Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “What happened to her?” he asked as calmly as he could, opening one of her eyelids and then the other.

  “To be honest, my lord, I am not sure,” Lane replied. “I was just exiting the southeast tower when she ran right into me, and I do mean literally. I do not know if she even saw me. One moment, I was walking from the door and the next minute she is smashing into me. And then she collapsed.”

  Stephen checked her eyes and went for the pulse. It was strong and steady. He gently ran his fingers over her head, checking for any signs of bumps or fractures. He felt nothing. Puzzled, he checked her eyes again to note that her pupils were indeed equal and reactive. Then he ran his hands down her body, looking for any puncture wounds or scratches. He gently rolled her onto her side so he could check her backside, but it was without blemish. Rolling her onto her back again, he scratched his head and looked up at Lane.

  “She collapsed?” he repeated. “Did she say anything before she collapsed?”

  Lane shook his head. “Not a word, my lord.”

  Stephen looked back down at his wife, passed out cold on the bed. She didn’t seem in distress other than the fact that she was unconscious and he put his hands on her face again to tilt her head up so he could look up each nostril, looking for blood. He checked her ears and her mouth as well. Nothing.

  By this time, Tate entered the room. Having followed Stephen from the dungeons, he was understandably curious about Lady Pembury. He silently made his way to the bed, standing next to Lane as they watched Stephen examine his wife.

  “What is wrong with her, Stephen?” Tate asked, concerned.

  Stephen shook his head, genuinely baffled. “Nothing that I can see,” he said. “No bumps, bruises or blood. Her heart is strong.” He leaned forward, his hands on her face. “Joselyn, can you hear me? Wake up, sweetheart. Open your eyes.”

  She didn’t move. Stephen tried again, this time gently rubbing her face, trying to stimulate her. “Jo-Jo, wake up. Open your eyes, sweetheart, and look at me.” When she didn’t respond, he looked back at Lane.

  “You are certain that she said nothing?” he asked again, deeply concerned for his wife. “Did you hear her screaming at all? Any shouting or anything to indicate there was trouble?”

  Lane shook his head. “Nay, my lord,” he responded. “There was no indication at all.”

  Stephen sighed with confusion, looking back to his wife with increasing puzzlement. He picked up a limp hand and kissed it, pondering her state, before turning to Lane.

  “My saddlebags and personal effects were moved into the armory when we arrived,” he said. “I would ask you to retrieve them and bring them to me immediately.”

  “Will do, my lord,” Lane spun on his heel and was gone.

  After he fled, Tate moved up behind Stephen and together they gazed down at the still lady. Stephen was still holding her hand and began to rub it gently, stroking her arm and trying to elicit some response from her. But she remained safely tucked inside of unconsciousness.

  “No fever?” Tate ventured.

  Stephen shook his head. “None.”

  Tearing his gaze away from her face, he noticed she was wearing one of the new garments he bought for her, a lovely rich orange color with a deep neckline that showed off the delicious swell of her breasts. Stephen looked at his wife’s flawless bosom a moment before taking the knuckle of his middle finger of his right hand and rubbing it briskly across her sternum, right in the valley between her breasts. For a person faking unconsciousness, the resulting pain from this action would cause them to startle. But Joselyn remained still.

  Perplexed and increasingly concerned, Stephen simply sat and held her hand, kissing her fingers on occasion. He reasoned that as long as she was breathing and her heart remained strong, then she was not in any real distress. But something had happened, that was for certain. He wanted very much to know what it was.

  Lane returned a short time later bearing big saddle bags plus two other satchels. He laid them all on the ground at Stephen’s feet and the big knight dug through the bags until he came across what he was looking for. Drawing forth a good-sized black leather satchel, he set it on the bed at Joselyn’s feet and began to rummage through it. Lane and Tate watched as he pulled forth strange phials, envelopes with exotic powders, and other implements that a healer would carry. There was a good deal of mysterious stuff in his bag. He finally found what he was looking for; a small glass phial with a cork stopper. He uncorked it and ran it under Joselyn’s nose a few times.

  With the second pass of the glass phial, she stirred. With the fourth, she jerked violently and her eyes opened. Stephen barely had time to pull the phial out of the way as she emitted a primitive, raw scream and bolted into a sitting position. She ended up in Stephen’s massive embrace, her breathing coming in great, harsh gasps.

  “There, there,” Stephen had her tightly, soothing her. “’Tis alright, you are safe.”

  Her breathing was crazy, evolving into shattering sobs. Stephen pulled her closer and rocked her gently.

  “All is well, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I am here. Nothing can harm you.”

  Joselyn had awoken disoriented and terrified. But Stephen’s voice had soothed her, gently bringing her back to reality. She understood that she was safe in his arms but it did not completely erase the mind-bending terror she felt. Her last memory was of that face from her deepest nightmare, suddenly alive and well before her. It had been too much for her mind to absorb and after realizing who the man was, she remembered nothing.

  “I… I saw him,” she wept hysterically. “I saw him.”

  Stephen attempted to pull her face from the crook of his neck. “What do you mean? Who did you see?”

  She was a sniffling, weeping mess. She fought Stephen as he tried to separate her from his powerful embrace. She continued to cling to him even as he tried to pull her back to get a look at her.

  “Him,” she gasped. “The… the soldier from Carlisle….”

  Stephen’s head snapped to Tate, the soldier from Carlisle. A thousand words were spilling out from Stephen’s expression, words of shock and accusation and confirmation. Although he and Tate had acknowledged the fact that the man might be present in the castle, Stephen hadn’t truly believed it. And he truly hadn’t believed his wife would run into the man. No wonder she had collapsed.

  “Are you certain, Lady Pembury?” Tate tried to be as gentle as possible. “Are you sure it was him?”

  She nodded, bursting into tears again from the safe haven of Stephen’s neck. Stephen stopped trying to peel her away from him. He simply sat there and held her.

  “Did he try to hurt you?” Stephen’s jaw was ticking as he asked. “Did he recognize you and come after you?”

  She shook her head. “He did not see me,” she sobbed. “But I saw him entering the armory. I ran as fast as I could to get away from him but… but I do not remember anything else. How did I get here?”

  Stephen glanced over at Lane, standing near the chamber door. “Sergeant de Norville brought you,” he told her. “He says that you were running wildly and crashed into him. Do you not remember?”

  Her tears were fading, being replaced by a staggering exhaustion. “Nay,” she wiped at her nose, her head still against Stephen’s shoulder. “Did I hurt him?”

  Stephen grinned, looking over to the sergeant. “She wants to know if she injured you when she ran into you,” he told the sergeant. “Shall I tell her that you will recover?”

  De Norville smiled, meeting Joselyn’s gaze. “Hardly a scratch, my lady. I was more concerned that you had been injured in the collision.”

  Joselyn was looking at him with her pale blue eyes, still burrowed against Stephen’s massive form. She was tucked into him, his enormous arms enfolding her like a cocoon. Gingerly, she lifted her head, studying the man closely.

  “Once again you have come to my aid, sergeant,” she said. “You have my thanks.”

  “None is necessary, my lady,” Lane
replied. “I was glad to be of service. Are you sure you are not injured?”

  “I do not believe I have any injuries,” she looked at Stephen. “But my head hurts tremendously.”

  Stephen asked for wine from one of the serving women. With one arm still around his shaken wife, he rummaged around in his black bag and drew forth a pouch. Opening it with one hand was tricky but he managed, dispensing the white powder into the wine and swirling it around until it dissolved. He handed the cup to Joselyn, who drank it timidly and made a face when she was finished.

  “That was awful,” she smacked her lips with dissatisfaction. “What was it?”

  “Something to help your headache,” he told her. “I need to speak with Lord de Lara. Will you be alright if I step outside for a moment?”

  A look of panic swept her but she stilled herself, nodding once. He kissed her before rising, finding that he still had to peel her hands from his tunic. He kissed her hands and gently encouraged her to lie back down, which she did. With a flick of his finger to the serving women, silently indicating that they watch his wife, he moved from the room with de Lara and de Norville.

  Closing the door softly, he faced de Norville first.

  “It would seem that twice you have aided my wife and for that, I am deeply grateful,” he said. “Because of your diligence to duty, I am putting you in charge of Berwick’s House and Hold. That means that you will be in charge of security for the keep, kitchens and hall, and always be mindful of my wife’s presence. It also means that you answer to me and me alone as Guardian of the Hold. Is this in any way unclear?”

  It was a distinct promotion from a mere sergeant in Norfolk’s ranks and Lane was visibly humbled. “It is clear, my lord,” he replied. “I am greatly honored.”

  “It is I who am honored,” Stephen replied. “I will notify Norfolk and request your service. I am sure he will agree when I explain the circumstances to him.”

  “Very good, my lord,” de Norville responded sharply. “What is your first command for me?”

  At this point, Stephen looked at Tate. “That depends,” he said. “We have a bit of a situation involving my wife and I will defer to Lord de Lara at this point since it involves one of his men. My lord?”

  Tate stood with his arms crossed and his legs braced, listening to the exchange between Stephen and Lane. When the attention focused on him, he lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully.

  “You are not going to like what I have to say,” he said to Stephen.

  “Why not?”

  “Your wife will have to personally identify the man who attacked her,” he said. “The only way she can do that is to face him to confirm that he is indeed the man.”

  Stephen lifted an eyebrow. “She’s terrified of the man. You saw what a mere glimpse of him did to her.”

  Tate shook his head. “Unless we want to condemn the wrong man, I do not see where we have a choice. Think with your mind and not your heart, Stephen. She must closely identify the man to ensure there is no mistake.”

  Stephen knew he spoke the truth. Sighing heavily, he averted his gaze a moment, shifting on his big legs thoughtfully. “You are correct, of course,” he sighed again, thinking of Joselyn’s reaction when she came face to face with the soldier who changed the course of her young life. “Give her time to recover and I will take her personally to find and identify this man. Lane, you will accompany us.”

  Lane nodded briskly. “Of course, my lord.”

  De Lara headed for the stairs. “I will send a few more men to you to take the man into custody once he is identified,” he said. “For now, I will begin to gather my troops for the return to Forestburn Castle. I am anxious to go home.”

  Stephen gave Lane a few more orders, watching the man follow de Lara down the narrow stairs. Returning to his chamber, he found his wife standing in the middle of the room with Tilda and Mereld inspecting the skirt of the orange surcoat. He paused at the door, his eyebrows lifted.

  “What’s this?” he demanded without force. “Why are you out of bed? I told you to rest.”

  She looked up at him, great distress on her face. “Oh, Stephen,” she breathed. “I am so sorry. I tore my new surcoat somehow and we are attempting to determine how to fix it.”

  He was not the least bit concerned as he put his hands on his hips and walked over to her, watching as the two old women discussed the best way to mend the dress.

  “I would not worry overly,” he told her. “You have eight more that are serviceable.”

  She looked miserable. “I must have torn it when I collided with the sergeant,” she lamented. “I am terribly sorry. I did not mean to damage one of your lovely gifts.”

  He put his hand on her head, pulling it to his lips for a kiss. “As I said, not to worry. It was an accident.”

  He went over to the bed and sat down while the two servant women finished inspecting the skirt. When they were finished, they fled the chamber with plans for retrieving needle and thread. Stephen rose from the bed, shut the door behind them, and bolted it. He turned to his wife.

  “Now,” he lifted his eyebrows at her. “Are you sure you are well? Does your head still hurt?”

  She smiled weakly at him. “It does, but I believe your potion is making it feel a little better,” she replied. “What was that powder, anyway?”

  He wriggled his eyebrows and went to her. “Mysterious stuff. Magic.”

  She cast him a dubious expression, knowing he was teasing her. “It is not magic,” she said flatly. “What is it?”

  He put his arms around her and pulled her close. “It is made from willow bark. It cures all manner of aches and pains. Do you not trust me?”

  She snuggled against him. “Of course I trust you,” she toyed with his tunic. “I just wanted to know what it was, ’tis all.”

  “You are a nosey woman.”

  “I know.”

  He bent over and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss that very quickly turned into something very powerful. It seemed that with each successive touch, each new moment of discovery, the flames of passion between them roared hotter and hotter. There was clearly something very special between them, something that Stephen was increasingly eager to explore. Joselyn’s arms snaked up around his neck and she clung to him as his mouth ravaged her. When he straightened, he pulled her with him and her feet dangled almost two feet off the floor.

  “A pity your head aches,” he murmured against her cheek.

  “Why?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Because I cannot have my way with you. Certainly your aching head would prevent an over amount of enjoyment for you.”

  “I would not be so sure.”

  He looked at her, grinning. “Are you positive? You just had a tremendous fright. I would feel like a cad for taking advantage of a weakened woman.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Being in your arms gives me the strength of Samson. You are the best cure for my weakness.”

  His smile broadened, his gaze moving to her full lips as if contemplating their sweetness. “You are learning the art of sweet words quickly.”

  “I have a good teacher.”

  His mouth captured hers fiercely, suckling her sweet lips before plunging his tongue deep into her mouth. He was such a big man, so strong, and she was no match for his strength physically and could not match the power of his onslaught. She had one weapon over him, however, that she was not yet aware of; her sweet little hands to his head, his face, somehow undid him. He could feel them in his hair, on the sides of his face, and he realized there was not anything he would not do for her touch. It was such a small gesture yet a tremendously fulfilling one. He kissed the palms of her hands as they came near his mouth, returning to her lips once more and suckling her breathless.

  Laying her on the bed, he stretched his big body over her, his hand moving down her neck to her arm and then to her breast. He kissed the swell of her bosom as he gently fondled her, thinking very seriously of removing her from her surcoat. But a loud
bang on the chamber door stopped him.

  It was loud enough to startle him right off the bed. Throwing open the door, he was fully prepared to ream whoever had interrupted his passion but bit the words off before they could come flying out of his mouth. Lane stood in the doorway, his fair face tense.

  “Trouble, my lord,” he said shortly. “You had better come.”

  Stephen didn’t ask questions. He whirled to his wife. “Stay in this chamber and bolt the door. Do not open it for anyone but me or de Lara.”

  Joselyn didn’t have a chance to reply before he slammed the door. She rushed to it, throwing the bolt, wondering what the trouble was and feeling fear in her heart. Oddly enough, though, the fear was not for her.

  It was for her English-bred husband.

  *

  The Scots had returned.

  About five hundred Scots had poured in through the main gate of the city of Berwick, killing several English soldiers as they launched their sneak attack. They plowed their way through the city straight to the castle and began to lay an unorganized, if not aggressive, siege.

  De Lara had been caught outside of the city walls with the vast majority of his men and very shortly found himself in a bloody battle with a few hundred angry Scots. He had cursed himself for being stupid enough to be caught unaware. It was apparent that the Scots had waited until de Lara, the last of the great English earls still at Berwick, was separated from the garrison inside the castle. When the Earl of Carlisle went outside the city walls to muster his troops for the return home, the Scots had attacked. The old adage of divide and conquer was their war cry.

  The Scots were indeed a furious bunch. Smoke rose from fires near the city walls as groups of Scots began to burn the city. They were raging like children, aimless, simply attempting to do as much damage as possible without thought to those they damaged. As Stephen stood atop the battlements of Berwick Castle and watched, he began to understand the pattern. Surrounded by Lane, Sir Ian and Sir Alan, they made a somber, calculating group.