The Warrior's Queen

by Cecelia Mecca

  Gillian breathed in deeply, taking in his drugging scent—fresh water and man, that was what he smelled like.

  He brushed her lips with his thumb, and Gillian resisted the urge to open her mouth. She had no idea what they were doing. What she was doing. All she knew was that she forgot all her manners around this man. Her training. Everything save his touch.

  “My lord,” a voice called from the hallway. “I’ve got firewood and—”

  “Come back later,” Graeme growled.

  After a moment, the shuffling ceased and Graeme tugged on her lip, forcing her mouth to open for him.

  “You’re angry,” he accused, lifting his finger back toward her lips. “Even now.”

  “Aye,” Gillian managed, opening her mouth. “I didn’t plan for this. For you.” Gillian tentatively touched her tongue to his finger.

  “Nor I, for you.” He licked her finger then, sending a shiver from her hand all the way down to her core.

  “But ’tis done. We can rail against the injustice of it, but it matters naught.”

  “Neither of us asked for this,” he said. “It may be just another alliance.”

  She swallowed.

  “Except for in the bedchamber.” And then he took her finger completely into his mouth, wrapped his lips around it and sucked, just once, but ever so slowly. “Do you understand?”

  Did he actually want her to answer?

  But then, as abruptly as he’d pulled her to him, her husband dropped her hand and walked away. Had she done something wrong?

  “I understand, but . . .”

  “Gillian.” He turned back toward her, and the pained expression on his face gave her pause. “If we continue, I will make love to you.”

  She had expected he would. After all, she was his by right.

  “And though I’d like nothing more”—he nodded toward the small bed—“this is no place for your first time.”

  And though I’d like nothing more.

  If she were honest, she wanted it as well. Consummation of marriage was necessary. Breeding was the ultimate goal of any marriage, of course. But she hadn’t expected to want her husband. After all, up until last eve, she’d thought she was doomed to marry Covington.

  She licked her lips as she watched Graeme pick the keys up off the floor.

  No, this man was entirely unexpected.

  But she supposed he was right about their accommodations.

  “I’ll get us firewood. And some food.” Then he left without another glance. Probably for the best, given that she was staring after him like a moony cow.

  With nothing else to do, Gillian moved toward the unlit brazier. The room was a bit chilly, in truth, and she always favored a fire, even on warmer days. As soon as Graeme walked back into the room, he dropped a large armful of firewood next to the brazier, but Gillian’s attention was directed at the door. A serving girl, petite and quite young, entered with a tray of food, which she set on the bed. When she turned to leave, Gillian thanked her, but the girl didn’t respond. Or close the door. Instead, she returned a moment later with a pitcher and two mugs, which she placed on the small table by the bed, and then left and returned a third time, her arms now laden with sheets.

  “Can you take that”—the girl pointed to the tray—“for just a moment?”

  No one spoke as they worked, Graeme on the fire and the girl on their bed. Normally, she would at least attempt a conversation with the girl, but Gillian found herself staring mutely at the entire scene. It was all simply too much. The reversal in her future, her fortune, her marriage.

  When the girl finished her task, she took the tray and placed it back on the bed. Gillian muttered her thanks but didn’t move. She only noticed Graeme when he stood directly in front of her.

  “Gillian?” He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

  When she didn’t answer, he took her hand and guided her to sit beside him on the bed. Taking a bite of Magge’s famous meat pie, he began to eat. Gillian did the same, though she could barely taste the food.

  “I know very little about you,” he said between bites. “Tell me of yourself. Your home and your family.”

  She pursed her lips.

  He nodded. “Then start with yourself and save your family for later.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” she said, startlingly aware that it was true. She’d seen so very little of the world and experienced even less. “I grew up at Lyndwood with my father, mother, and sister.”

  “Allie, correct?”

  “Aye,” she answered.

  “And you are close to the Countess of Kenshire?”

  “I am.” She relaxed. Sara was an easy subject to discuss. “Our fathers were friends and allies. They fought together for peace. Though they both refused the title of Lord Warden, saying it corrupted too many good men, both Richard and my father spent years ensuring peaceful truce days. Kenshire was the only place he’d allow me to visit when I was a girl.”

  “Surely you’ve been elsewhere besides your home and Kenshire.”

  She took a bite of bread. Rye, her least favorite. But eating was preferable to answering the question. Gillian hated that she’d been so sheltered. It embarrassed her.

  “You haven’t,” he concluded. “And now you venture farther away from home than ever before, to Scotland, with a man you hardly know.”

  “Aye,” she said between bites.

  “Tell me more of your sister.”

  “Allie is lovely, of course. Everyone says so. She’s also sweet and carefree. Though she tends to get herself into trouble, much like Sara’s sister-in-law Emma.”

  “And unlike you,” he finished.

  “Aye.” He’d said it with such conviction, Gillian didn’t think to deny it. And of course, it was true. Until now.

  Graeme made his way to the side table, where the serving girl had left the carafe, and poured them both wine. He handed one mug to her.

  “I find it curious,” he said, his expressive eyes matching his tone. “And can’t quite reconcile this proper young lady with the one I encountered in the garden both nights.”

  Gillian had never been so mortified in her life. “I don’t know what came over me. I—”

  “That was not a criticism, Gillian.”

  She stopped talking.

  “Just the opposite, in fact.”

  “So . . . so you enjoy kissing me?” Had she really just asked that question? Her cheeks heated most uncomfortably.

  He replaced the goblet and sat opposite her, the tray between them.

  “Very much. But more importantly—” He took a bite of bread. “Did you?”

  Should we be discussing this so openly?

  He must have sensed her hesitation.

  “It’s true, we are strangers. And neither of us intended to be sitting here right now. But we are man and wife. And while we may go our separate ways in most things, as I’ve told you, there is nothing to shy away from in the bedroom.”

  While we may go our separate ways in most things . . . What did that mean? Did he intend to abandon her?

  “I did, Graeme. Enjoy it, that is.”

  “Good, because . . .” He abruptly stood, taking the tray with him. Placing it on the floor, for there was nowhere else to put it, he turned back toward the bed. “I’m of a mind to do it again.”

  This time, when he sat next to her, Gillian was not nervous at all. She knew what to expect. However, he didn’t move toward her.

  As they sat, the distant noises of the inn below punctuating the silence of the room, Gillian eventually heard other sounds. The crackling of the firewood. Graeme’s steady breathing as he watched her with those brooding, expressive eyes.

  She swallowed, waiting, feeling her anticipation grow every moment.

  “We shall get to know each other,” he said finally, his finger tracing the outline of her cheek. It moved to her neck, the touch so light it sent a shiver to her very core.

  His finger dipped be
low the neckline of her gown. “And you’ve nothing to be afraid of,” he finished, correctly guessing her thoughts. Gillian knew little of what happened between a husband and wife. “By the time we reach Highgate End,” he said, dropping his hand, “you’ll know my touch well.”

  He leaned forward, placing his lips on hers. If she thought they were warm, the touch of his tongue when she opened her mouth for him was even more so. It glided across her own, studying it as intently as any pupil studying its subject. He circled and tasted, and Gillian gave of herself freely.

  Too freely.

  She thought he would touch her then. In fact, she hoped for his hands to roam her chest as they’d done before, making the hairs on her arm stand up straight. Instead, his mouth alone made contact, and though her body screamed to get closer, Gillian wasn’t so bold as to encourage him. Besides, this was quite lovely.

  Oh!

  When he turned his head to the side, fitting their mouths together just perfectly, she changed her mind. Gillian wanted . . . more.

  But it wasn’t to be. Graeme eventually pulled back, his lips still wet with the remnants of their kiss. He stared so intently at her lips. What did he see there? Did he wish to do it again?

  “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  Apparently not.

  “The floor?”

  When he stood, the bed creaked in protest. “Do you need assistance preparing for sleep?”

  Assistance? Oh dear. How could she have completely forgotten about her maid? Morgan had been ill, which had kept her from attending the May Day celebrations. She didn’t know that her charge was now a married woman.

  “I do not. But I had not even considered—”

  “Your parents have assured me they will send her to meet us at Highgate.”

  “How did you know my thoughts?” she asked, genuinely curious.

  The look he gave her—both puzzled and intense—made her wish she hadn’t asked. “I honestly don’t know.” Graeme retrieved the tray and walked with it toward the door. “I will be downstairs. If you need anything—”

  She blinked.

  “You will likely be asleep when I return. So I bid you good night.” And with a polite nod, the kind a knight would give to his squire, Graeme left.

  What in the devil was he about?

  One thing was for sure. Graeme de Sowlis was the most contradictory, confusing . . . albeit loyal and respectful . . . man in all of England. And Scotland. And beyond, for all she knew. Perhaps it was good he’d left her. Gillian had more important matters to consider than her traitorous body’s reaction to her new husband. At least Morgan would be joining them at Highgate and could give her news of home.

  What would it be like, Highgate End? She supposed she would soon find out.

  10

  Her new home reminded her of a fire-breathing dragon roused from a long slumber. It stood tall and proud on the horizon, alone but powerful nonetheless. Emerging from dense woodlands after a decline that had left her more than a bit shaken, Gillian stared down at the castle sprawled in front of her. From their vantage point, she could see everything clearly. Green-topped mountains surrounded a valley with its small village and long road, which led to the castle that Graeme had inherited from his father.

  In three days, she’d learned precious little about the man to whom she was now married. Though he came to her each night, his kisses holding promises they never kept, he spoke to her during the day as he would one of his men. Polite, as he’d accused her of being. Detached. And he would leave each night after kissing her senseless. She would fall asleep before he returned to their room to sleep on the floor.

  Graeme was everything she’d expected in a husband. A companion, one who admittedly treated her well, and nothing more. Exactly like her parents. If he didn’t look at her the way Geoffrey looked at Sara, well, that was to be expected. After all, this was no love match. At least she found him pleasing—no, more than pleasing—company.

  “What do you think?” Graeme asked from behind her.

  “It’s bigger than Lyndwood,” she said. “And quite beautiful.”

  The sun had just begun its descent, giving the castle an eerie glow that made her think of the many tales of Scottish superstition foisted upon her by her very English tutor. She’d never liked the Londoner, brought to Lyndwood by her father, and apparently, he’d never quite taken to the borderlands either. Once both she and her sister could read and write passably well, he had moved back home, never to be seen or heard from again.

  Graeme appeared pleased by her statement. He was clearly proud of Highgate End and his role in its survival. She’d learned from one of her husband’s men that when Graeme had been named the new chief of Clan Scott four years earlier at only five and twenty, upon his father’s death, some of the elders had worried he was too young. He was the youngest chief in their history, but he took his duty to protect his clan seriously. His leadership had impressed them all.

  “You’ve nothing to fear,” he said, slowing as they approached.

  “I’m not . . .” Well, actually she was a mite nervous. “But an Englishwoman—”

  He nodded. “’Tis as I said. Some will resent that, but most will not care. Like Lyndwood, Clan Scott recognizes the necessity of keeping the peace with our southern neighbors.”

  Quiet descended between them as their party skirted the village to the east and approached the castle from the west. Graeme opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted when two men on horseback bounded toward them, seemingly from nowhere, too quickly for it to be a simple welcome. Something was amiss.

  Graeme halted, and all of the others followed his lead.

  “Graeme,” one of the men said, stopping in front of them.

  “What is it?”

  From the man’s resemblance to Graeme, he could only be his brother, Aidan. He had the same deep-set eyes and fierce expression as her husband, though he was slightly shorter and had longer hair. Gillian had only learned Graeme had a brother that morning.

  “An attack, yesterday.” He shifted his gaze to her, then back to Graeme. The question hung in the air between them, forcing Graeme to introduce her.

  “My wife,” he said. “Lady Gillian, daughter of John Bowman, Lord Lyndwood. This is my brother, Aidan.”

  If Graeme’s brother hadn’t looked so serious just a moment ago, Gillian would have laughed at his expression. She hadn’t realized a person could look so shocked.

  “Your—”

  “I will explain later,” Graeme said, wresting his brother’s attention away from her. “An attack?”

  “English reivers, but well-organized ones. They took more than twenty sheep from old Donnan.”

  “And?” Graeme’s voice was more barbed than his normal tone.

  “His wife—”

  “If they hurt Grace . . . ,” Graeme roared.

  His brother’s expression told the tale.

  “Goddamn bastards,” he shouted.

  Despite the vehemence in his voice and the rage that had clearly welled up inside him, Gillian wished she could go to him. The urge to comfort this decidedly dangerous man she hardly knew nearly overwhelmed her.

  Gillian didn’t know who Grace was, but that didn’t matter. Graeme had cared for her, and she wished she could take Aidan’s words back. Or stop the raid from happening. She wished she could comfort his pain.

  “A slewe dogge followed their tracks across the border but lost their scent near Ettrick. We’d petition for a cold trod but don’t know which reivers did it. Only that they were English.”

  Gillian pretended not to notice the stares.

  “We’ll find them,” Graeme said, a bit more calmly. He looked at her as he helped her dismount. “I apologize this is such a sorry homecoming for you, but I must go—”

  Gillian tried to smile. The last thing she wished to be was a burden.

  “Malcolm,” he called behind them. “Escort my wife to the castle. See that she is settled.”

 
; Both of the brothers glanced at her before they took off—Graeme with regret and his brother with open curiosity—away from the castle and toward the village.

  “My lady.” Malcolm gestured for her to mount up behind him. Once closer to the castle, they circled two of the four towers before arriving at the gatehouse. Both iron gates were opened to them. The inner ward, similar to her own at Lyndwood, was filled with people, mostly servants.

  And chickens. Everywhere.

  A pentice traveled the length of the entrance to the great hall and kitchens. The covered walkway connected to a small building she imagined was the chapel just next to the northward tower. Beyond that, the gatehouse and stable. Though much smaller than Kenshire, it reminded her of it in some ways. Heavily fortified, Highgate Castle was more assuredly a defensive structure first and foremost.

  She dismounted without help. Though she had been sheltered, one thing her parents had always indulged her in was her love for horses. Malcolm took the reins and handed them to a stableboy who’d approached from behind them. The other men scattered, some to the stables and others to the gatehouse.

  “So you found yerself a good woman finally?” An older woman, well-dressed but clearly a servant nonetheless, said to Malcolm. Where had she come from?

  “Mistress Fiona,” poor Malcolm said, his eyes shifting back and forth between them. “I’m pleased to introduce Lady Gillian Bowman, daughter of Lord Lyndwood, as the new lady of Highgate.”

  Her shock could not have been more apparent. Though her hair was covered, Gillian could see strands of gray peeking out. The deep lines around her mouth disappeared when her lips turned up into a smile.

  “Graeme got himself married in England, did he?” The woman grabbed Gillian’s hand as if she were a long-lost daughter and pulled her toward the keep’s entrance.

  “Get on with you,” she said to Malcolm. “They’ll be needing you after what’s happened to poor ol’ Grace.”

  When Malcolm didn’t move, she repeated. “Go on now. I’ll take over from here.”

  Apparently Fiona’s shock did not last long. She chattered all the way into the entrance and only stopped when she and Gillian walked into the great hall. Highgate Castle, though it appeared circular from far away, was really more of a square structure. Ten long trestle tables lined the space in front of them, and a large hearth against the opposite outside wall completed the simple design of the hall.