by Diana Cosby
And Symon. Oh, God. Over the past three years he’d witnessed Symon’s silent struggles since Isabel had become Frasyer’s mistress, had tried to convince him to open up to him, but Symon never would. Each day Isabel spent in Frasyer’s control would have destroyed her brother more.
Duncan began to pace, hurting, aching, but mostly furious at himself for not suspecting there was a deeper motivation than money behind Isabel’s actions.
He stopped. Turned to face her. “You are a virgin. Or were. I—” He blew out a rough breath. “We all believed you were Frasyer’s mistress.”
Heat slid up her cheeks, but she didn’t turn away and his love for her grew. “Initially, I as well. But he never touched me in that way or any other. At first I was convinced that all he wanted was to have me so you could not. Over the past year, I overheard a couple of the knights talking when they thought they were alone. It would seem that in a battle years before, Frasyer was injured. They expected him to die. Somehow he lived, but the wound left him scarred and unable to father a child. I owed his embarrassment to his paternal inability as to the reason he has left me untouched.”
The news should have relieved him. Instead, guilt weighed on his mind. “I have blamed you wrongly.”
“No more than I have blamed myself.” She slid her hands up and down her arms. “Perhaps one day we can move past this.”
A muscle worked in Duncan’s jaw. “You are too forgiving. These past three years I have satisfied myself with believing the worst about you.”
She shook her head. “I let you. No, I wanted you to. Duncan”—she said his name softly—“you have no idea how many times I wished, I prayed, things could have been different between us.”
“They will,” he vowed, emotion vibrating through him.
“No, however much I desire it, nothing has changed. After this is over, I must return to Frasyer.”
“No! You are mine.” The thought of losing her again turned his thoughts dark, vicious. “I am my own man. I have my own resources. I would rather fight Frasyer to my death than have you go back to him, thinking to protect me.”
She rose, a naked nymph that sent a surge of desire racing through him. “But I must also protect my father, and he depends on me to deliver the Bible and save him from certain death. He will depend on me again to keep him from going to debtor’s prison. And Bible or no, if I refuse to return to Frasyer as his mistress, my father will hang.”
He shook his had. “There must be another way. There are people we can petition—”
“I would give anything if there were, but my father assured me that he’d pleaded with everyone he knew when he fell into debt.” She held out her hands in a gesture of frustration, dropped them to her sides. “There is no one. All the men I love have been torn from me.”
The sadness in her voice battered his heart. Muscles bunched beneath his skin. He clenched his fists, wanting to scream his frustration, his mind sorting through options. His brothers would help, as would Griffin. With Griffin’s political link to King Edward, anything was possible.
Could he impose on his brother-in-law’s position with the English king to intercede?
The rebels needed the information Griffin covertly fed them under the cloak of his secret identity, Wulfe. How could he put his own needs and wants against those of a whole kingdom?
He could not.
Agonized, he pulled free and strode to stand before the hearth where flames greedily consumed the dry tinders. The odor of wood filled the space, a warm welcome to an empty heart.
What did he do now—give up, walk away from Isabel after realizing he still loved her?
He hadn’t even told her how he felt. What good would revealing that he loved her do? It would change nothing if and when they parted, making both of their pain worse for the brevity of its acknowledged existence.
However much he was disappointed that she had not turned to him, he found himself almost humiliated by the truth they faced.
Even now, three years after Frasyer had bartered for Isabel, with his sole intent for gaining her to hurt Duncan, he could do nothing. Bedamned, she was naught but an innocent pawn in a brutal game. Anger mounted atop his frustration until it was if he’d burst.
A sigh sounded behind him.
He did not turn.
Long moments passed.
The shuffle of sheets announced that Isabel had withdrawn to the bed. A bed where he’d lain with her. A bed where they’d made love. A bed where he’d taken her innocence. Duncan leaned his forearm against the stone hearth and bowed his head.
A virgin.
A ludicrous notion claimed his mind. What if she now carried his child? An ache built in his chest. He envisioned Isabel round with his child. A girl—one with her mother’s smile, a father’s pride.
A child Frasyer would claim as his.
He curled his fist against the stone. Nay, if indeed Isabel was pregnant, Frasyer would not claim his child. Whatever it took, Duncan would have Isabel back.
But how?
He stared at the yellow flames reaching toward the darkness of the cold night. For the first time in his life, Duncan was unsure of what next to do.
The howl of the wind woke him. Duncan surveyed the blackened space with a warrior’s eye. Shadows fell with meager relief, broken by the low, blue flames of the burning coals. Otherwise, he saw nothing to alert him of imminent danger.
The soft warmth of skin pressed against him. Isabel. Long after she’d fallen asleep, without any answers as to how he could free her from Frasyer, he’d climbed into bed beside her. While she’d slept, he’d held her close and wished for a miracle.
A hopeless wish if ever there was one.
What had started as a simple rescue mission had tumbled into a fine quagmire—one without answers. With the amount she’d stated that Lord Caelin had lost in his gaming to Frasyer, it was even beyond his brother Seathan’s reach. Then there was the added expense of recovering Lord Caelin’s home.
Duncan drew Isabel against him, the steady beat of her heart beckoning him to make love with her and never let her go. The desperation of losing her had him kissing the silky skin of her jaw and slowly working his way up to tease her lips.
Soft sighs tumbled to moans of need as she slowly awakened. “Duncan?”
Her soft, sleep-roughened voice thrummed through him. He covered her mouth and kissed her with infinite slowness. With each caress he showed her what he could never tell her. With their bodies entwined, they each found their release.
Isabel snuggled up against him, his heart still racing from their joining. “I love you, Duncan.”
Deeply moved, wanting to reply the same, instead he drew her closer. Moments passed. A sleepy smile grazed her lips, then she closed her eyes. Her soft even breaths assured him that she’d fallen back asleep.
Restless, he slipped from the bed. Coals glowed dimly in the fireplace so he applied himself to the simple task of building the fire, blowing on the coals until they ignited the dry timber. Flames built, snapping cheerily. He sat and watched as the fire continued to grow and warm the room, but inside coldness clung to his soul.
He rubbed his temple where a pounding was gaining ground. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the tip of the Bible peeking from the leather sack.
If only it held the answers he needed. He sighed. The Bible held the information to save Lord Caelin. That would have to be enough for now.
Another blast of wind buffeted the side of the crofter’s hut, promising their travel this day would be arduous at best. He walked to the slit used as a window, lifted the heavy tarp and looked out. Darkness clung to the sky, casting the surrounding trees and landscape into vague outlines that muted into sheer blackness. Hours remained until the first rays of sun would sever the night.
He looked toward Isabel. She slept soundly, what he needed to do as well, but with his mind spinning, he doubted if he’d find any more sleep this night.
The tip of the Bible again caug
ht his attention. What exactly was the proof Lord Caelin spoke of? A chilling idea crept through his mind. What if whatever the drink-addled Lord Caelin claimed as proof of his innocence was naught more than a worthless writ? Or in his skewed mind, had he recalled evidence that didn’t exist?
He glanced at Isabel, thankful to find her lost in sleep. Please, God, let proof of Lord Caelin’s innocence exist. With his hands trembling in fear, Duncan withdrew the Bible.
On a prayer, he opened the aged leather, worn smooth by overuse. A hint of frankincense greeting him. Hundreds of pages of yellowed parchment, filled with handwritten inscriptions lay before him. Notations penned on some pages caught Duncan’s eye as did the folded edges on others. With each marked page he reviewed, he found naught but writings of a believer, a man struggling to understand why God had taken a loving wife from him.
His fingers flew through the rest of the pages, but found not a torn scrap or any other document that represented anything bearing proof of Lord Caelin’s innocence. Duncan flipped through the last few pages of parchment, each one driving his sense of doom deeper. As he turned over the last page, his worst fear was recognized.
Nothing.
No proof existed.
He closed his eyes. Their entire journey, the dangers he and Isabel had faced, was all for naught. A lump built in his throat as he turned toward Isabel. He rubbed the thick leather of the back cover. How was he going to tell her? The news would break her heart. Bedamned, why had her father told her such a lie?
Was Lord Caelin drunk at the time of the telling? A hysterical laugh festered Duncan’s throat. He’d never thought to ask. No, if her father had been inebriated when cornered by Frasyer and hauled away, she would have told him.
So why did Lord Caelin want her to fetch the Bible? After Frasyer had taken it, one would think he would have scoured it to ensure it held nothing of worth.
It didn’t make sense.
Nerves had him tracing his thumb across the hand-sewn stitching securing the leather to the hard cover of the back. Frustrated, he followed the intricate stitching.
Odd. Instead of a steady seam sewn around the back cover to bind it, the threads made an odd, intricate pattern. No, the strange sewing was only along the inner side near the bindings. Unless a person was looking for it, they would miss the finely sewn detail.
He stilled. A hidden compartment? Was the proof they sought inside? Relief swamped Duncan. Thank God.
Upon closer inspection, he found the hidden indent within the fabric that allowed him entrance to the secret compartment. He reached inside. His fingers grazed several pages of parchment.
His heart pounded as he withdrew the aged documents. He unfolded the fragile sheets, noted the dates starting the various entries, recognizing Lord Caelin’s writing. He frowned. A diary?
With a sinking feeling in his gut, he began to read the penned notes. Upon the first entry, he stilled. Stopped. Reread it.
Sweat beaded on his brow as he glanced over to where Isabel slept in peace, ignorant to the magnitude of the documents he held.
’Twas no wonder Lord Caelin desired to have the Bible delivered into safe hands.
The reason had nothing to do with Lord Caelin’s needing proof of his innocence. It had everything to do with Isabel.
Hands shaking, Duncan continued to read each dated entry, the decisions made, the risks taken by Lord Caelin throughout the time he’d raised Isabel humbling Duncan more.
He finished the last sheet, closed his eyes and hung his head. Oh, God, Lord Caelin wasn’t Isabel’s father.
No, that honor belonged to Sir William Wallace.
Chapter 18
Stunned, Duncan stared at the worn pieces of parchment, then turned toward the woman who lay in the bed.
A bed they’d shared.
Was Isabel truly William Wallace’s daughter?
He again scanned the pages documenting in detail how Wallace, desperate to protect his only child from threats, had been forced to give up Isabel while he fought for Scotland’s freedom.
But how could a father give up his daughter?
With each line Duncan read, he felt the enormity of Wallace’s sacrifice in leaving his infant daughter with Lord Caelin, how he’d asked his friend to play the role of Isabel’s father until their country’s safety was secured. Each day apart from Isabel had torn a piece away from Wallace’s soul, proven by his secret visits to Lord Caelin, when in fact he’d come to see his daughter.
Duncan shook his head, awed by the sacrifices of both men.
He stared at Isabel, her hair the color of aged whisky fanning over the bed, how her chest rose and fell peacefully with each breath, her face soft with the innocence of those who slept. Did she truly not know?
Duncan flipped madly, scouring pages that detailed Wallace and Lord Caelin’s protective scheme. Nay, it would appear that she did not, as the men had skillfully shielded the knowledge from her throughout her life.
The name scrawled atop the next document had Duncan catching his breath.
Frasyer’s name. What was this?
The parchment made a crinkling sound as he pulled it closer. His mind reeled at Lord Caelin’s next admittance.
Sir William Wallace and Lord Caelin had set up Lord Frasyer.
Since King Edward had stepped up his search to find and kill Wallace, fearful a tie between Isabel and Wallace would be discovered, Lord Caelin and Wallace had agreed on a plan. Lord Caelin had pretended to be drunk and, on a bet, had purposely lost an enormous amount of money on that fateful night three years past to Frasyer.
Aware of Frasyer’s hatred of Duncan, of the earl’s impotence due to a battle wound, Lord Caelin had deliberately offered Isabel as Frasyer’s mistress instead of payment, in keeping with the well-planned tactics.
Confident, cocky, and believing he’d won a great victory by claiming Duncan’s betrothed as his whore, Frasyer had greedily accepted. Now, even if King Edward learned that Wallace had a daughter, they’d hidden Isabel in the one place English troops would never search.
By pretending to sacrifice Isabel, her father and Lord Caelin had actually saved her from greater danger. The lengths both men had gone to in keeping Isabel safe, their bravery, left Duncan humbled.
Aware of Isabel’s love for Duncan, ink written by a trembling hand as Lord Caelin had penned the entry revealed his agony in the decision to trick Isabel into moving in with Frasyer. With deep regret, he had used her big heart to sway her decision to become Frasyer’s mistress. In addition, though he wanted to lessen Duncan’s heartache, Lord Caelin had worried Duncan would confront Frasyer if he learned the truth, a risk he, nor Wallace, could take.
Emotion tightened Duncan’s throat as he carefully folded the pages of parchment. His fingers trembled as he slid them inside the secret compartment and secured it. He closed his eyes, the magnitude of the knowledge held within the Bible storming him.
Lord Caelin had suffered along with his daughter. No, not his real daughter. Isabel was of William Wallace’s blood.
If anyone would have told Duncan prior, he would have dismissed the telling as a poor joke made. He stroked his thumb along the worn leather. Truth of the fact lay hidden within, knowledge that must never fall into the wrong hands.
He released a harsh breath. If King Edward ever learned of Isabel’s connection to Wallace, he would use her to lure Wallace to his death. Without a strong warrior to lead the rebel forces, Scotland’s fragile hold on freedom would lay in jeopardy.
What would Isabel think once she knew? Should he tell her? He studied her as she lay peacefully within the straw bed. Wisps of whisky-colored hair curled around her cheek, her mouth caught in an innocent pout as she slept. She looked as if she was a wayward faerie who’d found peace.
No, until the ledger was in safe hands, he must shield her from the truth. If by chance they were caught, and if she knew of her birthright, Frasyer might torture information from her that could seal Wallace’s fate, as well as her own.
The pieces fell into place in Duncan’s mind. With Lord Caelin’s capture, unable to protect the Bible’s secret, he had let Isabel believe his innocence was hidden within.
A lie.
A lie to protect Isabel.
A lie that would inspire her to recover the Bible from Frasyer’s hands and deliver the secret of her parentage to safety.
A wry smile played on Duncan’s lips before falling away. If indeed Lord Caelin knew of Lord Monceaux’s secret life, Duncan also found it intriguing that the English lord’s sister, Nichola, had married Duncan’s brother Alexander. An unexpected mix to be sure.
With Lord Monceaux’s sister having married Duncan’s brother, Duncan had come to know the English lord well. Though King Edward’s adviser for the Scots, Griffin upheld what he believed right, the reason he’d become a spy for Scotland.
Aye, he would honor Lord Caelin’s request that the Bible be delivered to Lord Monceaux. He’d trust Griffin with his life.
Duncan turned toward Isabel, aching at what she had endured, some of it unknowingly at the hands of two well-meaning fathers.
The soft glow of flames caressed the gentle curve of her face, illuminating her soft lips parted in sleep.
God, how he loved her.
An innocent in so many ways still. He wanted to teach her the pleasures of the flesh. He wanted to love her, body and soul until they lay in each other’s arms exhausted. No, more than that.
He wanted her in his life.
Forever.
Except William Wallace being her father changed everything. Assuming the mess with Frasyer ever was resolved, how could he, a mere knight, marry a woman who was the daughter of Scotland’s true leader?
His fragile hope of creating a life with her shattered.
Last night’s anger at finding her a virgin paled in comparison to the challenges they now faced. The gentle buffeting of wind against the crofter’s hut, a soft, lonely sound, matched the emotions churning in his soul.