The Warrior's Queen

by Cecelia Mecca

  “Very well.” Gillian moved to the trunk at the foot of her bed, took out a green riding gown, and shook it.

  “I hoped this was still in here. I wonder why Morgan didn’t bring it to Highgate,” she said to herself, ruining the effect of her body-hugging shift by stepping into the practical gown.

  He moved toward her to assist, wondering why he was putting her into the gown rather than taking her out of it. When his hands brushed the sides of her breasts, he considering pulling the gown back down. “Perhaps we should—”

  She spun around, nearly knocking herself over since the gown was not fully lifted. “We are in the middle of an argument. This is certainly not the time for—”

  “Oh, my dear wife, you’ve not made a careful study of husbands and wives after all.”

  She continued to pull the gown up, in the exact wrong direction. They’d left Morgan behind at Highgate. According to Gillian, the poor woman had nearly broken into tears at the prospect of riding south again so soon. Though an adept rider, she’d apparently hoped not to see the backside of a horse for some time.

  “During a fight is the perfect time.”

  “I disagree.”

  Graeme considered showing her just how enjoyable lovemaking could be at such a moment. Until he remembered how badly he wanted to get away from Lyndwood. Instead, he heaved a sigh and continued helping Gillian until she was properly dressed.

  “I’ll have to ask my mother’s handmaiden to assist with my hair,” she said, lifting a pewter brush from her belongings.

  “Let me help.”

  He took the brush from her and gently nudged his wife to turn around. As he brushed the dark locks, Graeme couldn’t resist touching them, lifting them to his face. He breathed in deeply, savoring the scent of lavender. And something else?

  “Lemon?”

  She shrugged. “Once, father returned from a trip to London and brought lemon-scented soap back with him. A merchant claimed he’d just returned from Greece with it, but Father thought it far more likely ’twas fashioned right there in London. He brought it home to us nonetheless. Now I make sure to get new lemon-scented soaps and sachets every market day.”

  He resumed brushing. “An interesting man, your father.”

  Graeme pulled the hair from her front to the back to ensure every strand was as smooth as the others.

  “You hate him,” she said blandly.

  He certainly did not like the man.

  “I can understand why he feels compelled to go to desperate measures to save Lyndwood. And yet the choices he’s making . . .”

  Graeme stopped, realizing something. “But I could never hate that which created you.”

  He finished, and Gillian turned toward him.

  “Thank you.” Her eyes glimmered with some emotion.

  A dangerous proposition, speaking from the heart. Perhaps he should have kept silent. He’d learned that such openness only ended one way.

  With him getting hurt in the end.

  Again.

  “So tell me, why are we not taking your sister with us back to Highgate?”

  She looked so startled, Graeme couldn’t resist laughing.

  “Because you . . .”

  He crossed his arms and waited.

  “Well. She’s not marrying Covington after all.”

  “She’s not? How does she plan to get out of it?”

  “I know not. She refuses to tell me anything more. Only that I must trust her and she has a plan.”

  “In that case,” he said, gathering up his wife’s belongings. “God save us from the Lyndwood sisters and their plans. ’Tis time we return to Scotland.”

  He couldn’t get away from this place fast enough.

  23

  “Gillian, nay.”

  They’d entered the doors of The Wild Boar just before sunset. And for some reason, Gillian refused to dine in their room.

  “But there are women in the hall. I saw them. Surely—”

  “Not the kind of women . . . not like you.”

  She, of course, refused to listen to reason. And so he found himself following his wife into the rowdy hall, which showed no signs of becoming tamer. While The Wild Boar had a decent reputation as a safe retreat for both Englishmen and Scotsmen, its hall was surely not a place for a gently bred lady such as his wife.

  Everyone in the room turned to stare. Gillian garnered attention everywhere she went, even if she didn’t seem to notice. He sat with the rest of his men, pulling his wife nearly onto his lap.

  “Do move over,” she said, pushing him aside.

  “You don’t care to sit next to your husband?”

  “I know what you’re doing Graeme, and you can just stop right now.” Though she said it in a whispered hush, surely the others could hear. Not that he cared much. But it amused him that Gillian had suddenly shed her usual reservations.

  Since leaving Lyndwood, she had been different. Whether it was her father’s confession or the hope that her sister might very well be safe from Covington’s clutches after all, he couldn’t be sure. But the slightly worried, reserved woman he’d married had given way to one who stared brazenly at all The Wild Boar’s hall had to offer. And though he liked the change, Graeme wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.

  “My lady,” Malcolm addressed her. “Yer sister’s quite beautiful.”

  All of the others laughed at his nerve as a serving woman dropped mugs of ale on the trestle table. The woman winked at Graeme when he looked at her, so he turned away immediately.

  “Aye, Malcolm, she is,” Gillian agreed.

  Graeme moved one of the mugs in front of her. She looked at it and then up at him.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Nay,” she said, her hair falling over her shoulder.

  Graeme moved it back.

  “’Tis just . . .” She looked from him to the men.

  “What is it?”

  “My father,” she said finally. “He says women don’t drink ale.”

  The men laughed, but Graeme wisely did not join them. “That’s enough,” he told them. Turning to her, he said, “Gillian, is your father here now?”

  She looked around as if making sure. “Nay.”

  “You asked to eat in the hall for a reason, did you not?”

  The others, momentarily distracted by another serving woman, this one with very little clothing to speak of, ignored him and Gillian.

  “I did.”

  Ah. This was not about wanting to eat in some dirty hall. Gillian was finally beginning to move out from under her father’s rule, and Graeme could have kicked himself for not seeing it earlier.

  And for trying to stop her. He’d been wrong to attempt to shield her from the hall.

  In attempting to protect her, he’d taken away her choice . . . which was the same thing her father did. That was why she’d been so angry back at Lyndwood. Marriage was a complicated dance, he realized, and he had yet to learn the steps.

  “Graeme?”

  He wouldn’t give Gillian permission to drink the ale. She didn’t need it. His wife needed to decide for herself. Instead, he lifted his own mug and drank deeply.

  When Gillian took a sip from the mug he’d given her, her reaction was immediate.

  She promptly stuck out her tongue. “Ugh, ’tis awful.”

  Malcolm pushed the mug back toward her. “Try again, my lady. It gets better each time.”

  Graeme laughed so hard at her expression that his stomach hurt. The others joined him as Gillian lifted the mug again and took the daintiest of sips.

  “Not true, Malcolm. ’Tis still awful.”

  “Drink it down,” another yelled, and before long each of the men were chanting.

  “Drink. Drink. Drink.”

  Gillian took a deep breath, raised the mug, and did just that. She drank until the others did the same, all in support of this wee slip of a woman whom he adored.

  Careful, Graeme.

  He reminded himself of Cat
rina. And Emma. And the fact that Gillian had been forced to marry him. If not for that, she would likely have spurned him too.

  When they pounded their empty mugs on the table, Gillian did the same. Splashes of it escaped her mug because it still contained ale. She seemed to think that quite funny, and soon she was laughing just as hard as the rest of them.

  “Enough,” he said, waving for their food. “Keep drinking like that, woman, and you’ll not feel up to riding back home.”

  She smiled and Graeme did the same until someone called Graeme’s name so loudly from the entrance that all turned to stare.

  “Reid,” her husband said, turning toward the voice. “You always did enjoy an entrance.”

  Gillian only knew about the Kerr brothers from reputation. Though her thoughts were hazy from the ale, she remembered that Graeme and the Kerrs had once been bitter enemies but were now allies.

  It was because of that enmity that Toren, the clan chief and eldest brother, had refused to honor Graeme’s betrothal to Catrina. She’d been afraid to discuss Catrina with her husband, but the end result was that she knew little of her family. Why was the youngest brother so angry?

  Gillian raised her arm into the air. She needed another ale.

  “Are we ever to meet in Scotland, my friend?” her husband welcomed Reid Kerr, even though the man continued to scowl.

  A slight bit shorter than Graeme but just as well built, the newcomer would have been good-looking if not for his smug expression. His face was twisted into a scowl even though his lips curled up on one side. The smirk made him look arrogant and smug, as if he thought quite highly about himself.

  “It appears not.” He stood before her, waiting for an introduction.

  “Reid, this is my wife, Lady Gillian, daughter of John Bowman, Lord Lyndwood.”

  When she moved to stand, the newcomer indicated she should remain seated.

  “Gillian, Reid Kerr, youngest brother of Toren, chief of Clan Kerr.”

  The newcomer bowed, took her hand, and pressed it to his lips.

  Graeme frowned. “I’d ask you to sit, but as you can see, the bench is full.”

  He sat between them, an obvious insult. “It appears there is plenty of room, de Sowlis.”

  Ignoring the glares of Graeme’s men, the impertinent gentleman . . . if he could be called that . . . turned to her husband. “I heard you were married. Congratulations to you both.”

  When Gillian’s ale arrived, Reid asked for one as well. “And some of that soup.”

  “Eat,” he said to everyone. “Do not starve on account of my arrival.”

  Gillian was the only one who actually ate. The others, it seemed, did not want to comply with the new arrival’s bidding. She cared only for her rumbling stomach.

  “Talk, Reid.” Graeme was clearly becoming impatient.

  “I’d not presume to discuss such matters now.”

  Gillian addressed him directly. “Because of me?” Though she asked sweetly, there was nothing sweet about her mood. She didn’t like this man’s attitude, and was not afraid to show it.

  “Precisely, my lady. Ahh, many thanks, love,” he said to the serving wench who handed him both ale and soup. When she turned, Reid stared at her backside, none too subtly.

  “You can say anything you’d like in front of my wife.”

  Gillian sat up just a bit straighter.

  When Reid looked at her and smiled, Gillian did not smile back. He thought to seduce her favor? Poor luck to him. She saw him. Understood his game. Unfortunately, she was the only one. When the serving woman reappeared, she circled the table looking for imaginary items to pick up.

  “Very well,” he said in a slightly different accent than her husband’s. “Word reached Brockberg that you’d traveled to England to speak with one of the men responsible for Blackburn’s release.”

  “Aye, which is exactly what I’ve done.”

  “That man is my father,” she added.

  Reid looked at her as if she were daft. “Of course he is.” And then he turned back to Graeme.

  Ugh. What a despicable man. And this was truly her husband’s ally?

  “And?” Reid prodded.

  “He will not be a problem in the future.”

  Both men looked at her as if she might have further insight. If her father had truly been paid to speak on Blackburn’s behalf, then Graeme was no doubt correct. She just prayed Graeme kept the sordid story to himself.

  She sensed everyone watching her.

  With nothing left to say, she picked up the mug, forgot that she despised ale, and drank. When Malcolm laughed, she held the mug up in a silent salute.

  Clearly confused, Reid turned back to Graeme.

  She watched the two men as they stared at each other. Everyone at the table fell silent, all eyes focused on the silent standoff.

  Finally, Reid slowly nodded. “Then there appears to be nothing more to discuss on the matter,” he said.

  With that, they drank.

  That was it? Reid would say nothing more about the matter?

  Gillian finished her soup in silence. Something had passed between Graeme and the newcomer, something which she didn’t fully understand. It had been clear Reid was angered by Clan Scott’s lack of action after Blackburn’s release, but the attack had been on Scott land. Why should he care enough to challenge her husband about his own affairs? And why did Graeme look so concerned?

  “Gillian?”

  “Aye, husband?”

  “Are you ready to retire?”

  Some of the men had already wandered off, though their bowls remained on the table. No doubt the maid intended to wait until more people left so she could use the cleanup as an excuse to get to know Reid Kerr.

  “I am,” she said, standing. Graeme rushed to her side and held her arm. “What are you doing?”

  Reid chuckled, drawing a look from the serving maid. The poor girl looked as if she would swoon at any moment.

  “Assisting you abovestairs.”

  “Kerr,” he said. “You’re staying the night?”

  Reid looked at the maid once more. “I do believe I am,” Reid said.

  Graeme began to lead her away from the table. “Then we will speak in the morning.”

  “Graeme?” She suddenly felt quite strange and was glad for her husband’s arm.

  “I know, you will be well once we get to bed.”

  “Did I drink too much ale?”

  “I believe so, my lady.”

  She smiled.

  “Smile now, my queen,” he whispered. “You won’t be doing so in the morning.”

  24

  “Graeme, will you please ask the men not to shout?”

  They’d stopped to give the horses a rest, which Gillian had been glad for since this morning’s ride was easily the most horrific of her life. With every movement, her head hurt more than the last, and no amount of rubbing her temples seemed to help. She longed for chamomile tea and a hot bath. In fact, she could barely stop thinking about how much she needed both.

  “I would, if they were shouting,” he replied.

  He tore off a chunk of the bread Magge had given him before they left. The innkeeper had openly flirted with him, but in a teasing way that hadn’t bothered Gillian. Something else had.

  Her unfortunate encounter with Reid Kerr.

  No sooner had she emerged from her room that morning, preparing to meet Graeme, who had already gone down to the hall to break his fast, than she’d bumped into Reid in the hallway. Literally. Gillian had been walking along, mayhap with her eyes a bit closed due to the sunlight streaming in from a far-off window at the end of the corridor, and slammed straight into his chest. He’d laughed heartily despite her pleas to lower his voice.

  “Did the lass have a wee bit too much ale?”

  Gillian had not been prepared to spar with him so early. “Perhaps.”

  “You should be more careful.”

  She did not need a lecture. “And you should mind your
manners.”

  Now, thinking back, Gillian wasn’t exactly sure why she’d said such a thing. He hadn’t, in fact, done anything wrong. But she simply didn’t care for the man.

  Graeme took her hand and whispered to Malcolm, “We will be right back.”

  She allowed him to lead her into the woods. It was much quieter here. The wet grass, evidence of an earlier rain although they’d been lucky enough to avoid it, drenched her leather boots.

  When she heard the sounds of the river, Gillian froze. “Nay, I—”

  “This time, I will go to the water’s edge with you.”

  She looked at him and would have laughed if her head had not hurt so badly. “I still can’t believe I fell in. On our wedding day.”

  Graeme pulled her along.

  “You saved me.”

  He didn’t respond. Did he realize she spoke of more than just the day she’d tumbled into the river? Likely not.

  Although she’d promptly fallen asleep upon returning to their room last night, every other night they’d spent together had been consumed by passion. Gillian had never imagined such wondrous feelings existed.

  But she longed for more. She longed to know all there was to know about this great clan chief who treated her so tenderly, this man she’d fallen in love with despite herself.

  “Here.” He bent down and she with him. At least the water was not raging but instead flowed smoothly, inhibited only by a stray rock or two.

  He cupped the water and splashed his face, indicating she should do the same. Gillian looked down at her gown, which was sure to get wet.

  “’Tis only water,” he said.

  Sure enough, when she cupped her own hands, reached down into the icy cold water, and splashed it onto her face, wetness dripped down her neck and onto the neckline of her gown.

  Graeme looked as if he would hand her his linen cloth. Instead, he moved closer and began to wipe her face himself.

  A surge of emotion shook her. Aye, she loved him. There could be no doubt. But did he love her back? Could he?

  “Thank you for not telling Reid Kerr about my father.”