Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “There,” she wept, covering her naked chest with her arms and wiping her face at the same time. “Do what you must. I have made it simple for you to take what you want.”

  Stephen had stood still as stone throughout the entire exchange; even now, as she stood before him in all of her naked glory, his cornflower blue eyes were fixed on her face. There had been a brief moment when he had visually inspected his new bride and what he saw did not displease him. She was magnificent. He also knew that it took an abundance of courage to do what she had just done and he was impressed. A small seed of respect sprouted for the woman as she stood a few feet away, sobbing pitifully yet prepared to do as she must. He knew it hadn’t been easy for her and in that instant, the compassion he kept so carefully guarded began to find release.

  Stephen was not a cruel man by nature. He was, in fact, inordinately kindhearted, which is why he kept himself so closely guarded. He stood there for a moment, listening to her weep. Then, very slowly, he reached down and picked up the tartan that he had flung on the ground. Moving to her, he gently wrapped it around her naked body.

  “Come,” his voice was a raspy whisper. “Lay down on the bed.”

  She was weeping so heavily that she couldn’t speak. “But… but….”

  He shushed her softly, picking her up bodily and laying her upon the old, scratchy mattress when she seemed unable to do it herself. Pulling off his soiled tunic, he turned her towards the wall and lay down beside her. Gathering her up in his arms, he wedged her soft body into a comfortable position against him.

  “Sleep now,” he murmured into the top of her head.

  “But… but…,” she tried to twist around to look him in the face. “You said… you said we must con… consumm….”

  “Consummate the marriage,” he finished for her when she couldn’t seem to spit the word out. “We will. But not right now.”

  She broke out in fresh tears. “I do not know anything about the marriage bed,” she lamented. “The only thing I know is from that warm summer day those years ago when that soldier… he did unspeakable things ….”

  She couldn’t finish and Stephen lay there in the darkness, thinking that perhaps he had been wrong in not believing her tale. There truly hadn’t been any reason for her to lie to him unless she had been else compromised and did not want him to know it. Perhaps she was promiscuous and that was why her father sent her to Jedburgh. He simply didn’t know her well enough to believe what she told him. He was reluctant to admit that he was afraid to believe her.

  “Hush, my lady,” he repeated, tightening his grip around her. “Go to sleep. Things will seem better in the morning.”

  Her sobs remained strong, as they do when all defenses are down and exhaustion causes a lack of self-control. Stephen’s surprising show of kindness undid her. She was not used to anyone being particularly kind to her. Joselyn was running amuck at the mouth and there was no way to stop it.

  “But that was not the worst part,” she wept. “There was the baby….”

  Stephen felt as if he had been hit in the chest. Her words had that effect on him and he lifted his head to look at her.

  “What baby?” he demanded.

  Her hands were on her face as he rolled her onto her back. She was weeping incoherently and he pulled her hands away from her face. “What baby?” he demanded again, less harshly.

  Joselyn gazed up at him with her pale blue eyes and wet, dark lashes. Her face was sopping with tears but her sobs died somewhat as she stared at him. She didn’t know why she was telling him all of this, only that she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  “My… my baby,” she hiccupped. “I delivered a son three days after my twelfth birthday. I know you said that you did not believe me, but if you wanted proof of what the English soldier did to me, the physic told me that the birth tore me asunder. There are scars everywhere.”

  Stephen just stared at her, trying not to feel horrified on behalf of the woman. Still, it was an appalling tale. She told it with honesty. He could see it in her eyes as she spoke frankly of something no young maiden should have to speak of. The compassion seeping into his veins began to flow more strongly.

  “Where is the child?” he asked, his voice exceptionally gentle.

  She wiped at her eyes. “My father took both the child and me to Jedburgh,” she said softly. “I named him Cade Alexander, after my father and his father. The nuns cared for him and I was only allowed limited contact. He is eleven years old now, a strapping lad with dark hair the last I saw.”

  Stephen sat back, staring at her with mounting disbelief. “He has been with you at Jedburgh all these years?”

  “Until he was seven years of age. Then the nuns sent him to foster at Ettrick Castle.”

  “Does he know you are his mother?”

  She shook her head. “He does not. He was told that he was orphaned.” She sat up slowly, sitting next to the man who was staring so openly at her. He didn’t seem disgusted, or judgmental, and that gave her courage. “From time to time, the nuns bring me news that he is well. When he has completed his training, my father has agreed to return him home. Perhaps… perhaps then I will tell him that I am his mother.”

  Stephen’s eyes were dull with the tragedy of her tale. “And what if he asks of his father? What will you tell him?”

  She looked as if she was going to start crying again but she fought it. “It was not his fault that he was the result of a violent, ugly act,” she murmured. “I am not sure what I will tell him, but it will not be the truth.”

  “Do you know where his father is now?”

  She shook her head. “After it happened, my father told me never to speak of it again. I have no knowledge of what became of the soldier or who he was.”

  Stephen regarded her carefully, thoughtfully. “Surely you caught a glimpse of something that might give a clue as to where he came from. Did he say anything?”

  “Nothing that I choose to repeat in your presence,” she told him, but realizing by the expression on his face that he was only attempting to help her. Her brow furrowed as she struggled to bring forth thoughts that she had tried very hard to forget. “I… I remember that he bore the colors of gray and red. I heard someone say that those were the standards of the Earl of Carlisle.”

  Stephen gazed steadily at her. Then, he snorted, an ironic gesture that Joselyn misread as a haughty one. Ashamed, she backed away from Stephen and pulled the tartan more tightly about her. She was in the process of pressing herself into the wall again when he stopped her.

  “Nay, lady, you’ll not move away from me,” he had her by the arm. “I was not laughing at you. I was simply thinking that after all these years, you may be in luck. Justice may yet come.”

  She was not sure what he meant. “What do you mean?”

  Stephen tugged on her until she moved away from the wall and back in his direction. “Because Tate de Lara happens to be the current Earl of Carlisle,” he told her. “Perhaps this man is still in his ranks. When he assumed the title, Carlisle Castle was already staffed. It had been since Harclay was executed. Perhaps this soldier is still within the earl’s ranks.”

  “Who is Tate de Lara?”

  “The other man who escorted you to your marriage. He has been in the hall all night.”

  She looked dubious and hopeful at the same time. “Is it possible? The soldier is probably long dead.”

  Stephen shrugged. “It is indeed possible, but if he is alive, more than likely he is still at Carlisle. Men at arms, unlike knights, tend to settle in one place and stay if the conditions are good. Are you sure he was a soldier and not a knight?”

  She blinked in thought, trying to recall that which she had blocked out for so many years. “I am not sure, to be truthful,” she said timidly. “He wore mail and a tunic, and his helm came off at one point. I know he had red hair.”

  “Unlike the boy.”

  She shook her head. “His hair is dark, like mine,” she replied, trying to read the exp
ression on his face. He seemed to have warmed up from the cold and harsh man she had been introduced to. “Will you find him?”

  Stephen lifted a dark eyebrow. “I will do better than that,” he replied decisively. “I will find him and when I do, I will kill him.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why would you do this?”

  His blue eyes grew intense. “Because you are my wife. This man stole your innocence which belonged to me and for that, he will pay the price.”

  She gazed steadily at him, torn between disbelief and hope. “I am indebted, my lord,” she said quietly. “It does not seem enough to thank you.”

  An enormous hand came up and he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted her head to get a better look at her exquisite face. She had the most amazing eyes of pale blue, a striking contrast against her dark hair. He took the moment to openly study her, the first time he had done so since they had been introduced. Much to his horror, he could feel his defenses softening but at the moment, he didn’t much care.

  “You will not address me so formally in private,” he said quietly, still studying her face. “I will answer to Stephen. Or Husband.”

  Joselyn gazed at him, feeling strange warmth bubbling in her belly. The longer he looked at her, the more the warmth seemed to spread, making it difficult to breathe. Even as he inspected her, she inspected him in return. His eyes were so vibrantly blue that she swore there was lavender in them. He had a beautifully square jaw, set like stone, and a powerful brow. Physically, the man was as close to perfection as she had ever seen.

  Suddenly, he dropped his hand and rose from the bed. Startled, she watched him walk to the door and unbolt it.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  He looked at her, his expression harboring a strange shadow of remorse. He cleared his throat softly.

  “To see what has become of your mother,” he replied. “You will not leave this room until I return.”

  So he was not as hard as she had originally thought. His expression said it all and somehow, in some way, she felt as if a weight had been lifted off of her. It was kindness from a stranger she had not expected.

  “I will not leave this room,” she promised softly.

  With a short nod, he turned from her and lifted the latch. She called after him before he could get away.

  “Sir Stephen?”

  He paused. “Aye?”

  “For your kindness towards my mother,” she grasped for words. “I… thank you.”

  He looked rather surprised by her gratitude. And then he looked guilty. Without another word, he quit the room.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Joselyn woke up the next morning alone in the small, dirty bed. It was light outside but she had no way of knowing what time it was. Stirring, she propped herself up on her elbows only to realize that at some point during the night, someone had piled a mound of woolen blankets on the bed and a fire burned low in the hearth. The wood was crumbling, indicating the fire had been burning for some time. Just the least bit curious, not to mention touched, she realized that Stephen must have returned at some point.

  Sitting up, she swiftly remembered that she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on. Her rough surcoat and shift were still on the floor where she had dropped them. In spite of the fire, the room was chilly and she moved to the edge of the bed, aiming for her clothing on the floor, when more items caught her attention that hadn’t been there the night before.

  A bucket of water and a small cake of white soap sat on a small table just to the right of the bed. Standing up, she hooted when her feet hit the freezing floor as she hobbled over to the soap and water. A folded square of linen was placed behind the bucket, presumably to dry off with, and her lips twitched with a smile. She could hardly believe that the cold, hard man she had met yesterday would actually provide her with such luxuries and kindness that she could scarcely comprehend. Perhaps he was not so cold and hard, after all. It was too good to believe.

  Just as she picked up the soap, the final surprise caught her eye; folded up quite neatly on a small three-legged stool next to the water and soap, were at least two layers of different colored material. Intrigued, she picked up the first bundle and watched it unfurl into a splendid surcoat the color of cranberries. She fingered the fabric, noting it was very soft wool that was long of sleeve and square of neck. It was also unhemmed and unfinished.

  Underneath it lay at shift made out of a material so fine and soft that it was surely made of clouds. Awed, she picked it up, rubbed it against her cheek and was delighted to note that it did not scratch her at all as the wool did. In fact, she had spent the past ten years wearing rough woolen garments of all kinds and her skin was constantly red and scratchy from the material. It was miserable but it was all she knew. The introduction of the white shift made of angel’s wings had her reeling with delight.

  Quickly, she threw off the dirty tartan and washed liberally in the cold water. She hooted and gasped as she lathered the soap and bathed, unassisted, in the corner of the dingy room. It had been the first bath she had taken in ages, so it was something of a delicious treat. The soap smelled strongly of pine but she didn’t care; it was a wonderful luxury in a world that had very few. After she had washed her slender white body thoroughly, she stuck her head into what remained of the water in the bucket and lathered her hair up with the pine-smelling soap.

  Her hair was trickier to wash than her body but she managed to rinse it relatively clean. Anything was clean compared to what it had been. And with that, she dressed in the soft white shift and pulled the surcoat over her head. There were latticed-strings on the bodice of the garment, strategically placed the length of her torso under each arm, and it took some time for her to lace them up properly. She’d never owned anything even remotely fancy and was having a difficult time navigating the strings. But once they were properly tied, it gave her a wonderful curvy appearance as the bodice emphasized her slender waist and full breasts. She had never worn anything like it.

  With that, she put on her worn hose and under garments, feeling better of body and spirit than she had in months. Taking the drying linen, which was now damp, she put the three-legged stool next to the hearth, sat down, and proceeded to dry her hair near the warmth of the dim fire. She was still sitting there a half hour later when there was a soft knock at the door.

  She stopped running her fingers through her hair to dry it. “Come in,” she called.

  The door opened and Stephen appeared. Joselyn did a double-take as he walked into the room and softly shut the door; in the light of day, he was far more handsome than she had remembered. She’d only seen the man in the dark or by weak firelight, never with the glory of the sun shining upon him. It made her heart pound strangely simply to look at him.

  Stephen, too, was swallowing his mild surprise; since meeting Joselyn last night, her beauty, for the most part, had been completely obscured by her worn clothes and dirty tartan. The darkness of the night had also done much to shroud her. But sitting before him, clean and shiny, dressed in the new surcoat and shift he had brought her, she literally took his breath away. He’d never seen anything so lovely.

  “Good morn to you, Lady Pembury,” he suddenly felt quite dirty and disheveled next to this glorious creature. “I hope you slept well.”

  She stood up, a petite little thing against his enormous height. “I did, thank you,” she nodded. A briefly awkward silence followed as they continued to appraise each other in the daylight. When the pause because excessive, she fingered the surcoat as if suddenly remembering it. “I assume you brought this for me?”

  He nodded, noting how the cut of the garment gave her a figure like no other woman he had ever laid eyes on. “I thought you could use something clean to wear,” he indicated the cranberry colored wool. “While checking the sentries just before dawn, I came across a merchant who was cleaning out his partially burned store. He had some women’s garments that he had brought over from Paris to sell, so I bought the whol
e lot of them. Most of them smell like smoke, so I turned them over to the serving women here at Berwick to wash. This was the only garment that didn’t seem to suffer any damage.”

  She stared at him. “You… you bought me more clothes?”

  He nodded, walking halfway around her to better inspect the surcoat and the way it draped over her luscious backside. “Aye,” he paused, gaining a good view of her rump. “I suspected you did not have much of a wardrobe given the fact that you were wearing peasant clothing and tartan. As my wife, I should like you to be well dressed.”

  Joselyn was stunned, unsure what to say to the man. He had gone well out of his way to bring her something fine and she was momentarily speechless. “Then…,” she started again. “Then I thank you for your generosity. I do not own anything fine or glorious. This is the first lovely garment I have ever had.”

  He moved back around to the front of her and faced her with his hands on his slender hips. “And it will certainly not be the last,” he replied decisively. “Your beauty already outshines every woman in England. Putting you in fine clothing and jewels is like adding stars to the moon and sky; it simply enhances what is already breathtaking.”

  By the time he was finished, she was blushing furiously. When their eyes met, she grinned modestly and lowered her gaze. He laughed softly.

  “You have never heard such things before, have you?” he asked.

  She shook her head, still averting her eyes. “From the nuns of Jedburgh? I doubt it.”