His Border Bride Page 2
‘I have blood as Scots as yours.’
‘And how do you know how Scots my blood is?’
‘By the way you asked the question.’
Did her speech sound so provincial to Alain? She winced. She wanted to impress the visiting French knight, not embarrass him. ‘What’s your name, Scotsman?’
‘Gavin.’ He paused. ‘Gavin Fitzjohn.’
Some John’s bastard, then. Even a bastard bore his father’s arms, but this man carried no clue to his birth. No device on his shield, no surcoat. Just that unkempt armour that, without a squire’s care, had darkened with rust spots.
No arms, no squire. Not of birth noble enough for true knighthood, then.
‘Are you a renegade?’ On her wrist, Wee One bated, wings flapping wildly. Clare touched her fingers to the bird’s soft breast feathers, seeking to calm them both.
His slow smile never wavered. ‘Just a tired and hungry man who needs a friendly bed.’ His eyes travelled over her, as if he were wondering how friendly her bed might be.
‘Well, you’ll not find one with us.’
‘I didn’t ask. Yet.’
Did he think she’d offer to be his bedmate? She should not be talking to such a man at all. ‘Well, if you do, I’ll say you nae.’
‘I don’t ask before I know whether I’m speaking to a friend or an enemy.’
‘And I don’t answer before I know the same.’ Her voice had a wobble she had not intended.
‘Are you a woman with enemies?’
‘Three kings claim this land. We have more enemies than friends.’
‘Aye,’ he said, nodding, a frown carving lines in his face. He flexed his hand as if it itched to reach for his sword. ‘Who are yours?’
Her eyes clashed with his. She should have asked him first. Where was his loyalty? To the de Baliol pretender, recently dethroned? To David the Bruce, still held for ransom by the Inglis Edward? Perhaps he had lied about his blood and was Edward’s man himself.
Next to her, the young girl sighed. ‘This is Mistress Clare and I’m Euphemia and I have nae enemies.’
‘Euphemia!’ Was she batting her lashes? Yes, she was. ‘Do you want us to be killed?’
‘He wouldn’t do that. A knight is sworn to protect ladies, aren’t you?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him again, then turned to Clare. ‘Don’t treat him as an unfriend.’
‘If I do, it’s because I have a brain in my head.’
If she kicked the horse into a gallop, could she outrun the man? Not with Angus and Euphemia in tow and Wee One on her wrist.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘He looks like a dangerous ruffian, not a knight. He carries no markings and he’s wearing dirty armour with rust spots!’ The man, if he knew the maxims of chivalry, cared little for them.
Euphemia shrugged and turned to the man. ‘You’re not dangerous and dirty, are you?’
Something darkened his face before a smile waved it away. ‘Well, that may depend on how you mean the words, but I’d say Mistress Clare has a gift for judging character.’
He said it with no sense of outrage. No knight would allow his honour to be so challenged. Certainly Alain, epitome of French chivalry, would never let such a slight pass.
‘On whose lands do I ride, Mistress Euphemia?’ he asked.
‘Not Mistress. Just Euphemia,’ Clare said, refusing to elaborate. Disgrace enough that her father had shamed her dead mother by taking up with the widow Murine. Worse that he’d treated another man’s by-blow as his daughter. ‘And you’re on Carr lands.’
‘Held of who?’
‘Douglas,’ she answered. There, that declared their loyalties, but if she hadn’t told him, the girl would have.
She thought his shoulders relaxed, but she must have been mistaken. ‘It’s difficult not to be on Douglas lands in the Middle March, isn’t it?’ His slow nod revealed nothing of his thoughts. ‘Are you loyal to the Bruce?’
‘You ask that when the heart of a Bruce adorns Lord Douglas’s shield?’ In her surprise, her tongue forgot its courtly inflection. ‘Are ye daft?’
‘Nae, but Carr men have been known to lapse in loyalty to an absent king.’
King David the Bruce had been England’s captive for half her life, it seemed. In his absence, a Douglas and a Steward ruled Scotland in his name. ‘Does that make you an enemy of Douglas and Carr, Gavin Fitzjohn?’
‘Not as long as they are no enemy of mine.’
His eyes met hers and they took each other’s measure in silence. On the Border, an allegiance could be as strong as the relentless wind. And as variable.
‘See, Clare? He’s no enemy and we should all go home. I, for one, am chilled to the skin and ready to sit by the fire.’ Euphemia kicked her horse into a trot and the stranger fell in behind her.
Clare handed Wee One to Angus, then hurried to catch up, letting the squire and the hound follow.
She brought her horse beside Euphemia and the stranger dropped further back, complimenting young Angus on his mount.
‘You’re leading him straight home!’
Euphemia shrugged. ‘Why are you so worried? There’s one of him and three of us.’
‘And he’s the only one carrying a sword.’
A few men still manned the tower, but if he was scouting for raiders, they were leading him straight to what he wanted. Still, she would feel safer, she decided, home in the castle, where he would be outnumbered by her men-at-arms.
At the silence, the stranger moved closer. ‘Angus tells me your falcon killed three today that were twice her size. That’s a bird with courage.’
‘Well that you say so.’ Euphemia smiled. ‘Wee One is Clare’s favourite.’
‘Then it seems your sister is as good a judge of bird flesh as she is of men.’
She glanced at him without turning her head, still puzzling him out. He’d displayed none of the courtly respect a knight should, yet he controlled his destrier with a warrior’s ease, confident of his strength.
He caught her studying him and she snapped her gaze away, gritting her teeth at his laugh. ‘It’s too late to flatter me, Fitzjohn.’
‘Oh, Mistress Clare,’ he began, his voice still edged with humour, ‘no man who was any judge of character would try flattery on you.’
‘But a true and noble knight would always speak sweetly to a lady,’ she countered. Alain always did. ‘That must mean you are not a true knight.’
‘Or that you are not a true lady.’
She stiffened. What gave her away? ‘I am certainly a truer lady than you are a noble knight.’
He cocked his head. ‘Perhaps, Mistress Clare, it may be too early to come to that conclusion.’
She gulped against his gentle rebuke. A lady would never have made such a statement. In this wild land, it was hard to cling to the courtly graces she had learned as a child in France.
In sight of the tower, she was relieved of the need to answer, and waved to the guard standing on the wall to open the gate. ‘Who’s with you, mistress?’
The man beside her called out without waiting for her answer. ‘A hungry, tired man looking for a warm bed and a hot meal.’
The guard waited for her sign. She nodded. ‘Open the gate.’
They rode into the barmkin and she handed the sack of game to the falconer, closing her ears to his complaints. She started to dismount, expecting young Angus to help her off her horse, but instead, she faced the stranger.
He appeared before she saw him move, fast as a falcon diving for its prey.
He reached to help her down. She hesitated. Somehow, his hand offered an invitation to touch more than fingers.
Without waiting for her to accept, he grabbed her waist, lifting her off the saddle. She had no choice but to slide down into his arms.
He held her too tightly. As she stretched her toes towards the ground, she felt her breasts press against his chest. Something like the stroke of a bird’s feather rippled across her skin. She held her face away from h
im, but his lips, sharp and chiselled, hovered too close to hers.
Her feet hit the earth.
Standing, he was a full head taller than she. Though journey dust clung to him, he carried his own scent, complex and dangerous, like a fire of oak and pine, smouldering at the end of a long night.
His smile didn’t waver. Nor did his eyes. Blue, startlingly so, and framed by strong brows, they held her gaze strongly as his arms held her body.
‘I’m ready to dismount.’ Euphemia’s pout was audible.
And just like that, he was gone.
Clare sagged against her horse, realising she had held her breath the entire time he touched her. This was no perfect knight, but a dangerous man. Anyone who trusted him would find herself abandoned and alone.
Or worse.
She forced herself to walk away, ignoring the tug of his eyes on her back. The cook and the steward approached, stern looks on their faces. She hoped fresh fowl would soothe their anger at her for avoiding her day’s duties.
‘Mistress Clare.’ The man’s words were a command.
She turned at her name, hating herself for doing it and him for making her. ‘If it is food you want, the evening meal will be served shortly.’
‘What I want is to see the Carr in charge.’
Now she was the one who smiled, long and slow and she watched his face, savouring the moment. ‘You’ve seen her.’
And when she turned to the steward, the smile lingered on her lips.
Gavin watched the woman turn her back on him, never losing her smile.
You’ve seen her.
And he had. With her fair hair pulled into an immovable braid, suspicious grey-green eyes and straight brows, hers was not a perfect face. But she had the air of a woman accustomed to being obeyed, and he could well believe she was the castle’s mistress while her father or her husband was at war.
He had made no friend of her yet, he was certain, but he must try to do so now. He strode over and interrupted her conversation. ‘Then you’re the one I want to see. I want to join your men.’
The quiver on her lips might have been irritation or fear. Should she discover who he was, it would certainly be fear. Eventually, there would be no way to hide it. She had not recognised his name, but even the smallest band of warriors seemed to know it now.
Yet he refused to cower behind a lie. Men would think what they would. He had learned not to care.
‘No. You cannot.’ Her tone brooked no opposition.
‘Why not?’ Most of the castle’s men were, no doubt, harrying Edward all the way back to England. ‘An extra man-at-arms should be welcome.’
‘Oh, we’ll have men enough, just as soon as they capture Edward and come home.’
He stamped on a pang of regret. He had known his decision would mean abandoning the man who had brought him to knighthood, but he had hoped not to care so much. ‘Well, until they do, I’ve a sword to offer in your service.’
‘Do you always march in, demand what you want, and expect to get it?’
What he wanted was an end to endless war. That, he did not expect. Or even hope for. ‘I only expect that, as a knight, my duty is to fight.’
She studied his face until he feared she would see the English blood in it. ‘So you truly are a knight?’ The wonder in her voice implied that a knight was a special soul instead of a man trained, like her hawk, to kill on command.
‘Aye,’ he answered, the Scottish accent of his childhood remembered on his tongue. ‘I’m as true a knight as you’ll see.’
He watched her turn over his answer before she spoke again.
‘My answer is still no. If you’re hungry, fill your belly at the evening table. If you’re weary, sleep in the hall tonight. But tomorrow, I want you out of the place.’
He bowed as she left him, grateful, at least, for one night under a roof.
Fuelled by anger and desperation, he’d spent the last few weeks hiding in these desolate hills, avoiding both the Scots and the English. Just to the south, near the peaks, lay the border that two kings had drawn more than one hundred years ago.
Now, he had chosen his side.
And lonely and bleak as it was, Mistress Clare, by all that was holy, was going to let him live on it.
Chapter Two
Euphemia ran after her as Clare entered the hall. ‘No wonder you’re still unmarried. A braw man appears and you do nothing but insult him.’
‘Euphemia, you talk as if I should open my skirts to anything with a pillicock.’ Of course, the girl’s mother did, so she knew no better.
The girl shrugged. She knew who, and what, she was. Her mother might have been the baron’s companion for ten years, but she would never be his wife. ‘What’s the harm?’
‘He’s someone’s bastard son, attached to no lord. He may have been banished from his fellows. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t murder us in our beds.’ And if he did, the fault would be hers.
‘Well, I’ll be friendly, if you won’t.’
‘No, you won’t. I don’t want to see his bastard in your belly after he’s gone. Now go and find out whether cook needs help with those fowl.’
The girl smiled and left, without answering yea or nae.
Clare gritted her teeth. She had tried to bring order to this place, but France and all she’d learned there was far away. The wildness of these untamed hills crept into everything and everyone. Even she had mornings, like this one, when nothing would soothe her but watching the falcon soar and taking pleasure in its kill.
She glanced up. Fitzjohn was still regarding her. He smiled, as if sensing her unruly urges.
She turned her back on him. Let the man fill his belly and be gone.
She tried to ignore him when he appeared in the Great Hall for the evening meal, sitting far below the salt. He seemed at ease there, among the men-at-arms, yet something set him apart, as well.
Euphemia leaned over to serve him soup, her breast pressing close to his shoulder. Clare clenched her fists.
He caught her looking at him and his eyes, in turn, travelled over her as if he saw not just under her clothes, but under her skin.
She looked away. He was not worthy of a lady’s attention. She rested her gaze, instead, on the small tapestry banker, a gift from Alain.
Alain, Comte de Garencieres, had come to Scotland a year ago with soldiers and money to aid, or more precisely, to rekindle the Scots’ war on England. He had brought with him the reminder of all she had left behind when she had returned two years ago after years of being fostered in France.
The banker, in threads of red, white and gold, depicted a man and woman, arms outstretched, about to reunite. On the woman’s shoulder perched the falcon who had already returned to her.
It was too beautiful to sit on, though it was designed as a bench cover. Instead, she had draped it over a chest beside the great hearth where she could see it.
Alain’s gift was a reminder of a better world, one where grace and chivalry reigned. And as soon as the fighting was over, they would be married. She would return to France as the comte’s lady, far from this crude and brutal land of her birth.
She glanced at Fitzjohn through her eyelashes without raising her head. A boorish Scot, like the rest. Interested only in fighting, eating and women.
He had left her thoughts by the time the evening meal was finished and she started up the spiralling stairs to her bedchamber. But as she reached the third level, Fitzjohn loomed before her, just beyond her candle’s glow.
The flame trembled. ‘This is the family floor. What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for a bed.’
She glanced towards her door, still closed. Had he dared look inside? ‘I told you to sleep in the Hall with the rest.’ She took the final step up to the floor, yet still he towered over her.
‘You might at least offer me a blanket and pillow.’
‘I’ve offered you a roof.’ And it was more than she should have. ‘Don’t make me regret it.’
Comfortable carried the lilt of an insult, but the words raised her guilt. A lady should show more hospitality. Yet his behaviour didn’t befit a knight, so she had trouble remembering to act as a lady.
‘I have given you the same welcome that I would give any other fighting man. If that is unacceptable, then you won’t be sorry to leave tomorrow. Now stand aside so I can reach my chamber.’
He didn’t move, yet something crept over her skin, as if he had touched her. She started around him, but the space was narrow and she bumped against him, stumbled and lost her grip on the candlestick.
He caught her with one arm before she hit the floor and when she looked up, she saw the candle, straight and steady, in his other hand.
Knees bent, she tried to stand, but only fell against his chest. Embarrassed, she had to cling to his shoulders as he straightened, giving her back her stance, and then her candle.
She backed away, her forearm branded with his palm, her breasts still feeling the press of his chest, held just a moment too long, against hers.
‘Dream well, Mistress Clare.’
She reached behind her and pushed her door open, afraid to look away for fear he’d follow. But he didn’t move, and as she took the light with her his smile faded into the darkness.
She shut the door and leaned against it, shaking.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be gone.
As she slammed the door against him, Gavin struggled to subdue his anger. Her disdain was sparked by such small trespasses, things that reflected none of the darkness he concealed. If she was so concerned about the shine of his armour, what would she think if he broke down her door and forced himself into the comfort of her bed?
He’d seen men do worse. He had ridden away from the English because their war had made it too easy to act on such dark visions. As easy as it had been for his father to seduce a Scots lady and leave her with a child forced to fight the heritage of his blended blood.
He was weary of war—the one on the field and the one in his soul.
He descended the stone stairs into the hall. A few men still gambled in the corner. The rest had curled up for the night. The fire had burned to embers and his small bedroll offered little cushion from the unforgiving floor. For weeks, he had braved cold and rain, staying clear of Lord Douglas’s men as they chased Edward’s troops. Grass and dirt had been his bed. He ached for a moment of comfort.