The Warrior's Queen

by Cecelia Mecca

  It would be easy to blame someone else, but he knew it was no one’s fault but his own.

  “You’re not angry?”

  At himself? Aye. But that wasn’t what she meant. “What cause would it serve?”

  Emma looked up, as if considering the point. “I’m not sure when you ask that way.”

  “I don’t mean to say that I wasn’t angry. Or that I won’t be so again in the future. But to remain so would only shift blame, and in truth, I should have known better.”

  “Graeme . . .”

  For the short time he’d known Emma, she nearly always smiled, or laughed, or teased. But not now. Her expression was as serious as he’d ever seen it.

  “Something is amiss with Gillian,” she started. “I don’t know her well, but I do know Sara. And she’s worried for her. Please take good care of her.” She took his hand. “Sara loves her like a sister, which means I do as well.”

  He squeezed her hand and released it.

  “She is my wife,” he said by way of explanation.

  “And as such,” Garrick finished, approaching them, “he will never hurt or betray her. You’re looking at the most loyal of men.”

  Both he and Emma stood.

  “Congratulations, Graeme,” Garrick said, standing next to his wife, who smiled at him like he was a god and not a mere mortal.

  “Thank you,” he said, shaking Garrick’s hand.

  Garrick turned to Emma. “And so you’ve nothing to fear, my love.”

  “Men,” Emma said, tugging her husband’s hand. “Come, dance with me.”

  And the man who was reputed to have single-handedly helped Prince Edward emerge victorious in the Holy Land walked, hand in hand, with his wife to dance at a midday meal.

  Graeme shook his head.

  Married? Fine. But that? Never. To open oneself up for the kind of pain that inevitably came with rejection? He’d rather be dragged to Acre by his toes and placed at the feet of the bloodthirsty Saracens.

  8

  Graeme helped his wife mount his horse. They would ride together. She’d protested the arrangement—and his manhood would no doubt feel the strain of having his wife practically on his lap. But this was the best way to ensure her safety as they traveled. Graeme had been raised on the border and knew every pass, hill, and tree from here to Highgate End. If he and his men were outnumbered, she’d be safe with him.

  “A word?” Geoffrey asked just as he prepared to mount behind her. He looked up at Gillian, a vision in her crimson riding gown, her hair pulled back into one long braid at her back. She took the reins from the groom and nodded, clearly able to handle herself.

  He looked past Geoffrey to where Sara, Emma, and Garrick stood. They’d requested that he and Gillian stay the night at Clave, but he was anxious to get her well away from Kenshire.

  Or, more precisely, from her father.

  The bastard had not even shown up to see her off, and her mother had done so only briefly. Both were now conspicuously absent from their departure and only the sister remained now, consoling her after a meeting with her father that had apparently not gone well.

  “You’re a good man,” Geoffrey said. “You’ve done the right thing.”

  Graeme turned to look at his wife. “She doesn’t agree.”

  His queen appeared anything but pleased.

  “Emma believes there is more to it than a surprise wedding,” Garrick offered.

  “As does Sara,” Geoffrey agreed. “But nothing that has happened in the last day mitigates our alliance.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Graeme said.

  “Assure Douglas that Lord Hedford is committed to peace, as are we. And if you’ve word of any further upsets—”

  “I’ll let you know at once,” he said. “I’ve a meeting with Douglas and Kerr before the next Day of Truce.”

  Toren Kerr, chief of Clan Kerr and Geoffrey’s brother-in-law by marriage, was staunchly committed to keeping peace at the border.

  Geoffrey nodded. “Godspeed then.”

  “And much luck to you,” Garrick added.

  Graeme shook both of their hands.

  “This land is ours,” he said, nodding. “We will have peace if enough of us press for it.”

  The English earls exchanged a glance.

  “We wish you luck,” Garrick said, “on your marriage.”

  And when both he and Geoffrey burst into laughter, Graeme glanced once again at his wife. Ahh, well. She was a different matter entirely. He had no idea how to be a husband or even how to gain her confidence. But it was a challenge he looked forward to.

  When he was finally mounted, Graeme led his men from Kenshire’s courtyard and onto the dirt road that would take them north.

  They rode in silence until the castle disappeared behind them. Graeme tried to ignore the heat and pressure of Gillian’s body in front of him. If they wanted to reach Highgate End by the following evening, they would need to ride hard both days. Emma and Garrick had been attacked on this very road just five months earlier, and with Gillian along, he’d not take any chances.

  “Are you still angry?” he asked finally, hoping she would engage with him.

  Silence.

  “Gillian?”

  “Aye,” she answered. “But not at you. I kissed you too.”

  “And this is the price we must pay,” he finished. Though she’d not said it, Gillian could not have made it clearer that, whatever her reasons, she would rather be married to the ancient Earl of Covington than him.

  So be it.

  He spent the remainder of the afternoon considering border tensions, alliances, and just about anything capable of distracting him from her movements. She was too innocent to realize her effect on him, but every time she shifted toward him . . .

  They needed to stop.

  “Up here,” he yelled to the men in front of him. Normally, he would ride in the lead position, but not with Gillian sharing his mount.

  The riders veered off the old Roman road and made their way through a thicket of trees to the stream he knew was just to their east. Sure enough, the sound of running water reached his ears moments later.

  The weather, if not his wife, cooperated today. There was hardly a cloud in the sky.

  “Come,” he said to Gillian, knowing she’d need privacy to relieve her needs.

  When the small river appeared in front of them, Graeme looked for an area with ample cover.

  “There,” he said, pointing, and his wife understood immediately.

  She all but ran to the underbrush, paused, and called out to him. “Will you turn your back?”

  “No.”

  She startled and made a face. “No?”

  “I care more for your safety than your modesty,” he said, softening his tone.

  “Well, I can’t . . . that is . . .”

  “Gillian . . .” He took a deep breath. “We are husband and wife. I’ll be seeing much more of you than—”

  “Ugh!” She squatted.

  He did look up at the sky, but though his gaze was averted, his other senses were not. He could feel her moving, hear every rustle of the bush. If danger lurked, he’d sense it before he saw it. Luckily, the only danger was of him being unable to ride as he thought of her naked calves, her gown being hiked up. Her legs, his hand running down—

  “I’m done,” she announced. A moment later, Gillian emerged and looked toward the river. He nodded and followed her.

  Bending down, she leaned toward the water and cupped it in her hands.

  “Be careful,” he said, knowing the rock she leaned on was more slippery than it looked.

  Gillian rolled her eyes. Surprising given her propensity for decorum. What would his wife be like when she dropped all of the trappings of propriety?

  Actually, he’d gotten a glimpse of just that. A glimpse that had procured him a wife.

  “I can manage to wash my face . . . oh!”

  She’d bent down to the river bank—and plopped into it as quic
kly as an osprey swoops into the water to retrieve its prey.

  Graeme ripped off his sword and dove into the river. The strong current carried her along as easily as it did the leaves and twigs floating alongside her. His heart lurched as he reached out for the fabric of her now-drenched gown.

  Pulling her toward the bank, Graeme called out and his men instantly gathered on the banks.

  “Malcolm, grab her.”

  The slippery rocks made it difficult for him to climb out to the bank. One moment, he struggled to keep her above water, the next, she was lifted from his arms.

  Coughing and wet, Gillian appeared otherwise unharmed. He scrambled up after her and knelt by her side, looking for any signs of a gash. She hadn’t been in the water for long, but one could never be too safe. Infection could spread from such a small accident.

  “Someone get her saddlebag and my tartan.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, attempting to stand.

  Graeme helped her up, recognizing the futility of arguing. For a proper lady, she certainly had a stubborn streak. Something sparked in her eyes—there one moment, gone the next—the change so quick he thought for a moment he’d imagined it.

  But it had been there, and he smiled at the implications.

  “At least one of us is happy,” she said, though her tone was more playful than her words.

  “Chief.” The same man who’d pulled Gillian from the river handed him both the saddlebag and the tartan.

  “Thank you, Malcolm,” he said, taking both. “We’ll be along in a moment.”

  Dismissed, the men went back in the same direction from which they’d come. Alone once more, Graeme looked at his drenched wife.

  “Here.” Though the sun warmed them both, the river water had been cold enough to make Gillian shiver. He wrapped the wool cloth around her and put her bag on the ground. Opening it, he pulled out a surcoat and kirtle.

  “You’ll need to change,” he said, handing them to her.

  Gillian took the clothing.

  “But you’re wet too,” she protested.

  “I noticed,” he said.

  She didn’t move.

  “Do you need assistance?”

  Her riding gown, ruined, stuck to her body in places Graeme couldn’t help but notice. And why should he not? This Englishwoman, a stranger, was now his wife. But she was also a virgin, he reminded himself. He would need to be gentle with her. Patient.

  “I do not.” She began to turn away but stopped. “Thank you. For saving me.”

  He bowed. “You’re most welcome, my queen.”

  Finally, a smile.

  When she disappeared into the bushes this time, he did not turn his head. Though he could only see her shoulders and the bottoms of her calves, it was enough. The moment Gillian removed her gown, his cock reminded him of how sweet she had tasted last night.

  Waiting, no longer able to see anything more than shadows, he removed his own tunic and undertunic, squeezing water from them both.

  When she finally emerged, dry except for her hair, which she’d rebraided, Graeme had to remember to breathe. Yellow suited her. She was lovely, his wife.

  Just as lovely as the other women who’ve spurned you. Maybe even more so.

  He would be a fool to forget she had been forced to marry him. This beautiful creature was not here because she wanted him. Or cared for him. She was here because she had no other choice.

  “Oh!” When she spotted him, Gillian stopped and stared. This was certainly not the shy maid who’d allowed him to place a crown of flowers atop her head. This was the woman who’d kissed him back with such fervor they’d had no choice but to wed.

  “I trust all is well?” He watched her eyes as they widened, her lips as they parted.

  So his wee wife desired him, did she?

  Well, that made two of them. He supposed there were worse ways to start a marriage.

  He reached her in a few short strides. “You’ve not seen a man like this before?”

  She swallowed and nodded. “I have . . . on the lists. But . . .”

  When her hand moved toward his chest and then dropped back down, he took the opportunity and seized it, placing her open palm on his bare chest. She didn’t move her hand, but it mattered not. The innocent touch sent his blood flowing in every direction. When one of his men shouted for him, Graeme silently cursed.

  He removed her hand, twined his fingers through hers as if they’d done it a thousand times before, and led his wife through the trees, back to the horses.

  He hadn’t even realized they walked hand in hand until Malcolm glanced down, ever so briefly, at their joining. Immediately releasing her, he stuffed their wet clothing into his own saddlebag and grabbed a linen shirt.

  Tossing it over his head, Graeme then lifted his wife up and mounted behind her, remembering too late nothing protected him from her back pressing against his chest.

  They were on their way once again.

  It was only much later that he realized they’d forgotten to eat. They would just have to wait until they reached The Wild Boar. There, he’d share a feast with his new wife in more ways than one.

  9

  He didn’t stop her this time. When she ran her hand along the firm ridges of his chest down to his stomach, her husband simply watched her. They stood in an open field, and though she was no longer wet, droplets of water remained on her husband, dripping down his masculine chest, and suddenly . . . she wanted to kiss him there.

  “Gillian.”

  So hard.

  “Gillian.”

  He touched her, but it wasn’t the soft touch of a lover. Instead, he shook her as if . . .

  “Wake up, Gillian.”

  Her eyes popped open.

  Graeme sat behind her on his horse. Not in an open field.

  A dream. It had been a dream.

  “I’m awake,” she murmured, looking around them. “Where are we?”

  She had fallen asleep after sunset, but it was much later now. The low murmur of crickets and men’s distant voices punctuated the otherwise silent night.

  “The Wild Boar,” he said, dismounting.

  A groom took the reins as Graeme lifted her to the ground.

  “Where are your men?” She spied a two-story stone structure and a stable beside it, but other than the groom, no one stirred. The larger building boasted a wooden sign, which appeared to be new. Two crossed arrows above the likeness of a boar.

  “Inside.”

  She began walking toward the entrance, but her husband’s hand stopped her.

  “The hall can be a bit . . .”

  “Aye?”

  “Overwhelming.”

  Though she’d very much like to know what precisely that looked like, she didn’t dare ask. “What do you suggest?”

  Graeme raised his brows. “That depends on how adventurous you’re feeling.”

  A proper lady does not show emotion.

  “Do I appear the adventurous sort to you?” she asked sarcastically.

  Graeme’s eyes narrowed as they tended to do when he was rattled. Though her husband was still very much a stranger, she’d learned at least that.

  “Very well.” He gestured for her to lead, and she did. When he opened the door from behind her, Graeme’s arm brushed against her side. Pity he was no longer shirtless.

  Gillian! What is wrong with you?

  “About time you show yer face.”

  Though Gillian had never been to The Wild Boar, or any inn, she’d heard of the place before. And its owner. Everyone on both sides of the border knew it was the one inn they could rely on for neutrality. Somehow, even though she was widowed, the owner and her son managed to keep trouble from their door.

  “And you’ve brought yerself a wife, the men tell me.”

  Graeme stepped aside to allow the innkeeper to get a full view of her.

  “Mistress Magge, I’d like to present my wife, Lady Gillian, daughter of Lord Lyndwood. Gillian, Magge is the owner of this
fine establishment.”

  “If I could reach yer handsome cheek to pinch it, I would,” Magge said.

  Gillian stared at the woman in awe, shocked that she would speak in such a way to Graeme, a chief and obviously a warrior, and the largest man she’d ever met. This small, plump woman didn’t seem to care if he were a commoner or the King of England.

  Fascinating.

  A shout from deep within the inn took Magge’s attention away from them.

  “Is yer wife the sort who dines in the hall or in private?”

  What did that mean?

  “We’ll take a meal in our room,” Graeme answered for her. “The men have already—”

  “They told me yer needing a room. Yer usual is available. But it’s the stable for them. More and more men every day,” she muttered, leaving them alone in the entranceway.

  “What’s that smell?” Though dark, the inn did not smell as poorly as she’d expected. In fact—

  “Magge’s famed meat pies,” Graeme said. He took her by the hand and led her back out the door and around to another entrance.

  “The private rooms are back here,” he said, releasing her and popping a key into the lock.

  “But”—she looked at his hands, baffled—“where did you get the key?”

  He moved his hand, just slightly, and opened the door. The key disappeared before she could process what was happening.

  “Wait, where did the key go?” Gillian turned his hand around. Empty. “But it was there just a moment ago.”

  He lifted his other hand, the one that had not moved at all. An iron keychain lay flat against his palm.

  “But how—”

  “I’ve quick hands,” he said, his voice low and meaningful. She wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly. But somehow Gillian didn’t think he spoke only of his ability to hide keys.

  “Where—”

  “I took it from Magge. She was about to offer it to me.”

  Gillian looked from one hand to the other and shook her head.

  “After you, my queen,” he said, standing to the side.

  Once they were both inside, he locked the door once more, tossed the keys to the floor and reached for her before she could even take in their surroundings.