She lowered her voice.
“But what choice do I have, Christina? Accept the inevitable? I cannot. I will not endure a life of loneliness, like my mother.”
At least her friend could not argue there. Although Juliette’s mother was kind and gentle, and she seemed at peace with her life, no one could accuse her of being in love with Juliette’s father. Theirs was an alliance, and anyone who spent any time with the couple knew it well.
“My father has already threatened to invite Lord Wytham to Chauncy Manor after this tournament. If I must choose a life married to that cold fish or a solitary one in the convent, I promise it will not be a difficult decision.”
“Juliette, you can’t be serious.”
She had never been more so in her life.
Christina frowned. But at least she finally understood how important this week was for Juliette.
“And you’re saying that Scotsman—”
“Heavens, no. That man is a brute.” Her stomach lurched at the thought of marrying such a man. Granted, he was extremely good-looking. And his voice. . .
“So,” Christina conceded. “We have ten days to find you a husband.”
She hugged her friend, grateful to have an ally—and even more grateful that Christina would do something counter to her nature to help her.
“Which is why I can’t spare a moment. Come, let’s prepare for the meal.”
It had been quite a day so far and had not started very well, but Juliette knew in her heart it would only get better.
Toren’s day could not have been worse.
After arriving at Condren and setting up his tent, he’d spent longer than anticipated finding a squire to hire for the tournament. Though not armored as heavily as his English counterparts, he would still need assistance.
No one other than Douglas and his brothers knew of this mission, and he had ordered Alex and Reid to remain behind at Brockburg, not wanting to risk their safety should his intentions be discovered. He had the Gods to thank that his sister was safely installed with her new husband, her English husband. If Catrina had known he was here, and why, the devil himself would shy from her wrath.
Having finally secured the assistance he needed, both in the form of a squire and the necessary repairs to his horse’s shoe, Toren’s next task had been to seek out Hallington. The English warden would not miss this event, which was so thoroughly tied in to his position as warden. After all, the Tournament of the North had been devised to celebrate the success of more than thirty years of monthly truce days.
Successful until recently, that was.
But nowhere could he find the baron’s blue and black banner with its distinctive fire-breathing black stag. Washing now in the stream that ran behind the field of tents marking the Scottish encampment, Toren resigned himself to the inevitable: he would need to attend the nightly celebrations to learn where Hallington was. . . and when he was coming.
Returning to his tent, more modest than most but with enough room to fully stand, Toren grabbed his only surcoat, fitted it atop his fresh tunic, and began to harness his sword. He dreaded attending the festivities, something he’d hoped to avoid. He had already begun to regret his stubborn decision not to take one of his men with him, a feeling that pressed in on him more and more as he left his tent and made his way toward the great keep. This experience would have been far more bearable with their company.
“You’re a damn fool,” Alex had admonished in response to his insistence on attending the tournament alone. “There are more than a dozen men I’d trust with the knowledge. And yet you risk yourself by telling no one aside from us.”
“Risk myself? Dear brother,” he’d said, “I risk even more if the wrong person learns of this plan.”
“Then take one of us. At my age, you had already been chief of Clan Kerr for six years. I am a child no longer, Toren. And I’m capable of keeping Brockburg secured in your absence. Take Reid with you.”
His brother’s request hadn’t failed to move him, but he’d denied it. Maybe even shouted a bit—Toren had always found it difficult to rein in his temper when provoked. They had lost their father and mother in the same year. If this mission was unsuccessful, his purpose discovered, he didn’t want his siblings to have to endure a dual loss a second time.
Keeping his family safe was the only thing that truly mattered.
But it was also damned inconvenient.
He stopped, not realizing his thoughts had carried him so far, and stared at the sight in front of him. There was no denying Condren Castle, built on a great hill, was mighty impressive. A sprawling estate, the seat of the Earl of Condren, it was known in Scotland as “the gateway to the south.” With the exception of Kenshire Castle, which was now held by the late Earl of Kenshire’s daughter and her husband—brother to Toren’s new brother-in-law—Condren was grander than any other Northumbrian holding.
Torches flickered proudly from every tower, lighting the night sky in a spectacular display of opulence. The drawbridge had been lowered in welcome.
Leave it to the English.
Normally, the castle grounds would have been quiet by this time of day, but this was no ordinary night. It was the eve before the twenty-second Tournament of the North, and there were people everywhere.
Had Toren been back home, in his own hall, surrounded by his clansmen, he would have been content to join in the celebration. Here, he was an outsider, much like he’d felt during his forced occupation of Bristol. A rare Scotsman in a sea of English.
He sat at the trestle table closest to the door and looked around.
The earl sat with his wife and daughter, along with their honored guests, on a raised dais at the back of the hall. Few keeps could accommodate such a large number of guests—more than three hundred, most likely. Servants made their way to each table, filling mugs and scurrying to and from the buffet tables scattered around the sides of the room. Back home, feasts were not uncommon, but he’d never attended one quite so large. The staff’s efficiency was impressive.
And then he saw her.
She still wore the same crimson gown, which was quite unusual—most ladies made a point of changing for dinner. But her hair had been arranged atop her head, and a ruby necklace now adorned her neck. He watched as she stood from the table and made her way to the edge of the hall. Alone. That was even more unusual, particularly after her brush with the lascivious knight earlier.
Toren stood, intending to follow her, when a hand grabbed at his tunic.
“Leavin’ so soon?”
He’d nearly reached for his sword on instinct. Luckily he stayed his hand. The man who had clearly been drinking for some time had already released his sleeve.
Every man at the table had stopped talking to witness the exchange. Most appeared his age, but two were young enough to be squires. All English.
Not wanting to draw any more attention, he played a part that would not cause suspicion, slipping easily into an accent that would avoid any questions.
“What use do I have of food when the comely wench I’m keen to bed just made herself available?”
Toren did not give the man a chance to respond. With a tight smile to his dinner companions, he strode through the festivities. Ladies’ jewels sparkled and serving wenches’ hips swayed to the music floating in the air. The bright colors of the troubadours’ costumes competed with a dazzling display of wealth, but the fabrics became richer and the jewels brighter as he ventured toward the back of the hall. As chief of his clan, by rights he could have sat much closer to the hosts, but he’d preferred to avoid notice at the back of the great room.
As he passed through the hall, he looked for Hallington. There was no sign of him.
Or the girl.
He’d assessed the buildings earlier that day while wandering the grounds. If he was correct, this particular passage led to the East Tower. Why? It appeared he would have a chance to ask her. She must have gone to the privy or some such, because she was already coming b
ack toward him.
“Oh!”
She stopped in her tracks, eyes wide.
“My lady,” he said, taking in the sight before him.
Torches lit the passageway, casting a glow that made the rubies on her neck sparkle. But it was the smooth, creamy skin beneath that held Toren’s attention. And the swell of a bosom that he itched to touch.
The woman was perfection. Head held high, she was clearly every inch a noble. How could he have questioned as much earlier?
“I saw you leaving.”
What else could he say? That he had not been able to stop thinking of her all day? That he’d worried for her safety enough to leave his meal? The whole thing was absurd. He didn’t even know her name.
“I—”
She stopped.
His mysterious lady was hiding something.
“Where is your escort? What is your name?”
To question her thus was impolite, but Toren didn’t care about decorum. He wanted to know who she was. What she was doing.
“Will you kiss me?” she asked, her voice husky.
It was the most outrageous, unexpected thing she could possibly have said.
So a lady, aye, but not a maid. And yet. . . she looked too young to be a widow. Could he have misheard the question?
“I asked if you will kiss me,” she repeated, her voice more hesitant this time.
Her escort, whomever he or she was, would surely question her whereabouts if they weren’t doing so already. But he would accept her offer. He’d be a fool to deny her the very thing he wanted.
Grabbing her hand, Toren pulled the most unusual—and alluring—woman he’d ever met in the direction from which she’d come. If his assessment was correct, there was a small bastion nearby.
There.
He led her to the stairwell that opened to the outside. The dark sky above them was punctuated with stars in every direction. A warm summer night. The only noise was a distant murmur from the hall filled with music and guests. Much more pleasant, to his mind, than being down below. In front of them was a short wall, and a taller semicircle of exposed steps loomed behind them, which they could climb to a parapet that would offer a better view of the bailey below. But that view came at the cost of exposure, which would not be welcome at this particular moment.
Her hand was small. Soft. Perfectly fitted to his own.
He spun the Englishwoman around to face him. She looked up at him with eyes so wide he nearly changed his mind. What game did she play?
“Will you be gentle, please? This is my very first time.”
Like hell it was. No gentle miss would have made such an offer to a stranger.
“Aye, I will be gentle.”
Toren pulled her toward him, savoring her sweet scent. Roses. She smelled like roses. Usually, he did not have much time for gentle things. Being chief was both a blessing and a curse—he did not lack for female company, but usually it was only inside his bedchamber. This woman was. . . different.
His arm muscles flinched as she placed her hands on his arms. Tentative. Unsure.
“Do I keep my eyes open?” she asked.
Damn, was she serious? Had she truly never been kissed? It made no sense. Toren’s instincts had saved his life on more than one occasion, but they failed him now, for he knew not what to think.
Though it was dark, a nearby torch lit her face enough for him to get a good view of every perfect feature. Lips waiting to be kissed. Long lashes that blinked now, revealing her nervousness. The lass should be nervous. She stood in relative seclusion with a stranger, one who could easily do her harm.
He would not, of course. But someone must counsel her on the ways of men, as she either was truly so innocent that she didn’t recognize the dangers, or so wily she knew them well but did not care. And this after she found herself in need of rescue from an ardent suitor just earlier in the day.
But that lesson would not be from him. Toren had other plans.
“Nay, close your eyes.”
Sure enough, she listened.
Blood rushed to every part of his body.
He lowered his head to hers and placed the softest of kisses on her lips. Roses and warmth assaulted him. His body told him to crush her against his chest, press her to the evidence of his need, open her mouth with his own, and show her what a proper kiss felt like. But he could not. Would not. Because one thing was abundantly clear.
She was an innocent.
And Toren did not take advantage of young virgins.
He tore himself away from her and took a deep breath.
Her eyes fluttered open. Her lips turned up in a sensual smile, or at least one that appeared sensual to him. A hint of what lay underneath the brazen but innocent exterior.
“Thank you.”
He was at a loss for words.
“I really must be going. My friend will be looking for me.”
“Your friend? Who is your chaperone? What is your name? And what the hell are you doing out here with a strange man who could have easily taken advantage of you?”
He hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but bloody hell, someone needed to talk sense into her—even if it was him.
Frowning, she turned and walked away.
Damned if that wasn’t the strangest encounter he’d ever had. This one woman kept surprising him and catching him off guard, as if he were a laddie and not a grown man.
In a daze, Toren walked up the stone stairs that led to the top of the bastion. As he’d suspected, it afforded him a perfect view of the inner courtyard. He found himself staring at the forge, where he had met the maiden earlier that day. Thinking about how startled she’d been at his rescue. The alarm with which she’d glanced up at her pursuer.
When he’d watched her walk into the corridor alone, the urge to protect her had been instantaneous. He’d gotten to his feet without really thinking about it. Then she’d asked him that question, and he hadn’t had time to think about that either. . .
And now he was left with more questions, ones he should not care to have answered.
But he did.
Toren shook his head and descended the steps. He was finished holding court with the enemy for the evening. Tomorrow was soon enough to find the man he came here for. Soon enough to learn the identity of his hesitant lass.
4
It was the most spectacular sight Juliette had ever witnessed.
Granted, she had only been to a few holdings besides Chauncy Manor. She’d begged on more than one occasion to travel with her father to London, but he always insisted it was too dangerous, his answer to most anything.
“They are all looking at you,” Christina whispered.
“Pardon, my lady.”
A handsome gentleman, a noble by the look of him, bumped her arm as he walked past them into the great hall. He looked back and smiled, the message in his eyes unmistakable.
“Juliette, can you not see for yourself? Everywhere we go, men’s heads turn to gaze at you. Nice, English men. Ones your father would be happy to accept as his son-in-law over Lord Wytham.”
Juliette wished she had not been so forthcoming about the unusual arrangement she’d made with the chief earlier that day. But though she was certainly a dreamer, as her father was fond of saying, she was not without brains. Juliette had wanted to ensure someone knew in case anything went awry. Though she trusted the Scot, the man was also a stranger, and one could not be too careful.
Christina had originally insisted on coming to find her after the play. But Juliette had talked her down, and she’d ultimately consented to meet Juliette later in her bedchamber.
“Just look at all these flowers!” Christina marveled. “Do you suppose they’ve imported every single one in all of England?”
They walked over fresh rushes toward the table where they’d sat the previous evening. The slight crunch beneath her leather-soled feet gave evidence that they were, indeed, new.
“I don’t know where to look first,” she continue
d.
“Mayhap at the earl and his wife,” Lord Hedford answered. “The splendor of their dress is a sight to behold.”
Oh. Juliette had intended only to speak for Christina’s ears. She took his advice and glanced at their hosts. Hedford was right, but how would he know of their splendor? He was gazing not at the ‘sight’ of the noble couple but at his wife.
She would have to rein in her excitement in the future and speak in a lower voice. If Lord Hedford discovered her plan to be alone with the Scottish chief, she had no doubt she would be escorted quickly up to her chamber.
While her father brokered for peace along the border, her friend’s husband was not inclined to look beyond the wrongs of their northern neighbors. His brother had been killed by a Scottish reiver in a raid on their village when he was just a boy.
“My, that is a most magnificent gown,” she said, gasping as she did indeed look up at the dais. “But that head covering. . .”
“It’s quite appalling,” Christina said.
Her husband didn’t seem to mind her bluntness. “’Tis a gorget,” he replied.
“Another of my husband’s hidden talents? Discerning women’s fashions?”
Lord Hedford didn’t flinch. “Lest you forget, I spent some time in France, where such was a favored pastime,” he replied.
“Quite right, and you were injured there?” Juliette asked, attempting to keep suspicion from her tone. Though his limp was evidence to the affirmative—the reason he was not participating in the tournament—she had never been able to ascertain much information from her friend about the incident.
She suspected it was because he had not explained the circumstances to her.
Lord Hedford ignored her observation.
“My lord, do introduce this most magnificent creature you’re chaperoning this evening.”
Juliette hadn’t noticed the man who sat directly across from them, but being called a “creature” did not impress her. He had not sat at their table the previous evening, though perhaps that was because tonight’s dinner was the official start to the tournament celebrations. After a full day of preliminary jousts, all the participants had been introduced, and some of the guests were already discussing favorites for the individual tournament champion. Of course, the last day’s melee was the culmination of the tourney, but the jousts, once only a warm-up to the main event, were beginning to rise in popularity.
The Chief's Maiden (Border Series Book 3) Page 3