The Warrior's Queen

by Cecelia Mecca

But Fiona was not fooled. She’d spent too much time with his grandmother, knew him too well.

  The maid put her hands on her hips. “So you thought me dead, did ya?”

  He didn’t deny it.

  “You’re wet,” she said, looking him up and down.

  “Caught in a rainstorm on the way back from Dunmure.”

  Fiona’s eyes brightened, and Graeme remembered she held a special affection for Alex Kerr.

  “He’s doing well,” he said before she could ask.

  “And Lady Clara?”

  Though Fiona had not met the lady, he was not surprised that her affection for the man would extend to his wife. He smiled. “Is also doing well considering she’s prepared to give birth at any moment.”

  “Glad to hear it,” she said, pushing her way past him. “Can’t say the same for your wife.”

  He should not, would not ask. “What do you mean?”

  She stopped, turned, and gave him a look that told him exactly where her new loyalties lay. “You should not have left as you did.”

  Only Fiona would say such a thing to her chief, though right now, he was not anxious to speak to anyone about his wife.

  “I had my reasons,” he said.

  “But do they matter?” With that, she turned and left.

  Graeme shook his head. Sometimes he wondered if his own grandmother possessed Fiona’s body, so similar were their words and mannerisms.

  As he stepped into his bedchamber, which smelled maddeningly like Gillian, he had the first inkling of an idea. He had planned to send an envoy to Kenshire to inform the earl that Douglas had proposed a private meeting between Clan Scott, the Kerrs, Kenshire, Clave, and the English Warden. Or . . .

  This time, he did gather some belongings. England was not a half-day’s ride like Dunmure. Raining or no, he could be at the abbey by nightfall if he left now. Though he did not like it, Graeme had to find Aidan and Gillian to tell them this time. He looked longingly at the bed he’d once happily slept in alone. What would happen when he returned?

  Graeme pushed away the thought as he changed his clothes. Fear would not serve him well now. Graeme would show his wife just how much she meant to him.

  32

  Four days had passed since Graeme had announced he was once again leaving. Gillian had given up feeling sad about it. This time, she was good and angry.

  She’d spent the first two days trying to determine what he’d meant when he said, “There’s something I must do.” The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. Gillian had practically thrown herself at him again and again. She’d tried to reach out to him, understand him. And true, she’d suggested they not be intimate for a time, but that had only been to mend their broken relationship. To bring them closer together.

  Perhaps she’d been wrong about him all along. Gillian had thought she’d married a loyal and courageous clan chief. And there was no denying he was courageous, but loyal? Not to his English queen. He’d dismissed her without a thought; his announcement that he was leaving had been cold and emotionless.

  But she was done. Everything in her life felt like it was on hold. Graeme was gone. No word had come from Lyndwood. Gillian had begun to pull away from daily life at Highgate, living instead in her thoughts. She spent so much time with the ledgers that Allie had finally recruited Aidan to rescue her. The three of them had taken a ride through the countryside yesterday, Aidan showing them each the various properties, telling stories of his childhood.

  When Gillian had approached Allie about staying at Highgate indefinitely, her sister had hesitated at first, not wanting to abandon their parents. But Gillian had promised they would visit their mother and father often, wherever they ended up moving. In the end, Aidan was the one who convinced her. She and her brother-in-law had formed a bond almost instantly, an easy thing to do with Aidan. If the looks they gave each other did not always appear so innocent, Gillian shrugged them off. Her sister had agreed to stay.

  Feeling listless, Gillian made her way to the garden. The cook had asked for her advice on additional herbs to plant, something she couldn’t help with until she looked at the garden. Though this garden bore little resemblance to the one at Kenshire, she found herself thinking about it nonetheless. Thinking about him.

  A lad with a curly mop of hair ran toward her. “My lady, do you know when the chief will be returning? I asked him—”

  “Nay, I’m sorry wee one.”

  The boy turned to walk away, his shoulders slumped. At Lyndwood, very few people had approached her, perhaps because she looked so inapproachable—or so her sister had always told her. She’d developed a tendency to fold her arms and look away, habits that had proven difficult to break. At Highgate, however, Gillian was stopped nearly every moment of the day. She answered questions, sought counsel when needed, and was overjoyed with her new role as the lady of the keep.

  “What did you need to ask my lord?” she asked, calling the boy back. “Perhaps I can help?”

  He turned back toward her. “Ya think so?”

  She smiled, hoping she could. “Of course!”

  “I asked if he could find my ma.” He said it so solemnly that Gillian didn’t have to ask if she’d heard correctly.

  “Did you lose her?”

  He shook his head. “My pa did.”

  Gillian pretended to consider that. “I see. Your pa lost her. And how did he manage such a thing?”

  The boy pointed to the sky. “He said she’s up there, but I don’t understand. She’s not got wings. So I asked my lord if he could find her.”

  Gillian’s heart broke for the boy. Much too young to have lost a mother. “And what did my lord say to you?”

  The boy looked up to the sky again. “He said he didn’t need ta find her. That she was already here.” He pointed to his heart.

  Gillian smiled, glad Graeme had not given him false hope.

  “I agree with my lord,” she said. “But why are you waiting for him to return, then?”

  The boy shrugged. “He told me I could find him whenever I did not feel her here.” He pointed to his heart again. “His ma was in the same place, y’see, and he said we could look for them together.”

  Gillian opened her arms and the boy came right into them.

  “What is your name?” she asked as she held him to her, his heart beating rapidly beneath her own.

  “Gordie, my lady.”

  She waited until Gordie pulled away from her.

  “My pa is the blacksmith,” he said proudly.

  Gillian looked toward the smithy, sure she had not seen the boy here before. “And do you not come to work with your father?”

  He shook his head. “He says it’s much too dangerous, but someday—” His chest swelled with pride.

  “Someday you will make the most magnificent blacksmith,” she said.

  “And someday you’ll make a mag . . . mag . . . pretty mama.” He smiled, and as quickly as he’d appeared, Gordie ran away.

  Gillian sank down to the ground, the boy’s words weighing on her.

  “He said he didn’t need ta find her. That she was already here.”

  That sounded like the Graeme she’d learned to love. The one she’d tried to make love her back. Had all hope for them died?

  Gillian sat in the garden, looking at the herbs but not seeing them, until the sun began to set.

  Like it or not, she finally concluded, Graeme was in her heart just as surely as Gordie’s mother was in his. But the question now was, what should she do about it?

  The sound of a baby’s cry woke Graeme from deep slumber. He’d slept so little on his mad dash to England. After his meeting with Geoffrey and Sara the evening before, after explaining that Douglas had proposed a private meeting between Clan Scott, the Kerrs, Kenshire, Clave, and the English Warden, which they set for the day before the next Day of Truce, he’d immediately retired to his chamber—and fallen asleep the moment his head hit the feather pillow.

  His dream came back
to him in pieces. Gillian wearing a May Day crown. Her eyes wide as she spied on him in the garden. The kiss that had set them on a new path.

  He sat up, his eyes adjusting to the dim light that spilled in from the arrow slits in the wall. The sun was up, but just barely if his guess was correct. Graeme rubbed his eyes. He’d leave for home as soon as he broke his fast.

  Graeme dressed and began to make his way toward the great hall. Unlike Highgate, Kenshire’s corridors remain lit at all times, candlelight flickering against the whitewashed stone walls.

  Another cry.

  Graeme slowed, unable to look away from an open door where the sound originated.

  “Come on then,” a woman called from inside.

  Gillian was apparently not the only one to favor having a fire on warm nights, for Sara’s maid was cradling the baby in her arms by the hearth. The past two days had been unusually warm, and though that warmth did not make its way completely into the castle, the rooms were much warmer at this time of year.

  “I did not mean to disturb you, Mistress Faye.”

  The lady’s maid squinted, looking at him from head to toe. “Good morn to you, Chief.”

  He moved closer. He’d met Geoffrey and Sara’s baby just once before.

  “Hayden?” he asked, hoping he got the baby’s name correct.

  Faye looked down at the boy, his eyes wide and his black hair standing straight up in the air. She smiled, clearly in love with the wee bundle.

  “Aye,” she said, finally looking up at him. “You’ll be havin’ one of your own soon.”

  He shook his head. “I’m married only—”

  “I know how long ye’ve been married,” she cut in. “The wedding would be hard to forget.”

  Of course it would be. He and Gillian had been married at Kenshire, which would always make this place special to him.

  Where had that come from?

  “It must be difficult, that?”

  Hayden looked as if he were about to cry again, but Faye tapped his nose and made a face. The baby smiled instead.

  “Pardon?” he said.

  “Marryin’ under those circumstances.”

  Graeme looked at the woman. Her kindly but stern expression put him in mind of Fiona, though Faye was younger than his grandmother’s—nay, Gillian’s—maid.

  “More than I thought possible,” he found himself saying. “Her father has proven to be difficult. And Gillian . . .” He shrugged, wishing he had not said anything.

  “Aye? Lady Gillian?” Faye prompted.

  Something about the woman forced his mouth open once again. “Married me because she had no choice.”

  Even he did not believe that anymore. So why did he say it?

  “Ha!” Faye promptly began to rock Hayden again, for her robust response had startled a cry from him. “You forget, Chief, I’ve known Lady Gillian nearly since the day she was born.”

  Indeed, he had forgotten that fact. Though he didn’t see how—

  “If ye think she found herself in that garden by chance, then you don’t deserve such a fine woman.”

  “I did not mean to imply—”

  “I know what you meant. But Faye is tellin’ you she ain’t never seen Lady Gillian in such a state over a man. An’ we’ve had some fine young knights strutting around Kenshire. In fact,” she grinned, “I remember one time—”

  “If it pleases you, let’s not discuss the fine men Gillian has met at Kenshire.”

  He should want to leave, but something about Faye rooted his feet to the spot.

  “An’ as for that father of hers,” Faye said. “I know he promised Allie to Covington before the earl passed along.” Faye shook her head. “He wasn’t always like that.”

  “Lord Lyndwood?”

  “Now don’t mistake me, he didn’t coddle those poor girls. But he’s done himself a disservice these last years, allying himself with the likes of the Earl of Covington, God rest his soul.”

  Hayden began to cry in earnest then and Faye stood up, moving him to the front of her chest.

  “’Tis time for his feedin’.”

  “Of course.” Graeme stepped aside as the maid walked past him.

  “And give Gillian my love,” she said on her way out of the room.

  He agreed to do so, but did not follow Faye out. Instead, he thought of all she’d said to him.

  Would she have wed you had you not been found in that garden?

  The truth was, they had not met under different circumstances. But it no longer mattered. His true purpose for visiting England lay ahead of him. He’d get the deed done quickly and return home to the woman he loved.

  33

  She hated him.

  No, that was not true. She loved him.

  Gillian looked back at the guard riding behind her. Still there, still stoic. His expression never changed. She couldn’t force a smile from him no matter how hard she tried. She’d even resorted to making faces at him every time she turned around to see if he was still there.

  Nothing.

  She lifted her face to the sun, slowing as they approached a ridge that gave her a sweeping view past Scott property. They weren’t close enough to the border for her to see England, but on clear days, Gillian could spot a tall mountaintop far enough away that perhaps, just perhaps, it could be English.

  The borders moved, she knew, even after having been “established” thirty years earlier in March Law. The raids by which manors changed hands—one day English, the next day Scottish—would likely never cease. Or not in her lifetime, at least. But she supposed she should be happy. According to her father, the situation had once been much, much worse.

  When Gillian met someone from the south, they nearly always asked the same question. “Why do you stay?” Her answer . . . her parent’s answer . . . was the only one they had to give.

  The border was home.

  She’d never expected to live this far north. But she’d come to realize the people here were the same as back home. Resilient. Fierce. Borderers were the only kind of people she’d ever want to live amongst.

  She looked back, and her protector, still there, stared out into the countryside as well. He was too far away for her to speak to without shouting.

  Scotland. Her home, where she’d been accepted by everyone except the one whose acceptance mattered most to her.

  Gillian still did not know how she would react when Graeme returned. Part of her wanted to rail at him for hurting her. But another part of her, the one that understood this arrangement had been difficult for him to accept, wanted to open up to him completely. Tell him, as she’d planned to do before, how she felt.

  And if he does not accept you?

  “My lady!”

  The shout was so loud and unexpected that it sent a rush of fear to her very core.

  Gillian turned to find a lone rider approaching from her left. Her guard moved his horse in front of her and addressed the English knight, who clearly did not belong here.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Much of the knight’s face was hidden by his nasal helm. He looked from Alban to Gillian, and though he did not reach for his sword, Gillian worried this would not end well. Like her protector, the stranger was not a small man. She gripped her reins tightly, expecting the need to flee.

  “I am no one,” he said. “Just an Englishman on my way to—”

  He looked at her then.

  “The Isle of Skye,” he finished.

  “You are a long way from there,” Alban said, none too kindly.

  “I know,” he said, clearly disappointed.

  Relaxing—he did not appear to be a threat—Gillian added more gently, “I am not from here, so I cannot help you, sir.”

  The knight nodded and saluted them both.

  “Then I apologize for trespassing. Good day to you both.” And with that, he rode away.

  “We should return to the castle,” the Scotsman said.

  Gillian smiled. “What a very mysterious E
nglishman,” she said. “Thank you,” she added, “for the warning.”

  Her only reply was a grunt and something that sounded like “duty.”

  “Well, I thank you even so. You are a very fine protector.”

  And though Gillian could not swear it, she thought she may have spied a slight upturn in his lips. A smile? Not quite. But maybe the beginnings of one.

  It would have to do for now.

  Gillian led them back, lighter than she’d felt in days. And as they approached the gatehouse, she knew exactly how to handle Graeme. No more thinking. No more hesitating.

  34

  “He’s coming.”

  Gillian had been about to sit for the midday meal. But at Aidan’s announcement, she immediately stood back up.

  “Sit, Gillian. He isn’t walking through the castle doors any moment. I only meant he’s on his way home.”

  She shot her brother-in-law a curious glance. “How could you possibly—”

  “Spies,” he said, narrowing his eyes conspiratorially. “I have them everywhere. In fact—”

  Allie giggled. Gillian shot her a look as she lowered herself back into her seat.

  “Malcolm arrived just moments ago. Graeme sent him ahead to let us know he was not far behind. A day at most,” Aidan said.

  “Gill, are you drinking ale?”

  Gillian placed her mug back onto the table. “Indeed.”

  “Should she not drink ale?” Aidan asked her sister. “The English are strange, I will admit. But—”

  “You were saying Malcolm brought word of Graeme?” Gillian was impatient to hear the rest of it. “I thought the chief traveled with two clansmen at all times?”

  Aidan did not appear concerned. “This would not be the first time my brother ignored the edict. Though why he sent someone ahead, I can’t be sure. Malcolm said Graeme sent him here straightaway to let us know he would be delayed, but by no more than a day.”

  “Us?” Gillian held her breath. “As in—”

  “You and I,” he replied.

  When she continued to look at him, Aidan replaced his mug and placated her. “He said, ‘Tell Aidan and Gillian that I will be delayed, no more than a day behind.’”