The Warrior's Queen (Border Series Book 6)

by Cecelia Mecca

  Apparently Fiona’s shock did not last long. She chattered all the way into the entrance and only stopped when she and Gillian walked into the great hall. Highgate Castle, though it appeared circular from far away, was really more of a square structure. Ten long trestle tables lined the space in front of them, and a large hearth against the opposite outside wall completed the simple design of the hall.

  “That leads to the armorer’s tower,” Fiona explained, pointing to their right. “And that way,” she said, waving her hand in the opposite direction, “to the buttery and, at the far end, the kitchens.”

  Since no meal was being served, the hall was mostly empty.

  “’Tis well appointed,” Gillian complimented. “And clean.”

  It was true. Although Highgate lacked the splendor of Kenshire, it was obviously tended to by competent servants.

  Fiona beamed. “Those who’ve served Highgate have done so for many years.”

  “Such as yourself?”

  The old woman tsked, as if to say she’d much prefer to speak about Highgate’s glory than herself. A loyal servant, and one Gillian liked already.

  “I was lady’s maid to Graeme’s grandmother for over fifty years.”

  The pain in her voice, immediately evident, prompted Gillian to ask, “When did she pass?”

  Fiona looked up as if she could see her lady even now. “But two months back.”

  Though she knew Graeme’s father had been killed in battle four years ago, and his mother had been taken by illness when he was young, she’d not heard anything about his grandmother. Of course, Gillian hardly knew anything of her new husband at all.

  “I’m so very sorry to hear that,” she said.

  Fiona held her gaze, seemingly assessing her, and Gillian did not look away. She’d need allies here at Highgate, and she desperately wanted this woman to be one of them.

  “She sent you to me,” Fiona said, her tone daring Gillian to disagree.

  Though she didn’t believe the series of events that had brought her to Highgate could possibly have been caused by Graeme’s grandmother, she would not disrespect Fiona by disagreeing.

  “An Englishwoman too,” she said, almost as an afterthought. But there was no malice behind the words. Only resignation. “I’ll be showing you around Highgate. Or are ye wanting to rest?”

  “I would love to see more,” she said, knowing it was the answer Fiona hoped for.

  “And I’d also love to know how ye came to be my Graeme’s wife, if ye don’t mind sharin’?”

  Gillian didn’t mind at all. In fact, she looked forward to getting to know Fiona. And the woman clearly felt the same way. If only her husband were equally interested in opening up to her. She was beginning to feel he’d purposefully closed himself off.

  But that was a problem for another time.

  “Fiona, where are my—”

  A woman who’d entered the hall from the north tower stopped abruptly, looking at the two of them as if someone had stolen her favorite gown. Gillian knew immediately, without being told, who she was. Not that Graeme had mentioned he kept a mistress here at Highgate, but there was no other explanation for the way the woman was staring at her. Unfortunately, the woman was everything she was not. No freckles marred her cheeks. Instead, she was tall and blond. Really, really blond.

  But not, it seemed, very nice. The tone she took with Fiona would only be used by a person who cared little about giving offense. “And who . . . is that?”

  Gillian opened her mouth to answer but was not quick enough.

  “This woman,” Fiona said cheerily, “is the new lady of Highgate.”

  11

  “They will be brought to justice.” Graeme dismounted and handed his reins to the stableboy who had run out of the stables to meet his chief.

  “Why would Lord Blackburn risk everything on a raid such as this? It makes no sense.” Aidan followed him into the keep just as the sun began to set on Highgate.

  “I don’t know,” Graeme said, still furious but in control. Though it appeared the sheepherder’s death had not been intentional, she was nonetheless dead. She would not be there to help usher her daughter’s babe into the world. The circumstances of Grace’s death would have devastated his grandmother. Though everyone had loved the healer, she’d forged a special bond with his family during his mother’s convalescence.

  And now she was dead at the hand of English reivers, commissioned by a man as black as his name. Rumors of Lord Blackburn’s collusion with those who would disrupt the tentative peace at the border had persisted for years. One of the witnesses to the raid had even been there when Blackburn was caught cheating at the last Tournament of the North two years earlier. Luckily, he’d recognized two of Blackburn’s men, which meant they could be pursued.

  Though some, like Clan Scott, understood the value of the March Law from which the Day of Truce originated, others, on both sides of the border, despised what they saw as further interference in their autonomy.

  This time, they’d gone too far.

  “We’ll go to the Truce ourselves,” Aidan said as they entered the main keep.

  “Aye.”

  Each month, a Day of Truce brought English and Scottish together, allowing wardens on both sides to bring lawbreakers to justice. If the raid had been conducted by Scotsmen, they would already have mounted a counter-raid.

  “Brother,” Aidan said, leading the way into the great hall. “I do believe you—”

  “Aww, shite.”

  The scene that greeted them in the great hall was not a pleasant one. They were met with glares that would have sent Blackburn’s men back to England in fear.

  What in God’s name was Agnes doing here?

  His wife, seated at the head table, gave him the kind of look any woman would level at her husband if his mistress sat just below her. For her part, his former mistress appeared entirely unapologetic, just as he would have expected. The men and their wives—more than two dozen of them ate regularly in the hall—watched Graeme and Aidan enter as if expecting a wee performance.

  “What is she doing here?” Aidan whispered.

  Graeme had explained the circumstances of his marriage to his brother, and now that his initial surprise had faded, Aidan seemed pleased by the arrangement. Highgate needed a woman’s touch, and he had no inclination to marry. That Gillian filled that role meant he could continue enjoying the company of women, much like Graeme had been doing, without “committing to one bed partner,” as Aidan liked to say.

  “I don’t know,” he responded. Though the widowed merchant’s daughter was quite beautiful and an entertaining mistress, her jealous ways had worn on him. Graeme had ended their relationship before leaving for Kenshire.

  Her presence tonight did not bode well.

  “She needs to leave.” Graeme took one step into the hall, but Aidan stopped him.

  “Not now, brother.”

  Though none of the guests were close enough to hear their conversation, they were all watching, likely trying to gauge Graeme’s response to Agnes’s presence.

  “You’d have her dine in the same hall as my wife?”

  “I’d have you not ignore said wife hours after you dumped her off in a strange keep with none but Fiona to keep her company.”

  Oddly, Fiona was nowhere to be seen.

  “I need to find Malcolm. Save me something to eat, will you?” With that, Aidan turned and walked back in the direction they’d come.

  Coward.

  Graeme did regret the circumstances of Gillian’s arrival at Highgate, but it could not have been helped. He’d needed to attend to the sheepherder, to learn what had happened to poor Grace.

  He walked toward the raised dais at the back of the hall, intending to ignore Agnes until he could order her to leave.

  Gillian sat alone.

  Without taking the time to wash, he took a seat next to her.

  “Good evening, Gillian,” he said, not looking in Agnes’s direction.

&
nbsp; “Graeme,” she said politely.

  A vision of his wife assaulted him. Her head, thrown back in abandon as he kissed the sensitive flesh on her neck. Her hand, gripping his tunic. Had he imagined such things happening? The woman who sat next to him now, though as beautiful and intriguing as the one who’d returned his touch, seemed an entirely different sort of lady.

  Of course, the fact that Agnes sat just below them may have something to do with her coolness. Nay, it was more than that. She’d acted the same way at Kenshire . . . until they were alone in the gardens. These were the two sides to his lady—the proper miss and the vixen.

  “Did you learn anything?” she asked, picking up her pewter goblet. Though Highgate End was no match for Kenshire, its hall and furnishings enjoyed a rich history. Despite its proximity to the border, his clan had survived, and thrived, for many years.

  “We know who was behind the attacks,” he said, the regret in his voice real.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice.

  He stole a glance at her. Perfection. His wife, with those light brown freckles, lush lips, and long dark lashes, had no equal. Even now, his hands itched to touch her, to stroke her soft skin.

  “You’ve likely heard of Lord Blackburn, the scourge that he is to the borderlands.”

  She’d just lifted a morsel of rosemary-spiced rabbit to her mouth and therefore couldn’t answer. Unfortunately, Agnes caught his attention then and refused to let go. She glared at him as if he’d done her wrong, when in fact Graeme had given her coin and escort to Edinburgh, where she’d always planned to go. He’d even ignored the fact that her greedy father had attempted to extort him. What the hell was the woman doing sitting in his hall?

  “She has much to say about you. And us,” Gillian said from next to him.

  He’d expected her eyes to appear wounded, her voice to be tinged with jealousy. Instead, his lovely wife spoke of Agnes as casually as she might about the cook’s choice of main dish for the evening.

  Should he expect more from a woman forced to wed him?

  “I’m sure she does,” he said, ignoring Agnes as best he could.

  “I am sorry for your loss.” Gillian took another sip of wine.

  It took him a moment to realize she spoke once again of Grace. Unaccustomed to speaking of such things with anyone other than Aidan, he murmured, “’Tis as much a loss to my clan as it is to me. All adored her.”

  “I trust Fiona showed you around Highgate?” he continued.

  “She did.”

  When he looked at her, Graeme was struck silent. How did one interact with a wife? Or more precisely, one who seemed content with a marriage such as theirs. An alliance, forged out of necessity and lust.

  So they ate in silence. Each time Graeme glanced at her, Gillian looked away. Her smiles came easily enough for her friends at Kenshire, but they were much rarer for him. Unwittingly, he looked down at the opening of her gown, his eyes drawn to the line that led to a place he planned to explore that evening. He’d feel her breasts beneath his fingertips, and more. For Gillian may be the proper English wife at other times, but he knew the passion that simmered beneath the surface.

  Though it had nearly killed him, he’d held back during their travels, unwilling for her first time to be in an inn or abbey. But their marriage could finally be consummated, and he would fulfill the silent promise he’d made to her that night in the garden. The night he’d crowned her queen.

  Gillian sat on the edge of her feather bed in a comfortable but drafty bower, which, according to Fiona, had been unused for years. She watched the door that led to the adjoining wardrobe, a room that connected the lady’s and lord’s chambers. Such a room did not exist at Lyndwood. Instead, her parents dressed in their own chambers, and they slept separately.

  Earlier in the day, after the shock of Agnes’s appearance had worn off, Fiona had brought Gillian here to show her where she would be sleeping. Three maids had accompanied them, and they’d stayed to dust and sweep as she and Fiona continued in their exploration of Highgate’s upper chambers.

  She could not stop thinking of Agnes. Why should she care?

  She could hardly expect to have a husband as devoted as Geoffrey. No, her marriage would be more like that of her parents. She and Graeme would come together for the purpose of having an heir and for meals. Otherwise, she expected to learn as much about Highgate as possible in order to manage the castle affairs. That, at least, she’d been trained to do.

  This? The consummation of their marriage? Gillian had planned to ask Sara to tell her about it in more detail, but she’d never had the chance. Of course, she had thought at the time she’d be marrying a very different sort of man than Graeme. Had she been forced to lie with Covington, she would have merely stared up at the ceiling and waited for it to be over. Graeme was different.

  When the door opened, Gillian looked up. Her husband stood in the doorway, dressed casually in nothing more than hose and a loose linen shirt that hung well past his waist. Her heart raced, knowing what was to come.

  “She’s leaving on the morrow,” he said.

  Graeme had stayed behind in the hall after dinner, apparently to speak to Agnes. The woman had spent the evening glaring at her, and Gillian, for her part, had not given her the satisfaction of a return glance. Instead, she’d done exactly what her mother had advocated in such a situation. Simply ignored the woman. And while her father had never openly flaunted his mistresses, neither did they typically dine in the castle’s great hall. But Gillian was proud of her effort and knew her mother would have been too.

  “Very good,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.

  By now she was more accustomed to being in the same room with Graeme in nothing but her shift. The first two nights, she’d hidden under the covers. But he would simply pull the coverlet away and admonish her not to be ashamed in front of him.

  A difficult feat, to be sure.

  Graeme looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. The furnishings included only a bed, a circular brazier in the corner, a wooden trunk, and two wall torches that servants had lit while they were at dinner.

  “I’ve not been in here in years,” he said. By his tone, Gillian didn’t think he wanted to be in here now either.

  “’Twas your mother’s?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Aye,” he said. “She died the day after I turned two and ten. An illness none could identify turned her frail and weak in the end. I try not to remember her as the woman who lay in that bed for so long. I’d rather think of her as the mother who smiled as she admonished my brother and me to stop chasing each other through the corridors.”

  Lost in thought, Graeme fell silent. And then abruptly extended his hand to her. “Come with me,” he said.

  Mutely, she obeyed, taking his hand and allowing him to lead her through the darkened wardrobe, a room filled with trunks. Mostly empty ones, Fiona had said earlier, except for the ones that contained the jewels of the former lady of Highgate.

  Wrapping one hand around hers, a familiar gesture she’d come to enjoy these past few days, Graeme used the other to push open a wooden door that led to the lord’s chamber.

  “Did Fiona bring you here?”

  Gillian shook her head. Graeme’s bedchamber was nearly as large as the one at Kenshire! Only once in her life had Gillian seen such a room.

  A hearth nearly as large as the one in the hall took up a large portion of one wall. The bed, a canopied wooden one, looked as fine as the king’s. Well, her king. Gillian did not know much about Graeme’s sovereign, but he must also have a bed that enormous. Topped with fur coverlets and pillows, it also looked quite comfortable.

  Gillian looked away when she noticed Graeme watching her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Gillian turned her attention back to her husband.

  “For your homecoming today. For Agnes.”

  Gillian sensed he was sorry for more, but he’d stopped tal
king. He’d released her hand upon entering the room. Pity.

  “None of that could be helped,” she said.

  Graeme’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t care that a woman who shared my bed sleeps just down the hall? Or that—”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You might as well have.”

  What did he want from her?

  He continued to watch her, and the nervous, fluttering feeling in her stomach intensified. The one she’d had on the night they met and on nearly every occasion Graeme was in her presence.

  “Your father kept other women,” he said as if just realizing the fact.

  “Of course he did.”

  Graeme took a step toward her, and Gillian didn’t move. “I will not.”

  He said it with such force, Gillian believed him.

  “We may not have been married under the best of circumstances.” Graeme took her hands, both of them this time. “But I’d never dishonor you, Gillian.”

  Everything she’d heard about Graeme pointed to the truth of his statement. But then when she saw Agnes . . .

  Graeme looked toward the bed and then back at her.

  “Let me prove it to you.”

  He led her toward the bed and pulled down the coverlet. Then, abruptly releasing her hand, he moved around to the other side and promptly began to undress. Gillian looked away.

  “What are you doing?” Why had she asked when she already knew the answer?

  “Going to sleep.”

  She whipped her head back around, but Graeme was already lying down. She barely caught a glimpse of his broad chest before he pulled the white fur to his shoulders and then closed his eyes as if he were already sleeping.

  “Graeme?”

  He opened one eye, looking very much unlike the great clan chief. Instead, he teased her like an impertinent boy. “Aye, lass?” And then he opened both eyes. “Are you not coming to bed?”

  She did so hesitantly, still not understanding. Slipping under the covers, she laid her head upon the soft pillows below her.

  Gillian took a deep breath. “I don’t understand.”

  Graeme shifted to his side, propping his head on his hand. “The night I kissed you,” he said, his voice low, “I knew it was wrong but did it anyway. Do you know why, my English queen?”