearly knows who he is by her reaction. Of course, who in Edingham does not? It’s not every day a king executes a noble for carrying on with his daughter.

  “One eve, so late at night I’d been sleeping, Isolda came to my bedchamber, crying. She confessed that she and Lord Bowes had been”—I clear my throat—“intimate.”

  Reyne reaches for her goblet, a good thing, as the tale has only just begun.

  “She confessed that she’d been seduced by him . . . and found a letter addressed to Lady Hilla in his chamber.”

  I can see she understands where this story leads. Anyone on the Isle would have been able to finish it for me.

  “Isolda told me that she’d been upset I refused to profess my love to her, despite that we were getting married. Lord Bowes had seduced her, said he loved her. That night, the second time they had been together according to Isolda, she spied a letter in his chamber addressed to the princess. In it, he said he thoroughly enjoyed their time together and, despite that Lady Hilla was married, he would never stop fighting for them to be together.”

  I forge ahead, despite the tightening in my chest as I recall the events of that night.

  “I was angry, of course. At Isolda for her unfaithfulness. But more so at Lord Bowes for his actions, seducing a woman betrothed and another married, and the princess no less. Rather than think through the repercussions, I turned, in anger, to the king. Told him what I’d learned and demanded Lord Bowes’s chamber be searched. The letter was indeed found, and seemed to confirm what had long been whispered— Lady Hilla and Lord Bowes were having an affair.” I shrug. “I assume you know the rest.”

  King Malcom did punish Bowes, by beheading him. And he exiled both Lady Hilla and her husband.

  “What happened to Lady Isolda?”

  “She fled to Stoughrock. I’ve not spoken to her since that night. And, as you know, though I never mentioned Lady Hilla to anyone other than the king, Bowes publicly named her as his mistress before he died.”

  “Leading the king to banish her and name Cettina as queen.”

  “Aye.”

 
I’m unsure precisely what I expected, sharing my role in a story that altered the future of our kingdom. But when Reyne pushes back her chair and makes to leave, I do not blame her.

  15

  Reyne

  I have been unsure for so long.

  Of my purpose. Of how I would live without Fara. Of coming here, to this tourney. And now of Erik and how I should proceed with him.

  But as he speaks of his part in the Hilla affair, I am finally sure of something.

  Erik is in great pain, and my need to comfort him is stronger than any other consideration. It is a silly fancy, of course. This warrior does not need my pity—he is the queen’s commander, a powerful and respected man—and yet, I can see the pain in his eyes.

  He stands, and I realize he thinks I mean to leave.

  I lay my hand on his arm, stopping him.

  “I will give you nine days.” I pause, then add, “You are not to blame for what happened, Erik.”

  He defies my words with a look that says otherwise.

  “I should never have gone to Malcom.”

  “I should never have asked my sister if she wanted to dip her feet in the water with me.”

  My hand drops. Only my brother and parents know the details of my own painful story.

  “We’d done so before, but that day . . . the river raged. ’Twas so hot, and so I made the suggestion that saw my sister killed. I am the reason she is gone.” The familiar swell of tears threatens, but I push it away. “She leaned forward for the briefest of moments, and that was all it took. She fell in. When I saw her in the water . . .”

  It is as if I’m sitting on that riverbank even now. I can smell the dirt and grass behind me, feel the breeze off the water. See Fara as she is swept away.

  I close my eyes, trying to make the vision stop. When Erik’s arms wrap around me, I cling to him as I did my brother when he pulled me from that very water.

  “I jumped in and nearly drowned,” I say against his shoulder. “So many times I’ve wished I had.”

  Oddly, I do not cry, as if I have no tears left inside me. Even so, being engulfed in Erik’s arms offers a measure of comfort I never knew I needed.