The Knight's Bride

by Stone, Lyn

  Who is it I’m punishing here? he wondered.

  However, Alan knew better than to follow his instincts in this. His heart would soften toward her once he took her in his arms. He’d give her anything she asked, do whatever she wanted, forgive her worst transgressions. Tempting, but not a right husbandly thing to do at this point. Honor needed discipline, to know who called the tune in this awkward dance of theirs.

  Alan dried himself, his back toward the bed, and then wrapped his lower half in the bath sheet. He need not have worried that she watched. When he glanced over his shoulder, Alan saw that Honor had turned away, curled into a ball and practically hung onto the far edge of the bed.

  He tossed away the toweling and crawled into bed beside her. This would not be an easy thing, sleeping here without demanding his rights, but he would manage.

  “Good night,” he wished her gruffly.

  One of them might as well have one, Alan thought with an inner groan as he blew out the candles by the bed. It sure as hell would not be him.

  Honor carefully slid her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. The mattress rustled gently and she held her breath. She had thought he would never sleep.

  For what seemed hours, she had lain there, hardly daring to breathe. Her breasts ached for want of nursing. Her legs hurt from walking all the way to Dunniegray and then riding home on that beast of Alan’s. The muscles of her arms were sore from carrying Christiana. And her heart ached for all that might have been and might never be.

  Fortunately, she had no bruises to add to her pains. Though he had brought a stout stick with him tonight, Alan must have felt too tired to wield it. Tomorrow, he would, probably in the presence of everyone to further shame her.

  She would not protest it, for she had courted punishment at every turn, by running away, taunting him in Ian Gray’s presence, and later dousing him in the bath.

  Why did her temper fly so wildly? She could just imagine how the comte de Trouville would have reacted were he her husband. She would be dead and buried already.

  For now, she would go to Christiana and do her duty as a mother. More relief than that, she could hardly expect.

  She would not try to get away this time. Honor felt justified that she had planned an escape from her arranged marriage to Trouville. She had possessed no means to stay there and fight against it. Yesterday, she had run again out of fear she would lose her child. In that, also, she had seen no option. But now she had Alan’s promise that she could keep Christiana. She would not run again.

  Whatever her husband planned for her, she must endure, for she had nowhere else to go. Returning to her father’s house would not be possible. Even though Hume was here now, Alan would have to release him eventually, and she would be right back where she began a year past. She could not flee again to Ian Gray. Alan had already threatened to kill him for giving her shelter. She did not want that man’s death on her conscience, for he had treated her very kindly after all.

  All those reasons aside, Honor wanted to stand her ground here. This was her home and where she wanted to be. Alan of Strode might never love her back. He probably would not suffer her foul temper without retaliating, but he would treat her fairly enough. Certainly better than she could expect at any other man’s hand.

  Honor almost made it to the door when Alan’s weary voice halted her. “Where is it ye go to now, wife?”

  “To nurse the babe,” she answered quietly, hoping he would roll over and go back to sleep.

  “Fetch Kit back here,” he said. Not a suggestion.

  She nodded.

  “Honor? Come directly back or I shall come after ye. I want ye here!”

  Though his words were sharp, Honor detected the flash of vulnerability in them. As suddenly as that, she realized that her abandonment had injured Alan deeply.

  Never mind that he had precipitated her flight with his threat, he obviously felt himself wronged by her leaving. His mother had deserted him and also left scars. Honor had no desire to hurt him further. She simply wanted peace.

  “You do not understand, husband,” she said softly. “I discovered your games when I had just begun to trust you, and I do admit that made me angry. However—”

  “Games, Honor?”

  “But I want you to know that my leaving was nothing to do with that, or even the hatred you had for me. I have lived with hatred before and can do so again. I only went away to prevent Christiana from suffering exactly what you once endured, the separation of a child from its mother. I would do anything, anything at all to keep her by me.”

  He said nothing, but she could hear his unsteady breathing disturb the near darkness of the chamber.

  She went on. “Now that I have your promise not to take her away from me, Alan, I’ll not leave you again.”

  “Can I believe that? Ye’ve lied before, Honor. Just as my mother lied when she said she would come back for me. Just as my father lied when he promised she could stay with me in the Highlands. You were not honest with your father, or Tavish, or with me.”

  “The price of honesty was too high,” she said sadly. “Set your guard to me, if you will. Withhold your trust and despise me, since it pains you that I am not perfect. But know this one truth, Alan. Given like circumstances and despite the guilt, I would do the same again for all it has brought me.”

  She left the room and quietly closed the door behind her, knowing she had also closed another, stouter door between them.

  When Honor returned, Alan had propped the pillows high for her and held the babe while she settled herself for the feeding. He watched the procedure without comment, the same soft look on his features he always wore at such a time.

  When she finished, he took Christiana from her and laid the babe against his bare shoulder while Honor righted her shift.

  “My thanks,” she muttered when he had put the sleeping child in her cradle near the hearth.

  “My pleasure,” he replied. “She is so fair. Very like yourself.” Honor did not wonder that his voice sounded so sad at that thought. Especially if he considered more than Christiana’s appearance.

  “I trust she will become a better person than I,” Honor said wryly. “And I pray she will never have cause to do all that I have done.”

  “I wish I could understand why you did what you did,” Alan admitted with a sigh. He covered Christiana and patted her gently. Then he came back to the bed, leaned back against the heavy bolster, his hands laced behind his head.

  Since he did not stare at her accusingly now, Honor felt comfortable enough to attempt an explanation. “My father simply created an untenable situation, which I sought to avoid. I delayed the marriage as long as I could. When the time drew near, I thought of Tavish, recalled his proposal and made my plans. Wedding the comte de Trouville might have meant my death and I was afraid. The man has buried two young wives already. I had no wish to be the third.”

  “That doesna tell me why ye deceived Tavish,” Alan said.

  Honor wondered what more she could tell him. Surely he knew why she had.

  “Had ye told Tav your reasons, no doubt he would have moved heaven to save you that fate. He loved ye.”

  “Ah,” Honor said with a nod, “so did I know it, right from the first.”

  She turned to Alan and propped on one arm so that she could face him directly, willing him not think her so foul as he did. “You see, I meant to make it true. I fully meant to love him and I would have done, had we more time. ’Twas only two short months, Alan. Only two. Never did I say him nay, not once. I gave Tavish all I had in me to give.”

  “Gratitude,” Alan muttered. “Small sop.”

  “It was gratitude, but more. I cared for my husband, wanted him to be happy, looked forward to his return,” Honor said truthfully, feeling the tears on her face. “I mourn him, Alan. I do! He was my friend.”

  “But ye did not love him.”

  “Not as I love—”

  Alan’s gaze whipped to hers, a warning. She bit off th
e word she would have spoken, appalled at her stupidity. For long seconds, neither spoke. Then he turned his back to her and settled himself as though to sleep.

  Honor felt the rebuff as deeply as a sword thrust. Nothing she could ever say would make him believe her. And the horrible truth was, she could not expect him to.

  Later, when sleep nudged insistently, Alan’s words roused her. “Honor, I would have yer sacred vow never to lie to me for any reason hereafter.”

  She thought long and hard about his request. There might be worse consequences along the way if she acquiesced. Dared she do so, knowing she might discover a need of employing subterfuge again? Somehow, she knew that she could not lie to Alan anyway, whatever the reason.

  “I do promise,” she said, with as much sincerity as she had ever said any thing.

  “On Kit’s head, swear it,” he demanded softly, turning to face her in the weak light thrown by the fire.

  “On her very soul, I swear,” Honor replied with conviction.

  He hesitated a moment, then asked, “When we spoke of Tavish, were ye about to say that ye loved me, Honor?”

  She bit her lips. Here was the first test of her vow. “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Could ye say it now that you have sworn truth on yer daughter’s soul?”

  “Yes,” she said, uncertain whether he wanted the actual words.

  “Then say it,” he urged.

  “Why?”

  “Because I wish to hear it.”

  Honor closed her eyes, willing God to make him believe. “I do love you. With all my heart.”

  “Did ye speak thus to Tavish? These very words?”

  Honor took a deep breath, her vow still ringing in her ears. “I did.”

  He blew out his breath from between clenched teeth. “Ye have no reason to love me or even to say that ye do,” he said with a remnant of accusation in his words.

  “But I had every reason to love Tavish and to say so,” she replied. “There is the difference, Alan.”

  His tongue clicked against his teeth and he covered his eyes with one hand. “Go to sleep now,” he advised, “’Tis late.”

  Honor laughed bitterly. “If you think I could sleep after this conversation, you must be mad!”

  “Aye,” he said. “I truly must be.”

  She regarded him carefully, wondering if she dared say exactly what she thought. He had not hit her yet and she was heartily sick of wondering when the blows would come. Might as well have done with it now, for she intended to have an answer.

  “You never troubled yourself to explain why you deceived me so. May I ask why is it you hold me in such contempt for lying when you have done so from the outset?”

  “I?” he asked, plainly shocked by her accusation. “I never lie! Truth was all I had to hold to for years, I treasure it above all things. I have told ye this!”

  “Oh, you did that right enough! Time and again,” she said, gaining courage. “No education at all, you said. Then how is it your French is so flawless, I ask you?”

  He slapped the knee he’d drawn up under the sheet. “Bless me, the good father will have to compliment my pronunciation. He gets all atwitter over that. Says I’ve a twisted tongue.”

  “Father Dennis taught you?” She huffed and rolled her eyes. “In less than three months? You take me for a fool if you think I believe that, Alan the True!”

  “Nay, he’s not taught all by a long mark. A few phrases only. I but repeated aloud what he whispered to me on the battlement. That was where ye heard it, aye?”

  “Your own father declared you could speak French, Alan. Not to mention the Latin and even a bit of Italian. Explain that, if you can,” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Alan’s mouth dropped open and his eyes darted back and forth as though he sought an answer from the room at large. When he spoke, he sounded as confused as he looked. “Why would Da lie about this?”

  “Why, indeed!” she remarked. “So, you see why I find it so hard to repent to you! Adam said you could read, as well. And write. I know that’s true. I saw you write at our marriage!”

  “My name only. I learned that early on, before I left home. Wrote it in the dirt ever so often, that I might not forget how.”

  “Ha!”

  “’Tis true, Honor!” He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I have learned my letters at Father Dennis’s hand since I came to Byelough. I do read a bit now, though not as well as I would like. Not as well as I will.”

  Honor searched his face for the lie. It would be easy enough to ask the priest. Still, she did not want to believe Alan. Besides, what reason did Adam of Strode have to praise his son to the skies for skills he had never mastered? “We shall ask your father.”

  Alan sat up and slid his legs off the bed.

  “Not now!” she exclaimed, grabbing his arm.

  “Why not? The man has made ye think I betrayed Tavish, yerself, and all yer people. Should I not wake him and make him answer for it?” His brows furrowed even deeper. “Or mayhaps ye dinna wish him to recant? If I’m guilty, this lessens yer own guilt. Aye?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, determined to hold to her new vow of truth. “It would.”

  He turned and cupped her shoulders with his hands. “Listen to me, Honor. I swear by all that ye hold holy, I couldna read when I came here. I couldna write, but for my name. French, save for a few phrases not meant for a woman’s ears, I could neither speak nor understand. As for Latin or—what was it, Italian?—I know naught of those. Where would I have learned? Why would I want to?”

  Honor knew. In her heart, she knew, but still did not want to admit Alan was much the better person than she. But that vow she just made, never to lie to him again, prevented any further pretense of his guilt. She had misjudged him.

  Honor sighed and toyed with the edge of the sheet as she spoke. “When you were a child, before you went away to the Highlands, did you study with your father?”

  “Aye, I suppose. I recall little of it, other than how to make my name.”

  “Not surprising,” she granted. “You were barely a weanling then. Most likely when you mimicked a few words, it spurred his fatherly pride. I suspect his memory embellished on that as the years passed. Were your letters easy to learn when you sat your lessons with Father Dennis?”

  “Aye, not that difficult.” He smiled as he ran a finger over his lips. “I see what ye’re saying. And here I thought myself very canny to grasp everything so quickly.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose and blinked her eyes hard. Her head ached abominably. “So you did not lie, after all.”

  Alan lay back and pulled up the sheet to his chest. With his gaze on the fire, he said nothing for a while. When he did speak, it was a whisper. “I did. Once.”

  The admission surprised Honor. “How so?”

  “When I allowed Tavish to believe I could read what he had written to you,” he said softly. “I confessed it at our wedding, if you remember. A lie of omission.”

  Honor knew now that confession had cost him a great deal at the time. Alan had probably worried over it ever since it had happened.

  He continued, “Tav was dying, Honor. Weak and almost past speaking. I couldna see making him read what he had put down on the parchment, yet he needed my opinion. I said ’twas braw advice he gave and I would see ye followed it.”

  “Now you regret it,” she said in a flat voice.

  “Nay, not so,” he declared. “Could I have read every word, Honor, I would ha’ done no differently. Do you regret it? Our marriage?”

  “I believe I do.”

  He uttered a small, wry chuckle. “Well, I did ask ye for truth.”

  “So you did. And you shall have it, always,” she promised.

  “I suppose I am guilty of misleading now and again. Your father thought I meant to beat him and I did let him worry on it.”

  “Ha, worse! You held a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him that mom on the battlements.�
��

  “Oh, I meant that. I would have done, had his men not rode away!” Alan declared.

  “Would nothing ever induce you to lie, Alan? To tell a blatant falsehood?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Honor nodded. He had answered exactly as she expected he would. “Then you will never understand why I did so.”

  “’Twas the fear,” he acknowledged. “I do ken that much. But we must face our fears, Honor. We must face them armed with truth. That is the only way.”

  “Ah,” she said, sighing. “I should have wed the comte, then. Let him do as he would, perhaps kill me as he had done to his other wives. I should have faced him squarely with no defense save the honest fact that I feared for my life.”

  Alan said nothing, which to Honor signified his agreement.

  “You are a self-righteous idiot, Alan of Strode,” she said softly. “There is a truth for you. Sleep well on it.”

  Honor turned away from him, drew up the covers to her chin and closed her eyes. She had said what she had to say, now she could sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Adam of Strode had no qualms about killing an enemy. He had done so a number of times. He also had ordered the deaths of traitors and other criminals in his capacity as shire reeve and warden of the border. Some deserved death and he had provided it with the fair and perfunctory justice people praised him for.

  But he did not believe Diarmid Hume deserved to die. Not for doing exactly what the man had been trained to do. Adam feared that Alan would eventually allow the love for his wife to sway him in that direction and would later regret the action. Adam knew he needed to prevent that happening.

  Should he broach the subject now? Alan probably would not listen to any advice so close on the heels of their early morning argument. Adam thought he had fixed things between Alan and Honor, now he had explained the mix-up. That wise young daughter-in-law had figured it out all by herself anyway. It was Alan who raised such a fuss.