The Chief's Maiden (Border Series Book 3)

by Cecelia Mecca

  He cupped Juliette’s face with his hands and guided her lips to his own. Capturing them, he continued where they had left off the night before. This time, he pressed harder, plunged deeper. The rage he had felt at seeing her mishandled finally subsided as he drank from her lips, their softness his undoing.

  Aye, he wanted her—in a way he hadn’t experienced before. His body simply responded whenever she was near.

  He broke away, needing to see her.

  “Jules.” He didn’t even recognize his own voice, thick with desire.

  She licked the lips he had just kissed so thoroughly. Her willing response emboldened his hands to explore, to touch the creamy bare skin above the kirtle that peeked out beneath her plain cream surcoat.

  She watched him as he touched her, the whites of her eyes flickering through the darkness courtesy of the candlelight from the ground below. His hand dipped below the material, pushing it aside, sliding it lower.

  He withdrew, or tried to, but her hand covered his own.

  “Show me.”

  Ah God, the lass would be the death of him.

  Her hand still on his, he dipped his fingers below her neckline and let his thumb extend as far down as the garment would allow.

  It was just enough. Slipping his thumb over the hard nipple below, he moved it back and forth but then promptly pulled his hand away as if it had been burned.

  “I cannot.”

  “Cannot, or will not?”

  Both.

  “Juli—”

  “I rather like Jules instead.”

  He took a step back, just to be safe. Toren found it difficult to control himself when she was near.

  “Jules, you don’t understand.”

  “Make me understand. Is it because I’m English?”

  He shook his head. “Nay. I’m not here to—”

  “Aye, I know, you’re here to speak to someone. Both the tournament and I are distractions.”

  What could he possibly say to that?

  “And I thought my father stubborn.”

  It was the opening he needed.

  “Your father,” he repeated. “I imagine it will be more difficult for you to frolic about the countryside once he arrives.”

  “I don’t frolic. And we’ve already established why I’m here.”

  Toren took a deep breath. A few more moments and he would forget the fact that she was Hallington’s daughter. Forget his mission. Forget everything save the feeling of this woman in his arms. He couldn’t afford to forget.

  “I don’t believe we have.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Aye, I would imagine frolicking about the countryside would be more difficult with my father in attendance. Alas, that won’t be a problem since—”

  “I came here to speak with him.”

  Toren wasn’t exactly sure why he’d told her. . . except that he felt he owed this woman, who offered everything and took nothing, as much truth as he could give her.

  “This is why I was so surprised last eve to learn your identity.”

  Her father?

  Toren made no sense. Nothing about this meeting made any sense. Granted, she was far from skilled in the art of courtship, but this was not exactly what she had planned back at Chauncy Manor.

  She’d hoped for a chance to taunt the fates. To find love. To escape her parents’ destiny. Aye. But a reticent Scotsman had kissed her, making her forget everything in the world save the feeling of his lips on hers. A man clearly bred for war but who had shown her as much kindness in two days as all of her potential suitors combined.

  Nay.

  And yet that very man had just admitted to his own mistruth.

  “You lied to me.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Aye, you did. Why are you looking for my father? Why didn’t you tell me this last eve?”

  She had so many more questions, but those would be sufficient to start.

  His face hardened. The softness was gone, and the clan chief was back.

  “You surprised me, and I’m rarely taken by surprise.”

  She disliked his harsh tone and would have turned and walked away if her curiosity had not been piqued.

  “And?”

  She crossed her arms as she was wont to do when miffed. And waited.

  If the man hadn’t been so handsome, she could have concentrated a bit more easily. She found herself staring at his frown, wondering how it was possible those pursed lips were the same ones that had moved so expertly over hers just moments earlier.

  “I am a border lord. Your father is warden.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” His lack of an answer was all she needed. She’d thought him different. But when it came to politics, he was the same as any man. “Matters too complicated for my woman’s mind. Is that it?”

  She was frustrating him, but she didn’t care. “Which topic exactly did you plan to speak to him about? Let me take a guess, shall I? Is it the recent unrest? Rumors of a boycott on the Day of Truce? My father taking bribes?”

  The look on his face. . .

  She’d managed to surprise him. Good! And yet, she was so weary of the constant unease that threatened the tenuous peace their kings both seemed so determined to destroy.

  “How do you—”

  She’d had enough. He was not the man she’d thought he was after all.

  Juliette turned to lift the tent flap, but Toren grabbed her hand. She unwittingly turned to face him.

  “I am leaving.”

  She pulled her hand away, and this time he let her go. Ducking under the flap, she breathed in the warm summer air, belatedly realizing she’d left the lantern inside his tent.

  At least she had the moonlight to guide her. Which was not as helpful as one might think. No more than two feet from the tent, she realized her error. It was quite a bit darker without the single candle to guide her way. As if he’d heard the silent plea, a light suddenly appeared from behind her. She turned, but he had already backed away, leaving the lantern on the ground beside her.

  Like she’d done earlier, Juliette traversed the perimeter of the tent city, and this time no one stopped her. When she reached the gatehouse, a partial truth was all that was needed to get her through.

  “I visited the tent city to speak with one of the contestants.”

  Though Juliette was forced to endure the same guffaws and jeering comments she’d been subjected to on her way there, she was nevertheless allowed entry. At least they could not see her face clearly, as she’d pulled a hood over her head prior to both encounters with the guards. Apparently a lone woman of loose morals was not seen as a threat. But as she made her way toward the main keep, traversing the eerie silence so at odds with the bustle of the bailey at daytime, her bravado began to wane. Juliette’s cheeks tingled as she fought tears that she would allow to fall once she was inside the sanctuary of her bedchamber.

  Toren Kerr wasn’t the one for her after all.

  8

  He should not have told her.

  Nor should he be sitting in the hall watching her now, but it seemed he’d left his good sense in Scotland.

  After following Juliette back to the castle last eve to ensure her safety, Toren had returned to an empty tent, unsure exactly what had just occurred. Up until now, there’d been precisely three times in his life he’d felt out of control. When he watched his father die on the battlefield in front of him. The day his mother admitted to hating everything about his country and fled for England, leaving him and his young siblings behind. And when he lost Bristol and Bryce Waryn took his sister captive.

  Toren’s every decision was based on his desire to shield Catrina, Alex, and Reid from harm. To keep his clan safe. He forged no relationships with women other than to warm his bed. He allowed Clan Kerr few allies, not trusting many beyond his own clansmen. Yet here he was, in enemy territory, giving too much information to a virtual stranger simply because she could speak as easily of border politics as she could of ancient tales mos
t did not know existed. Because he couldn’t banish the memory of her body pressed against his.

  Or the feel of her lips. The brush of his fingers on her soft flesh, her perfect mound cupped in his hand.

  Stop!

  He was a fool. But instead of waiting patiently for her father to arrive, using her anger to distance himself, here he was—sitting through another of the earl’s feasts, this time hidden across the hall from her. Waiting, watching.

  After winning his third match, Toren had escaped to the village for the afternoon. His squire, proving ever capable, had accompanied him and managed to negotiate better prices on badly needed supplies, including a new roundel. He’d overused his jousting dagger, but initially he had not planned on staying long enough to need one.

  He had thought to return to the tent city for a light repast, but instead his feet had brought him here. The English knights at his table had tried to engage him in their discussion after realizing he was the champion favorite, a designation marked by the placement of his shield on the wall of shields. A representative from both sides met after each day’s events to rank and announce contests for the next day. If Toren had needed additional equipment, or desired prominence, he could have entered additional events. But he had no use for either, only the excuse to remain until the melee, waiting for a chance to carry out his mission.

  He ignored their bawdy comments about the serving wench who repeatedly tried to earn his favor and concentrated instead on the woman seated not far from the great table.

  Jules’s gown was more elaborate than usual this eve. The deep purple contrasted beautifully with the blonde waves cascading down her dress in every direction. A gold circlet around her head was the only adornment he could see from this distance.

  The meal finally ended, and two loud claps from the host indicated the musicians should begin to play a different type of music, one that ensured some guests would rise from their seats. This was the moment Toren had awaited, and it seemed luck was finally on his side. A circle dance, but a slow one.

  Toren made his way quickly across the hall, approaching Jules from behind.

  “My lady, may I escort you in this dance?”

  She and her two companions turned at once. He waited for her to refuse him.

  “You may,” she answered, happily surprising him. She stood from her seat and smoothed out the velvet dress he’d been staring at all evening. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch it. To touch her. Instead he held out his elbow, and she took it.

  They walked arm in arm to the provisional dance floor, a large opening at the foot of the dais. Enough couples had paired off to form a large circle.

  Thank you, Catrina, for forcing me to learn this abhorrent dance.

  His sister had civilized him. Or tried to, at least.

  “I’m surprised you accepted my offer,” he said as they began to move.

  He looked straight ahead and spoke loud enough for her alone to hear. Toren wished he could see her expression.

  “I welcome any opportunity to name you a lout and liar.”

  The casual tone did not fool him. His lady was furious, and rightly so.

  “I’m sorry, Jules.” It was what he had come here to say—or so he thought. He wasn’t quite certain about anything when it came to her. “I did not mean to offend you.”

  Of course, it was inevitable that he would. He had lain awake most of the night dwelling on the way she’d looked at him after leaving the tent. And she’d only known he needed to speak to her father. If she knew the full truth. . .

  Though he should not have told her, it was too late for regrets. But he wanted her to understand.

  “I need you to know I would never believe you were lesser because of your sex.”

  He took her left hand in his own, marveling, once again, on how small and delicate it felt. He spun her once around and was able to steal a quick look at her face.

  Still furious.

  “I respect my sister Catrina as much as any man. She’s always asked to be treated the same as my brothers, and we’ve honored that request. Because of it, she is as capable, more so in many ways, as me and my two brothers.”

  He turned to the woman on his right, bowed, and took her arm in his. She smiled. And though she was beautiful, her dark hair contrasted too starkly to his other dance partner’s gleaming blonde locks. This lady paled in comparison. All others paled in comparison.

  He spun back around, as eager as a laddie, to face Jules. It was the moment he’d been waiting for. As the dance dictated, he clasped her around the waist with both hands and lifted her slightly into the air. Placing her back down, he released one hand and allowed the other to stay, grabbing her free hand with his own.

  They spun to the slow, sensual sound of the music.

  His heart raced as he looked into her eyes. Pleading. “Please believe me. I did not mean to hurt you, Jules.”

  How had he not noticed the small, faint mark under the left side of her chin. Some said such marks were from the devil. To him it made her appear more real. At times, when he looked at her, Toren could almost believe she had been carved from stone, so perfect were her features.

  “I believe you.”

  He didn’t want to let her go.

  He never wanted to let her go.

  “Let me come to you.”

  Damn, Toren! Is there no end to your foolishness?

  She’d likely never agree anyway. . .

  “Okay,” she whispered. “I am--”

  “I will find you.” He had to get out of here. Now. Luckily, the song ended and Jules walked away before he could make an even greater fool of himself.

  What had he been thinking?

  “Kerr. . . dancing? I don’t believe it.”

  The voice behind him was familiar.

  Turning, Toren smiled for the first time since he’d disappointed Jules the evening before.

  “Gregory! What the devil—”

  “Dancing? Toren Kerr?”

  The men moved aside for the dancers as a more lively tune than the last began to play. Toren forced himself not to glance back at the tables as guests continued to drink from the earl’s deep stores of wine and ale. Instead, he focused on his fellow Scotsman, who looked quite comfortable in the Earl of Condren’s hall.

  Though they were very different, Gregory Campbell having been practically raised at court, Toren would be forever indebted to the man.

  “Have you been here since the start of the tournament? What news from the Eastern Marches?” Toren asked.

  True to his nature, Gregory winked at an obviously married Englishwoman who brushed past him on her way to join the dance with her husband.

  “I’ve no wish to defend your non-existent honor to a cuckolded Englishman, Gregory.”

  A few years his junior, the chief’s son smiled in a way that told Toren he wasn’t far off the mark.

  “Then perhaps you should reconsider your own suit.” Gregory looked in the direction Toren had been avoiding. “Hallington’s daughter? Isn’t one English in your family enough?”

  “One too many, if truth be told.”

  Whether in reference to his brother-in-law or his mother, Toren could not be sure. Either way, he’d not tolerate a reference to his English mother from most people. But the Battle of Largs had forged an unbreakable friendship between him and Gregory.

  “They say she’s refused so many suitors her father recently settled on Lord Wytham as a husband. I wonder if her intended knows of Hallington’s duplicity?”

  He was not particularly fond of the idea that Juliette was betrothed to be married.

  “I care less about the girl than I do her father.” If Toren had known Gregory was in attendance, he’d have asked him for an accounting of Hallington from the start. The man knew every move made by every important noble in both countries.

  “So the rumors are true?” he asked instead.

  Gregory smiled at yet another woman. This lady appeared quite distracted by his f
riend’s good looks—she missed a step and earned a sharp glance from her dancing partner.

  “’Tis more than rumor,” his friend said. “Blackburn brags of killing two Scotsmen at The Wild Boar. ’Tis a borderer inn, and everyone knows to avoid bloodshed there. Apparently, the men he attacked did nothing more than glance his way. But he’s not being held accountable for his crimes. Especially after the incident at the last truce day, and now this, his name should appear on the list of those being brought to trial. But it does not.”

  Though Toren hadn’t heard of this particular incident, the story was a familiar one. Englishmen paying off the warden to avoid being brought to trial at the Day of Truce for crimes against Scotsmen. . . it was the very reason the king had sent him here.

  “Have you heard why the warden is not in attendance?”

  Jules had not told him when her father planned to arrive, and he did not want to raise her suspicions any further by asking outright. But if anyone knew, it would be Gregory.

  “Nay, just that he’s expected to be here, of course. Some are saying the rumors may have reached his ears and the man is too cowardly to make an appearance. But others vouch for his character and insist he’d never compromise his position.”

  “Exactly why the English king refuses to appoint another warden. He insists the man is innocent and refuses to investigate.”

  “Och, well, something must be done. ’Tis said one of the dead men is related to Douglas.”

  Why hadn’t Douglas mentioned it if he’d lost family to the corruption?

  “There’ll be hell to pay when he finds out,” Gregory continued. “’Tis rumored the man leaves behind a wife and five children.”

  The words sent a shiver down his spine. “When did this happen?”

  Gregory didn’t appear to have heard him. He was too busy flirting. He watched as his friend met the gaze of the married Englishwoman and nodded his head to indicate the very corridor where Toren had met Jules the evening before. Toren groaned inwardly.

  “Dammit man, you need a wife to keep you out of trouble.”

  Gregory smiled. “I’ll take one when you do, Kerr. Now if you’ll excuse me. . .”