“As you can see, preparations are underway for the evening meal. Daughter?” The lady of Lyndwood indicated for Gillian to accompany her, and Gillian followed. The woman who had so passionately embraced him in the forest was not in this hall.
Or so he thought. The sparkle in her eyes when she turned to offer a final glance made him smile.
English queen indeed.
“Shall we?” Lyndwood extended his hand. After nodding to his men, indicating they should follow the steward who’d introduced himself to them in the midst of the family greetings, he indicated for Graeme to follow.
Lyndwood ushered him into a small but well-lit room off the hall—a steward’s office? He sat across from his host at a well-used desk, waiting for the man to speak.
“That business at the Day of Truce. It was regrettable.”
“Regrettable?” Graeme’s jaw twitched. He’d remain calm only because he had been trained to do so. And because this man was, unfortunately, Gillian’s father.
“I had no choice but to speak on Blackburn’s behalf.” He said it with such conviction, Graeme almost believed him.
“Did you believe the words you spoke that day?”
Lyndwood’s eyes narrowed. When last they’d met, the man had betrayed him at the Day of Truce. That the baron defended himself now told Graeme almost everything he needed to know.
Almost.
“No.”
It was the only answer that offered hope for the future. But it angered him nonetheless.
“I’ll remind you Clan Scott land was raided. People were killed. If you did not believe he was innocent, why did you do it?” He forced his hands to remain still. “Revenge?” he guessed. He’d thought long and hard on the matter, and it was the only answer he could come up with.
Lyndwood actually laughed.
“Tell me, my lord,” Graeme asked. “What is so amusing to you? That the healer who’d spent her life saving others was killed?” His voice rose with each word.
“I am sorry for the loss of such a woman,” Lyndwood said. “But the idea that I would let a bastard like Blackburn walk free, risk my reputation by aligning with such a man—”
“And Covington,” Graeme reminded him.
“For revenge? Against my daughter’s husband?” Lyndwood no longer looked amused.
Graeme leaned forward, impatient with the man’s innuendos and pretty speeches. “Then why don’t you tell me exactly why you did it.”
“I did it . . .” Lyndwood leaned back in his high-backed chair and folded his arms. A defeated man. “To save my family.”
Graeme waited, not so patiently.
“Two years ago, a distant relative of my father’s”—he crossed himself—“thought to dredge up a tired old claim. He meant to take Lyndwood from us. So I paid two thousand marks to the Crown to resolve the dispute, certain it was the easiest way to put the matter to rest. Unfortunately”—he frowned—“it did not happen that easily.”
Graeme wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Gillian’s father, but a story about his recent history was not it.
“Instead, the ruling was split. I would retain the title and land, but a large portion of Lyndwood’s coin was awarded to the bastard who hasn’t stepped foot in this country in two decades.”
Graeme tried to understand the implications of Lyndwood’s lost wealth. It explained quite a bit—the betrothal to Covington, the bride price the man had charged him.
“And so you raised coin by attempting to collect an overly large dowry for Gillian’s hand—”
“Despite the man’s age and reputation, yes,” Lyndwood finished. Continuing to defend himself, he added, “He’s not known to be a cruel man.”
Graeme rolled his eyes. “What better candidate for a woman such as Gillian?”
Her father at least had the decency to look embarrassed. They both know Covington did not deserve her. And if her father didn’t know that, then he did not know his daughter.
“None of which explains your support of Blackburn.” Graeme sat back, crossed his arms again, and waited, more than a bit surprised at Lyndwood’s forthrightness, if not his haughty attitude.
For a moment, he thought Lyndwood would not answer him. As if he were more comfortable talking about selling his daughter to the highest bidder than admitting to why he’d supported a man he knew to be guilty.
“He paid me to do so,” he finally said.
“Blackburn?” Graeme could not hide his shock.
“Nay. Covington.”
“But what does—”
Then, suddenly, it all made sense. The Earl of Covington had a reputation for being one of those men who thrived when disorder reigned at the border. Men of his rank could not profit from blackmail without repercussion, unless the truce day, and terms of the treaty, fell apart. And then he, others like him, and even members of the clergy, could become even richer from the men and women they cheated. Blackburn was another such man, and that they appeared to be working together was at once unsurprising and alarming.
“You understand what these men aim to do?” he ground out.
Lyndwood lowered his chin to his chest. He stared down at his hands and tonelessly answered. “Of course I do.”
Graeme stared at him, unsure of what to say.
“How bad is it?” he finally asked. It had to be very bad indeed for the man to have so completely abandoned his principles.
When Lyndwood looked up, he did not meet Graeme’s eyes. Instead, he stared off into the distance as if there was something more interesting to be seen beyond him.
“Without Covington’s support,” he said tonelessly. “We will lose everything.” Finally, Lyndwood looked at him. “Whether you believe me or not, Lyndwood is an ally to Clan Scott. So no, I did not want revenge against my son-in-law. I am simply trying to survive.”
He didn’t doubt the man’s words, but Graeme did question his methods.
“By aligning yourself with men such as Covington and Blackburn? You can find no other way?”
Some of the baron’s fire returned. “You think I haven’t considered every possibility?”
Graeme shook his head. “It will never work.” At Lyndwood’s confused expression, he continued. “Those men will never be satisfied until the March Law is completely destroyed. They believe it will benefit them if lawlessness returns to the border, and they won’t rest until they’ve destroyed everything our fathers built. Covington will continue to use you, and your influence, for himself.”
Lord Lyndwood blinked. “She’s not told you then?”
He didn’t like the sound of that.
“Told me what?” The identity of the “she” was unquestionably Gillian.
“I’ll not need to be beholden to men like Blackburn in the future.”
If this had anything to do with his wife . . .
“The banns have just been posted. Covington will be marrying my daughter. My other daughter. Once our debts are paid, Lyndwood will be free once again to take a stand.”
Lady Allie.
Lyndwood would use the only other asset available to him. And apparently Gillian already knew . . . and had not said a word about it. He chided himself for forgetting, even for a moment, that his wife had not chosen him.
He stood. “My lord.”
Without waiting for a response, he left the increasingly stifling room and went off in search of the woman to whom he was married but hardly knew at all.
20
Gillian sat in her old room, which had already been stripped of all of her things—the tapestries had been taken down, the hand-stitched coverlet she’d had since girlhood exchanged for a plain cream coverlet suitable for guests. It felt like a stranger’s room.
Allie had left to prepare for dinner after helping her to change into her father’s favorite of her gowns. Their conversation had not gone quite as she’d hoped. Her sister had been less than enthusiastic about her plan. Gillian had wanted to speak to her father before he locked himself away with Gr
aeme, but it was too late for that. She could only hope he’d still listen to reason.
A foolish hope. Father will never give up Lyndwood. He loves it more than Mother, Allie, and I. More even than himself.
“Gillian?”
She hardly recognized the hesitant voice as her husband’s.
“Aye,” she called out, jumping from the bed.
Graeme shut the door behind him, none too gently, before crossing his arms and glaring at her as if she’d lied to him. Which, in a way, she had. So he knew . . .
“I take it the meeting with my father went well?”
Her husband wasn’t amused. “I believe you failed to mention something to me.”
There was no use denying it. “I’d have told you earlier if it were not for what happened at the Day of Truce. But after my father—”
“You are my wife.”
She wasn’t sure she liked his tone.
“And you are my husband.”
Graeme took a deep, dramatic breath before speaking. “You put me at a disadvantage with your father. When he told me of your sister’s betrothal—”
“That’s why you are upset? That my father had more information than you?” Of course, he was a man, after all. A chief. Power mattered to him, and what greater power than knowledge?
“No, Gillian. I am upset I had to learn of something so important from a man who betrayed me.”
“What would you have done had I mentioned it before we left?”
He started speaking, too soon. “I’d have asked what you intended to do.”
She waited. “And what would you have done after I told you I planned to talk my father out of it? Appeal to my mother to intervene? And, when both inevitably failed, that I intended to take Allie back to Scotland with us?”
“Take Allie?” His eyes widened. “Are you mad, woman? Take Covington’s betrothed to Clan Scott land? And what do you suppose would have happened next?”
She’d thought of that as well, but it hadn’t persuaded her from her plan. Her sister shouldn’t have to bear the burden of maintaining their family’s standing.
“Well, I suppose my father, and Covington, would be a mite upset. And my father might even lose Lyndwood.”
He cocked his head to the side, though his expression stayed neutral.
“So my father told you about that?” She’d not have expected him to be so open about his troubles. “My parents would be forced to live at one of their other more modest holdings. And Covington—”
She hadn’t thought much about his reaction, preferring instead not to consider the man at all.
“Let me finish for you, my queen.” He uncrossed his arms and took a step toward her.
“Covington would challenge me, as chief, forcing my clan to choose between giving back his betrothed or going to war with a powerful border lord, one who would prefer to end the peace that your friends at Kenshire and I are trying to bolster. The March Law would be in more danger than ever.”
“I don’t think—”
“Exactly. You didn’t think.”
She blinked back tears. This was why she hadn’t told him. She’d fooled herself into thinking Graeme would take her side, but a part of her had feared he would leave her home if she told him the truth. And then her sister would have had no chance at all.
She’d been wrong about him. He didn’t love her. Their situation was as he’d described it from the start. They were only open with each other in the bedroom.
Very well.
She sailed past her husband, shoving off his hand when he tried to touch her. Nothing but her sister’s safety and happiness mattered. And while she was here, there was still a chance.
Her sister was doomed.
Gillian found her mother before dinner, but their conversation led nowhere. Her mother was, as always, polite, understanding, and completely ineffective. The argument she put forward was a familiar one. Without Allie’s dowry, Lyndwood would be lost. It was the very reason she’d agreed to marry Covington herself, only she wouldn’t let her sweet, innocent sister bear the sacrificial burden.
In the end, she kissed her mother on the cheek, excused herself, and went in search of the only man who could change her sister’s future.
Unfortunately, her father was already seated at the high table, early for the meal as was his custom. Despite their reduced circumstances, Lyndwood continued to boast an impressive staff, including the cupbearer who filled her father’s mug with ale. Perhaps if they’d made more adjustments, the alliance with Covington wouldn’t have been needed.
“Good evening, Father.”
His beard, less closely shaven than usual and now dotted with gray, made him look older. She much preferred him clean-shaven.
“Daughter.”
So he was still upset with her. That he’d taken himself away with her husband without hardly a greeting should have told her as much, but it still hurt. This was the man who had betrothed her to the Earl of Covington, aye. But she also remembered him as the father who’d held her on his lap and told her tales of King Arthur. The one who had showed her how to mount a horse and hold a bow.
“I’d hoped to speak with you before the meal,” she said, stepping up onto the raised dais and coming around to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. Mayhap if she pretended all was well, it would be. In the end.
“And here I am.”
She sat next to him, in the seat that had been hers before she became a Scottish clan chief’s wife. Her sister would sit here now, and she and Graeme would move farther down the dais.
“You are still upset with me,” she said, lifting her hand to get the attention of the cupbearer. She smiled as the boy filled her goblet with wine and tried not to dwell on her father’s dour expression.
“Upset? Indeed not. Lyndwood fares well in your absence.”
Oh, Father, please don’t do this.
“I am pleased to hear it,” she said, folding her hands on her lap. “Although”—she peeked out from under her lashes—“I cannot say I am pleased to hear of Allie’s impending nuptials.”
No response.
“Father.” Since he refused to be reasonable, she might as well speak her mind. “There must be another way. After what happened with Blackburn—”
“You know nothing of such things.”
Her temper flared. Gillian had spent a lifetime containing it, and for once, she nearly allowed it to take hold. But that would not do. Not if she wanted her father to listen. He’d always made it quite clear he did not abide emotional women.
“I know only what my husband has told me,” she agreed.
“And why would he have told you anything?” her father asked.
“Because she is my wife.”
She’d been so intent on studying her father’s face, looking for any signs of hope, that she had not noticed Graeme’s approach from the side of the hall. Though she was still deeply upset by his casual dismissal of her plan, Gillian would put her disappointment aside for the sake of appearances. After a lifetime with her mother, she found the appearance of civility came easily to her.
Gillian stood, gave her hand to Graeme, who kissed it so lightly she could hardly feel his touch, and allowed herself to be escorted to her seat. She watched as her mother and sister entered the hall.
“You were correct,” Graeme said politely. “Your sister is quite lovely.”
“And kind,” she offered. “Allie thinks more of others than she does of herself.”
Graeme stood as the women approached. “Sounds familiar.”
She glanced at her husband out of the corner of her eye, only to immediately regret it. Though she was still angry with him, Gillian’s heart raced as she watched him greet her mother and sister. Had a more handsome man ever existed? Of course, there were other handsome men, nearly as good-looking as Graeme, who’d never caused her heart to beat at this furious pace. The Waryn men, or so she’d heard beyond Geoffrey, with their black hair and crystal blue eyes, sent women into an ab
solute frenzy, much to the dismay of Sara and her sister-in-law Catrina. But there was something about Graeme . . . his easy charm and fierce loyalty, his natural leadership, and the way he wielded his eyes as if they were weapons.
She sat and leaned forward to greet her mother, seated on the other side of her sister.
“Good evening, Mother.”
“Gillian.”
Everyone called her Gill here, except her mother.
“So, my lord, tell us,” Allie said to Graeme, “how fares Highgate End and Scotland?”
“Very well now that it has your sister for its lady,” he responded.
If only he believed that to be true.
“Has your clan accepted my sister then? Even though she is English?”
Gillian rolled her eyes. “I am sitting between you,” she said. “If you were not aware.”
“Indeed you are, dear sister,” Allie said, feigning surprise. “How did that come to be?”
Gillian tried not to smile but failed when she caught Graeme’s expression. His ear-to-ear grin made her want to melt beneath the table. And kick his leg in aggravation.
“Clan Scott has a history of caring more for peace along the border than anything else. Those who would not accept Lady Gillian because she is English would not be made welcome by me or, indeed, their clansmen.”
Graeme’s answer was only partially for her sister. Much of it was directed at her father, who seemed more interested in the freshly-served mince pie than in the conversation around him.
“And you, sir? You’ve accepted Gillian as well?”
“Allie!” She turned to Graeme, prepared to apologize for her sister, but he was already answering.
“I am not a ‘sir,’ but a simple clan chief,” he said, though his words held no malice. “And as for your question . . .”
He looked at her then, his eyes filled with an emotion she couldn’t identify.
“I accepted her the moment I handed her that wreath of flowers.”
She looked away, her anger at him beginning to dissipate despite her best efforts.
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