The Chief's Maiden (Border Series Book 3)

by Cecelia Mecca

  “My marriage, to start.”

  It was Juliette’s turn to roll her eyes. “You were lucky, ’tis all. And you yourself have said you don’t love the man. Yet. What kind of marriage is that, exactly?”

  Rather than take offense, Christina laughed. Though only two years her senior, her friend sometimes acted as though she were the same age as Juliette’s mother. No wonder her father hadn’t balked at the prospect of Christina and her husband serving as her chaperones. On the eve of their departure to Condren Castle, Juliette’s handmaiden had taken ill. Her mother had thought to send her own maid, but Juliette had insisted there was no need. That she was properly chaperoned.

  It would seem her assessment had been sadly accurate.

  “A fine one, to be sure.”

  Juliette rushed over to her friend, beset by guilt, and took both of Christina’s hands in her own. “I meant nothing more than—”

  “I know what you meant. But I am truly happy with Matthew. He’s kind and treats me well. And with time—”

  “You may learn to love each other.”

  It was a refrain she knew well. One her mother reiterated every time the subject of her marriage arose. Noblewomen didn’t marry for love. Marriages were made for political gain. And if she were lucky, she would learn to love her husband.

  If she were unlucky, he would mistreat her, and she would have no recourse. And while her father thought Wytham to be right and honorable, she disliked the look in his eyes. The man made her wary.

  Of course, finding love had not happened for her parents. It also did not seem to have happened for the few married nobles who came to visit at Chauncy Castle. Or, as yet, with Christina, though she and her husband seemed to rather enjoy each other considering it was an arranged marriage.

  But would she be the lucky one?

  It was a chance she wasn’t willing to take.

  “My dear Christina, the fairest lady in all of England—”

  “Go,” Christina said with a sigh. “But as you say, only where others are present. Please return in time to prepare for the evening meal.”

  That would be plenty of opportunity to explore.

  “Thank you. I will, you have my word. Though the castle is brimming with people, I’m sure the earl would not house unsavory characters.”

  “Which shows how little you know about the ways of men, Juliette.”

  “So you’ve told me, now that you are a maid no longer.”

  Christina’s head whipped to the door as if she expected her husband to materialize any moment. “Shhhh.”

  She couldn’t help but have a bit of fun at her friend’s expense. “And to think, all those times we wondered if the servants’ wagging tongues were exaggerated. Now we know the truth. That the marriage bed—”

  “Juliette!”

  “You really are too proper. If you didn’t want me to know—”

  As if on cue, a knock at the door startled them both. They stared at each other wide-eyed.

  “Yes?” Juliette creaked.

  “Is my wife inside, my lady?” a male voice asked.

  Juliette tried to control the flush creeping onto her cheeks as she ran to the large oak door and tugged it open. It was easy to be bold with Christina, less so with her husband.

  “Lord Hedford,” she exclaimed. At thirty and one, the dark-haired man only had a few streaks of gray at his temples. He was good-looking in a very proper, ‘I’m an important knight of the realm’ sort of way.

  His raised eyebrows, normally quite straight, told Juliette she had not been as successful in controlling her pink cheeks as she’d hoped.

  Peering around her to search for his wife, Lord Hedford smiled ever so slightly. “I thought to find you here. Your maid is searching for you. Shall I send her?”

  “Tis not necessary, my lord.” Christina took her husband’s arm, and they made their way into the stone-lined corridor.

  The lack of windows in this part of the castle gave no clue as to the time of day, though she knew it was late in the afternoon.

  “Do get some rest, Juliette. My lord has warned me the meal will be overly long with so many in attendance.”

  Juliette bowed her head as demurely as an attendant addressing her queen.

  “I shall,” she responded as the couple walked out of sight.

  But first, she would take in the sights and sounds of one of the greatest castles in England on the eve of the grandest event of the year.

  She waited a few moments, smoothed her hair as best she could with her hands, and pinched her cheeks as her maid had done so many times. Juliette had lost count of the potential suitors who’d traveled to Chauncy Manor attempting to claim her hand in marriage—and also of the number of times her cheeks had endured her maid’s pinches. Still, she was desperate enough to willingly subject herself to such mistreatment now.

  Her father would be put off no longer. Which was exactly why she could not spare a moment idly waiting for her fate to be sealed. Mayhap she should not have put off so many suitors, forcing her father to choose one she cared for the least. But she’d felt nothing for any of them, and she wanted more than suitability. Juliette would find an honorable and trustworthy man who loved her above all else.

  And if she did not, Juliette had begun to form a plan. One that would save her from Lord Wytham and a life of complacency. She would simply join Sister Heloise in the convent. Her father would have no way of stopping her after she’d taken the vows.

  Juliette closed the door behind her and made her way toward the great hall.

  “’Tis thievery!” Toren cried when the blacksmith’s apprentice named his inflated price.

  “You want yer shoe repaired or nay?” The boy yelled over the striker’s constant hammering. “Go see the village smithy if you prefer.”

  Toren had already done so. That man had named an even more exorbitant fee, which was precisely why he’d made the visit to Condren’s inner bailey. The space was brimming with knights and their servants, and lord and ladies from across the land—exactly the sort of crush he would have typically avoided. Especially at an English holding. But then, a visit to the castle gave him the perfect excuse to look for Hallington.

  Most Scots, with the exception of a few nobles, avoided any public spaces other than the lists during this particular tournament, even though all were invited to attend meals and celebrations. They were there to fight, not to dance and dine, unlike most of these English fops.

  The Tournament of the North limited the field to one hundred men on each side, chosen by their respective wardens. Most were personally invited, including the Waryn men, who thankfully would not be attending. A small number of men vied for a limited number of spots granted “super faciem,” but those knight errants were not invited into the castle until after they were formally accepted.

  “Fine.” Toren shoved coins into the boy’s hand. No point in attempting to haggle with the boy’s master. The blacksmith, his face black from coal soot, had never once acknowledged him.

  “Come back in the morn,” the lad said. “It’ll be waitin’ on you then.” With that, he quickly looked away, as if not wanting to meet the gaze of the man he’d cheated. Or mayhap he simply didn’t wish to lock eyes with a Scot.

  “Damn Englishmen,” he muttered, turning away from the forge.

  A woman slammed into him so hard, Toren had to step back to regain his footing. “What in the devil—”

  “Oh! My apologies—”

  He steadied the lass and disengaged himself from her. And thank St. Andrew she gave him no time to respond—he’d need a moment before he could form words again. By God, she was lovely.

  “Please—” she began, but her missive was abruptly cut off.

  “My lady, there you are!” A young knight, no older than twenty and one, bounded toward them.

  Toren looked back and forth between pursuer and pursued, reading the situation at a glance. Without speaking, he took her arm and placed it in the crook of his own.
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br />   The boy stopped and stared. His surcoat proclaimed him of the earl’s household, so Toren held back the disparagement on his tongue.

  “I’m grateful for your service to my lady.” He inclined his head ever so slightly. “Toren Kerr, Chief Kerr of Brockburg.”

  Thankfully, it took the boy but a moment before he began to back away. “You are the Kerr.”

  Toren simply nodded.

  “The. . . the. . . no offense. I meant no offense.” And with that, the boy turned and ran away.

  “The English,” Toren muttered for the second time that day, shaking his head.

  “Begging your pardon,” the lady pulled her arm away and raised her chin.

  A perfectly formed one to match every other perfectly formed feature on her face. She was small but well proportioned, with long blonde hair that fell in waves around her shoulders, a pert nose, and light blue eyes

  A lady? Her speech and dress hinted as much, but most of the English women he knew were not inclined to run around unescorted, fleeing from amorous young knights.

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Toren stopped her. Unaccountably, he wanted to know more.

  “What is your name? Why were you running from that boy?”

  “Boy?” The sound she made was anything but ladylike. Her dress and behavior were at odds. Perhaps she’d stolen the bright crimson gown? Silver thread decorated both the loose sleeves and the neckline, which plunged into an ample bosom for a woman her size.

  His damsel in distress stared back at him, brown arched eyebrows framing a defiant expression that was entirely unexpected.

  Frankly, she should be afraid of him.

  Most women were. Men too, on account of his size.

  “Were you not running from him?”

  She looked around the courtyard as if ensuring they wouldn’t be overheard. Not likely. Wagons creaked along the well-worn path to and from the castle, and children shouted as they ran through a courtyard as expansive as Brockburg’s entire village. The king of England granted his lords only five licenses to hold large tournaments such as this one, and Condren Castle had been chosen for the tournament for a reason. The castle and its grounds were as grand as any in this godforsaken country.

  “Aye, but he was no boy,” she said, her voice deep and melodic. “His suggestion was highly improper. One of a man, and a dangerous one at that.”

  Toren leaned against the stone wall of the forge, studying her as he listened to the sounds of metal on metal drifting out from the windows.

  “What’s your name?”

  “You’re Scottish.” She avoided his question and tossed out the accusation as if it were an epithet.

  “You’re English.” He tried to keep his voice neutral, remembering belatedly he’d cursed her countrymen at least twice within her hearing.

  “Well, at least I don’t judge a person by his loyalty to the wrong king.”

  He flattened his lips, fighting the impulse to smile. It was the kind of comment his sister would have made.

  “I don’t judge you, my lady.”

  “I heard what you said. ’Tis clear you have no love for my countrymen.” She crossed her arms and waited for his answer.

  “Your words and actions contradict each other. You accuse me of being Scottish but then preach tolerance. Which is it?”

  Her narrowed eyes told him she would not back down so easily. “’Twas not an accusation, but a fact. You’ll meet none more tolerant of your people than my family. In fact—”

  She stopped.

  “In fact?” he prodded.

  Something had caught her attention near the entrance to the old wooden tower that had once likely served as Condren’s main keep.

  “Good day to you.”

  With that, she abruptly walked away.

  So be it.

  There was only one English who interested him, and it was time for Toren to find the man and form a plan. For the sooner he did that, the sooner he could return home to his clan.

  3

  Juliette ran to the other side of the building, darting out of sight of Christina’s watchful eyes. Never before had she felt so alive, or so terrified. And not from the unwanted attentions of the overly amorous young knight who’d followed her from the hall.

  The Scotsman was huge!

  Bigger than anyone she knew, nearly a head taller than her father, who was not a small man. Running into him had been akin to slamming into the side of a stone wall, and she’d been fleeing from her pursuer at full tilt. Though she’d wanted to scream when the young man had started pursuing her from the castle, Juliette had made a vow to Christina en route to Condren.

  She’d promised to stay out of trouble.

  She would be like Pope Joan, Juliette had assured her friend—so inconspicuous that some might even question her existence. A feat that would be a tad easier when she was not being chased by a strange man.

  And then the Scots chief had saved her.

  She’d known the Scots would be in attendance, of course, since the purpose of the tournament was akin to the Day of Truce—a temporary halt to hostilities. Although some past tournaments, not unlike the truce days her father mitigated, did end in bloodshed. But she hadn’t expected to land in the arms of a Scotsman on her first day here.

  An extremely attractive Scotsman. With deep brown hair that fell to his shoulders and a slightly square jaw, he could have passed for an Englishman until he spoke. Though no coat of arms identified him, the quality of his clothing, the deep blue of his surcoat, identified him as noble.

  And yet, there was an unfamiliar wildness to the man. His words were not as measured as the language used by the lords who had come to call on her. Juliette’s first instinct had been to walk away—he was too big, too much of a presence not to intimidate—but he’d fascinated her enough to keep her feet rooted to the ground for their brief conversation.

  “There you are!”

  Juliette turned to find Christina rushing toward her.

  “I thought you were exploring the keep?” Christina held out her arm and Juliette took it, grateful for the familiar company.

  Ignoring the question, she asked one of her own. “I don’t believe your husband would have let you out of his sight. Where is your Galahad?”

  They walked arm in arm toward the stairs that led to Condren’s great keep, skirting errant geese and puddles of mud.

  “There.” Christina nodded ahead, and Juliette spotted Lord Hedford speaking with another man.

  “I am in trouble then?” She was not overly concerned. She had no doubt that her friend had given Lord Hedford a good explanation for her absence.

  Christina’s sharp glance was mitigated by the dimples that appeared at the corners of her turned-up mouth. “Nay, I’ll explain later.” She lowered her voice. “I saw you talking to a man?”

  Juliette laughed at her friend’s hushed tone. “Aye, you did.”

  “Well?”

  “He’s a Scotsman.” And one not too keen on the English—he’d made that much clear. Juliette had no real opinion of his countrymen. She knew many of her own people blamed them for the frequent unrest at the border, but her father often cautioned that the men on both sides were equally at fault.

  Christina strained her neck as if looking for the man who was nowhere to be seen.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He asked my name, which I declined to mention. And made his dislike of our countrymen clear.”

  They’d reached Lord Hedford, whose nod confirmed that her friend had indeed excused her solitary jaunt. Bless her. Even though Christina did not fully agree with her designs, she was a good enough friend to help her.

  Continuing past the guards, they walked through the massive entrance and climbed the steps that led to the great hall and their own quarters.

  Juliette stopped and looked at her friend, allowing Hedford ahead of them.

  “What have you been saying to m
e about this tournament? About my idea of finding a husband here?” This was not the place for such a conversation, but Juliette had to make her friend understand fully. She needed her.

  Christina moved against the side of the wall as two servants scurried past them up the narrow, winding staircase. “That Sister Heloise should not have allowed you to read so many books that filled your head with flights of fancy.”

  Indeed, Christina was not the only person miffed at Juliette’s tutor. While there was no denying Sister Heloise’s success in teaching Juliette how to read and write in three languages, she’d also encouraged her to pursue some more questionable studies. The baron had threatened to forbid Juliette from returning to the convent if she wouldn’t stop reading the books given to her by her tutor.

  “Which is extremely unfair. Orpheus is a beautiful story of love—”

  “And Eurydice is a nymph. You, my dear Juliette, are not.”

  She ignored that.

  “Let me see if I can remember your words correctly,” Juliette continued as if Christina had not spoken. “You said one does not simply fall in love at command. That there’s a greater likelihood the king himself will attend this tournament than that I’ll meet a man, fall in love, and gain my father’s acceptance of him.”

  Again they stepped aside as two armored knights made their way down the stairs.

  “Come, we can’t stand—”

  “Wait,” Juliette whispered. “This is important.”

  She looked into her friend’s eyes, imploring her to understand.

  “I know you think me silly.”

  “I do not—”

  “Nay, ’tis fine. Everyone thinks me silly. Even Sister, who allows me to read every book in their library for the sake of learning, thinks me silly. And mayhap you are all right. I’ve not explored the world, or even my own country. I’ve never even kissed a man, so what do I know about love?”