The Knight's Bride

by Stone, Lyn

  Round blue eyes blinked up at her, stirring guilt over her outburst of temper. Honor wanted to weep again, so deep was her frustration. “All right, little one, I am sorry. But how am I to enthrall the man when I leak like a faulty bucket, eh? What do you suggest?”

  The baby grunted as though in answer.

  Honor laughed, both at the babe and at her plan gone awry. “Later, then. Mam will charm him later. For now, take what you will and sleep again. I do not relish jiggling you about until the wee hours just for entertainment.”

  The feeding lasted longer than usual and Honor wished she had settled on the bed to do it. Just as she laid the babe across her knees to bring up the wind, Alan entered.

  “May I?” he asked, even as he scooped Christiana up from Honor’s lap and put her against his shoulder. A loud bubble erupted almost immediately. “Aha! She speaks Gaelic! Such a winsome child,” he announced, laughing merrily. His lips brushed the babe’s fuzzy head and he drew in a deep breath. “And muckle sweet, eh?”

  Honor watched him sway side to side until Christiana’s eyes closed. Then he sighed with contentment and laid the babe in the cradle as though reluctant to give up the pleasure of holding her. Unnatural, Honor thought. Surely fathers—especially foster fathers—did not behave so.

  “She is not even your own,” Honor said before she thought.

  Alan’s head jerked around and his look held surprise. “Of course she’s my own! Whose would she be if not mine? Tav willed you to me, and she is part of you. Do you deny me rights to love her, given I did not sire her with my body?” The sad disappointment in his words and on his face tugged at her heart.

  “I would deny you nothing, sir,” she whispered fervently. “Nothing in this world.”

  Honor realized that her declaration had come, not from a calculated effort to seduce—for there had been no forethought attached to it—but from deep inside her where she had buried her hopes of ever loving fully.

  The dangerous lapse frightened her. She could not allow herself to wax soft over her husband’s kindness. Lord, he was kind to everyone he had met since coming here. Even Ian Gray. Kindness might be well and good for some, but not in a knight she expected to help ward off her enemies. She turned away from him and stared out the window into the starless night.

  She felt him draw near as though heat pulsed in waves off his huge frame. Strong hands cupped her shoulders and made her shiver at the contact. “What troubles you now, Honor?” he asked gently. “What must I do to set your mind at rest?”

  Honor leaned back against him, reinitiating her plan. He seemed in a receptive mood. She had put him there and figured she might as well take advantage of it. “I am lonely,” she said.

  “Ah, well, I’m not such good company.” He lifted his hands from her and moved away.

  “No, no, that is not what I meant,” she said, turning quickly. She hadn’t intended to touch him just yet, but her hand flew out to grasp his sleeve before she could think what else to do. “Wait!” Without giving herself time to think, she raised on her toes to kiss him. Her lips landed on his chin. Stubble abraded her lips as he jerked with surprise.

  “What...?” he began.

  Honor’s heels hit the floor with a thump. Her hands fisted on his chest. “Damn you for being so tall!”

  “Then damn me for this as well,” he rumbled, the last word landing in her mouth as he covered it with his own.

  Honor reeled with the sheer, hot pleasure of Alan’s kiss. Not the slightest thought of resisting him entered her head. Her ears rang with the encouraging sounds from his throat. The soft, dense wool of his plaid tangled in her fingers, caught between their bodies. The scents of leather, wild mint and Alan himself clouded her mind until she knew nothing but his essence, wanted nothing but that surrounding... invading...

  He stopped.

  Honor swayed, off balance and confused. His hands gripped her arms to steady her, and perhaps to keep her away, but she desperately wanted to go on with this. All manner of reasons for that flitted through her mind, the least of which was her original plan to seduce him to her will. By the saints, she wanted this man. She wanted him to kiss her again, more deeply, more roughly than he had. She wanted him to hold her, crush her to him. She wanted him to bed her. Now. A powerful shiver of need ran through her.

  “Go to bed,” he ordered, his voice sounding rough with denial. “You shake with cold.”

  Cold? Was he daft? Her head began shaking side to side, her eyes pleading for what she dared not ask aloud. Suddenly, he lifted her and stalked across the room to the bed. Now! she thought. Now he will.

  Alan deposited her on the mattress and quickly stepped away. He made a helpless, palms-up gesture, mouth open to speak. But before a sound came out, he turned about smartly. His long-legged stride had him out the door and gone before she could protest his leaving.

  Honor huddled against the pillows and chewed a thumbnail. This scheme of hers had in no way gone as planned. Tame him to her will, indeed! She had a better chance with a full-grown warhorse who had never known a bit. At least for now, she must accept that he would behave exactly as he wished. And he did not wish to bed her.

  Men were such fractious creatures, she thought, pummeling the bolster with a fist. Fractious and unpredictable. She’d not yet met one as resistant to her persuasive ways as her father had been, but she feared this husband of hers might prove so. Men were all different and required different means to govern, of course.

  She had handled her own father wrongly by resorting to arguments. The comte de Trouville, she had avoided altogether except for brief meetings in full company. They had had no words as yet and Honor wanted none. She feared the man above all things and held no desire to make closer acquaintance for any purpose.

  But Father Dennis had gladly given his protection and assistance just for the asking. With a man of God, she had never used any womanly wiles. But she had, and still did, feed him with continuous praise for his kind heart and good works. He had responded immediately to her desperate pleas when she needed to flee France.

  As for Melior, the musician, he liked her quite well, even without soft words and smiles. Though Honor had counted on his greed, she knew he cared what happened to her. If not, he would have sold information to her father concerning her whereabouts.

  And Tavish would have done anything she asked of him. He had doted on her, loved her, lusted for her. By his example alone, she knew that fostering these feelings in a man provided an excellent way to gain complete control over him. Could she do the same with Alan once she found the key to his needs?

  She had a scary feeling that her own needs far outweighed his, and where did that leave her? Not in control of anything at the moment, even her own unruly emotions.

  For all Alan’s wildness, the rough-edged manners and speech he worked so hard to alter, the gentleness in that great heart of his, and even thick-witted refusal to bed her tonight, Honor felt something she much feared was love.

  As she lay there trying to calm her thrumming body and scattered wits, her worry flourished. Alan did not want her. That was it. That was why he had turned away, probably in disgust of her wantonness. A new widow, a new mother, throwing herself at his head like a trull in need of coin. Saints, what must he think of her now? Burying her face in the linen, she wept with embarrassment and frustration.

  All hope was surely lost. Father would come. Worse yet, the dreaded comte de Trouville would come. The goodhearted Alan would welcome them with open arms and tankards of ale. Never mind who would save her from the threat of those two. Honor entertained an even worse fear now. Who in the world would save Alan?

  Chapter Eight

  Things were not progressing as Alan wished they would. Honor had seemed greatly troubled for many days now. Small wonder about that.

  A fortnight had passed since he had stolen that kiss. A very long fortnight of forced pleasantries and careful denial of what had passed between them. The Great Mistake, he had dubbed the occa
sion in his mind, for it haunted him constantly. How could something he knew to be wrong in his mind, feel so devilish right in his heart? Obviously, Honor believed it wrongly done, and so it must be.

  Her mood seemed somewhat improved tonight, however, and not so cast down as before. For the first time in weeks, he felt hopeful that she might end her sad mourning soon.

  “Ye...you are looking bonny this night,” Alan commented politely, offering Honor a sliver of tasty lamb on the point of his knife. He made a concerted effort to lay compliments at her feet whenever the chance arose. And to do it in a manner of voice that would not offend her ears. She did not like highlandmen. He struggled valiantly not to sound like one, and believed he succeeded right well. Would she never notice?

  Alan wanted her so badly, he ached with it. But he did not deserve her perfection, and was loath to intrude on her continuing grief for Tavish.

  He had avoided being alone with her as much as he could, though there existed little to draw him out of the keep for more than half day at a time. He trained her men, worked with her horses, and judged tenant disputes. In the hour following Mass, he attended Father Dennis in his cell and wrestled impatiently with the skill of reading.

  He constantly practiced his speech, and with the good priest’s corrections, managed to improve its quality so that hopefully Honor would be pleased. Still, he had too much idle time to think.

  Whenever he found himself thrown together with his wife, Alan struggled to maintain a chivalrous attitude and play the quiet and serious knight. What a wearing task that was! Full battle proved less daunting and a sight more fun.

  Devil take him, he had just told Honor she looked bonny. Surely he should be more eloquent than that. Where was his mind? He ought to have called her lovely, or beautiful, or elegant. If he voiced what he really thought—delicious, captivating, arousing—she’d know him for the lecherous fool he was.

  Alan knew very well Honor would take him into her bed any time he made the overture, but he did not want her to do so simply to fulfill what she considered a duty. Or to buy his protection. ’Twas clear she feared for her safety now that Tav was gone.

  She had exhibited her willingness more than once, but those approaches had been near desperate appeals. He had sidestepped none too gracefully and likely hurt her pride, but he could not take her that way. He adored her above everything. When they came together, he needed that feeling to be shared in equal measure.

  Alan wanted her to want him, to love him for himself, not because he might be the only thing standing between her and whatever dangers she feared. Unfortunately, she was not ready to love again and might never be. He must face that possibility.

  Oddly enough, the fact that Honor could love Tav so deeply that it reached beyond death itself, reassured Alan immeasurably. He had never thought it possible for a person to care so much for another. Certainly, no one had ever cared so for him. But he still kept hope that she would one day, and worked diligently toward that end.

  The problem he agonized over now was keeping himself in line until she did feel love for him. That agony overwhelmed his good sense on occasion. Most every occasion, come to think of it.

  At a glance, she set his blood to racing. Like now, he thought. Her gown of soft amber camlet dipped low in front, teasing him with a meager view of creamy breasts. The treat increased as she leaned forward to accept the bite of the meat he held out for her.

  She always scented the gleaming length of her hair with flowers of some kind. He knew not the name of the blooms, but that sweet, heady fragrance, combined with her closeness, drove him wild with longing. The tips of her soft fingers touched the back of his hand as though to steady it. And she smiled. He strove to keep his countenance placid while his insides swirled like leaves in a galeforce wind.

  She took the meat between her thumb and forefinger, shot him a look from beneath half-closed lids and brought it almost to her mouth. Unable to tear his gaze away, he watched her lips part. Enticing. Alan swallowed heavily. He could almost taste—

  “The nights grow cold;” she whispered, but the words took a moment to pierce his lust-fogged brain. A quick shake of his head almost cleared it. Until she inserted the sliver of meat between the even whiteness of her teeth and teased it slightly before closing her lips around it completely.

  Alan cleared his throat to cover a groan. Jesu help him, what was the woman about? He ought not to respond to this, for he knew exactly why she did it. Such a tempting woman she was, though. Honor, who was ever the lady, a lady who had recently lost her husband and borne the child of her beloved, he staunchly reminded himself. Back away. He leaned forward.

  Alan imagined real passion, true need in her languorous gaze. That could not be meant for him. The poor lass must have no thought for the present at all. Likely memories from the pleasant past ruled her actions. No doubt she dwelt on Tavish when her eyes went all soft and her lips trembled that way.

  He hastily lowered the knife to their trencher and speared a piece of cooked apple. “Here. You’d best eat more. You grow too thin.”

  She stared at the fruit and then turned away with a jerk. Alan ate the morsel himself and fastened his gaze on her profile. “Are ye well, hinny?” he asked gently, forgetting in his concern for her to govern his words properly. Damn.

  Honor glared at him then as she had done to the apple. “Are ye daft, hinny?” she mocked.

  Now what had he done? Alan glanced around the hall, anywhere but at her. He could not bear her anger. And she did appear to be furious for some unknown reason. What a puzzle, this wife of his. Just when he thought he well understood her, she changed on the instant like spring weather. Thunderstorms seemed likely at the moment and he languished in the open with no shelter at all.

  “Have I said aught amiss?” he asked, knowing as the words left his mouth that he had erred yet again.

  Her dark brows almost met and the luscious lips tightened. Fuming she was, but why?

  “I’ve done something,” he acknowledged.

  “Done nothing is more like it!” she muttered, so low he barely heard the words. Then she spoke louder and earnestly, her anger barely banked. “Am I not to your liking, Alan? You say I am bonny!” Her hands fisted in the loose edge of the table linen, her voice growing emphatic as she stated, “Then you say I am thin! There is someone else you prefer.”

  “There is?” Alan muttered, truly confused as to what might have put that maggot in her brain. Her harsh intake of breath alerted him. Renewed ire. Doubled, at the very least.

  “No! No, there is no one else!” he assured her in a rush. “I pledged faith to you and I hold by my oaths. Always! No matter what.” There, how could she possibly find fault with that?

  Tears tumbled over her lashes and rolled down her flushed cheeks. “No matter what? Tricked into vows, a wedding you never wanted,” she whispered, sniffing. “That should matter.”

  “Never think it!” he exclaimed, horrified she held herself in such low esteem. “I swear by all that’s holy, I am content!”

  She jumped to her feet and dashed the wine goblet to the floor with the back of her hand. “Content? Content, are you? Devil take you for a liar, Alan of Strode! For a liar! You are no way content, nor in any way disposed to make this marriage real! So be it, then! Have all the maids in Christendom if you so please! But you’ll have none of me, you uncouth highlandman!”

  With that pronouncement, Honor stormed out of the hall, into the solar, and slammed the door. He winced when he heard the bolt fall.

  Well, at least he had progressed from “ignorant” to merely “uncouth.” No arguing that. She had the right of it.

  Then Alan glanced around, noting the sudden stillness of the hall. Father Dennis wore a grimace of what looked to be fear. Did the priest worry his lady would suffer a beating? Nanette bit her lips together, meeting his gaze with one of wide-eyed terror. Everyone else wore similar expressions, frightened, without exception. After all this time, did they know so little of him a
s to think he would chastise Honor with the rod? He would cut off his sword arm first.

  Then the memory of her outburst on their wedding night came to mind, her unwitting revelation of what she had suffered at her father’s hands. Repeated beatings, confinement, constant fear of her own sire. Alan shuddered with anger. Still, the old man hadn’t destroyed her spirit. Even now she dared words to raise a husband’s wrath.

  Or perhaps her recent bereavement and the pain of the birth had afflicted her mind. Poor Honor. No wonder she stayed overset. Come the morn, he would reassure her that she need not fear. For now, he had best leave her be.

  He stood and slowly quit the hall, moving out into the bailey where darkness enveloped him. Those left would breathe easier, knowing he would not confront their lady tonight. Honor would give thanks he was gone. She should rest easier when Nan told her that.

  Or she might think he had gone off to find another woman. Did she wish that? He thought not, in spite of what she had said.

  If she were anyone else but Honor, he might have construed her act at supper as an honest invitation to bed her. Her actions again were probably deliberate. These were dangerous times. Honor required his strength and protection and surely thought—wrongly so—that she must pay for it, no matter how abhorrent the price. He would never take advantage of her need in such a way.

  He would not exact his husbandly rights, no matter how much he desired her. It would be only onerous duty on her part, a sacrifice. Alan would never bed her under such circumstance if he must stay celibate forever. The reaffirmation held no comfort at all. The night felt cold and he craved her warmth. And her love.

  Never again would he share even the comfort he had found in sleeping beside her just before wee Kit was born. He could not, now that he had kissed her with passion. He would not, now that the babe lay in a cradle and not inside her to remind him that her heart belonged to Tavish Ellerby.