Книга - The Knight’s Bride

The Knight's Bride
Lyn Stone


Sir Alan Of Strode Was A Man Of His WordBut when his promise to fulfill his dying friend's last wish saw him marriage-bound to the man's widow, Alan wished his own sense of duty not quite so strong. For the Lady Honor was not aptly named. And how could he, a man of truth, ever trust a bride who had already played him false?With a babe on the way and a rejected suitor in hot pursuit, Honor needed a protector she could control, not a Highland warrior. Alan was proving to be the most intractable of husbands, and what was worse, the rogue had somehow managed to scale her defenses, and lay siege to her heart… .







“He has commanded us to wed this day! (#u862c2b4b-856f-50d0-a083-0113d84a1a30)Letter to Reader (#u42f24b6d-4bfc-5472-a9cd-644044924dbe)Title Page (#u4bbd26d6-5f5c-56d9-8da7-f8190e383ee1)About the Author (#u06c8f30c-7547-563a-9c40-74182a62ee00)Dedication (#u864ef61a-3cc3-5be4-a2e8-35a5049a042e)Prologue (#ua2a6dfde-03fa-586f-9934-3ec7ff18d26d)Chapter One (#u717d91c1-941c-51da-9dd5-2b9064f1ab13)Chapter Two (#u29a6b8b8-55d4-56f5-877a-bf549cf61c00)Chapter Three (#u86b9f5ce-7e8a-577a-9151-7d66c3815dcc)Chapter Four (#u8ffbc428-3ea0-5f88-9ab1-14890df6607d)Chapter Five (#u889f1f70-2480-563b-94d8-a6f883a65b5e)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“He has commanded us to wed this day!

“He demands that I marry a—”

“A what?”

“A Highland savage,” she retorted, shaking a finger under his nose. “Mais oui, I can tell by your speech that is what you are, despite that fine mail you wear! And ignorant, as well, by your own admission!”

“Unlettered, Lady. ’Tis not the same as ignorant. And devil take ye with all yer plaguey French airs! Ye’re still a Scot yourself!”

“Praise God, only half!” she shouted.

“Then I wish to God ’twas the upper half with the mouth!”

She gaped. “Why would my late husband do this to me?” she demanded.

“Well, how d’ye think I feel?” Alan countered. “Trapped, is what! Bound by a stout chain of friendship reaching inta the very grave. I’d as lief fall on my dirk as surrender my freedom, but my word’s my word, by God!”


Dear Reader,

If you’ve never read a Harlequin Historical novel, you’re in for a treat. We offer compelling, richly developed stories that let you escape to the past—written by some of the best writers in the field!

Author Lyn Stone is one of those writers. Since her debut in March 1997 with The Wicked Truth, Lyn has sold five more romances. Her warm and entertaining writing style has captured the attention of many critics, including Publishers Weekly, which has reviewed all of her previous Harlequin Historical


novels, and claims that she “creates characters with a refreshing naturalness.” This month’s The Knight’s Bride is about a very true knight who puts his honorable reputation on the line when he’s forced to marry the beautiful widow of his best friend. It’s great!

Be sure to look for Burke’s Rules by the talented Pat Tracy. This is an adorable story about a Denver schoolmistress who falls for the “protective” banker who helps fund her school. Pride of Lions is the latest in Suzanne Barclay’s highly acclaimed SUTHERLAND SERIES. Two lovers are on opposite sides of a feud in this tale of danger and passion set in medieval Scotland.

Rounding out the month is The Heart of a Hero by Judith Stacy. Here, a bad boy turned rancher has thirty days to prove he’ll be a good father to his niece and nephew, and enlists the help of the new schoolmarm. Don’t miss it!

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical


novel.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell, Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3


The Knight’s Bride

Lyn Stone






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


LYN STONE

A painter of historical events, Lyn decided to write about them. A canvas, however detailed, limits characters to only one moment in time. “If a picture’s worth a thousand words, the other ninety thousand have to show up somewhere!”

An avid reader, she admits, “At thirteen, I fell in love with Brontë’s Heathcliff and became Catherine. Next year I fell for Rhett and became Scarlett. Then I fell for the hero I’d known most of my life and finally became myself.”

After living four years in Europe, Lyn and her husband, Allen, settled into a log house in north Alabama that is crammed to the rafters with antiques, artifacts and the stuff of future tales.


This book is for my Allen the True.

Thank you for all the promises kept

and for the happily ever after we share.


Prologue

Near Stirling, Scotland

June, 1314

Alan of Strode grimaced at the sickly sweet smell of impending death. Putrefaction. The fever raged now. Tavish would be damned lucky to see the morrow dawn. Alan’s own wound, superficial by comparison, ached with empathy.

“Four days,” Alan said, forcing the smile into his voice, “Five at most, and your lady can tend ye. We’ll make it, Tav.”

Carefully ignoring the groans Tavish struggled to suppress, Alan busied himself raking through one of the many English packs he had captured as spoils. He unfolded a crimson silk surcoat embellished with a yellow griffin. Rich stuff, he thought, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

Another foray yielded an ornate silver cup, which he filled from his own humble flask of good Scots spirits. “See how much more of this ye can hold, Tav. Ye’ll still hurt, but ye won’t care.”

Tavish pushed it away. “Only numbs me from the chin up. Have you a quill in there?” he asked, his voice choked with pain.

Alan poked deeper into the hidebound pouch. “Aye,” he answered as cheerfully as he could manage, “parch and ink as well. Ye’ve a mind to write, then?”

Tavish nodded slightly and exhaled the words, “To Honor. Help me sit.”

A half hour later, Tavish Ellerby made a final, stronger scribble and let the feather fall from his hand. “Done.” His weary eyes rested a moment under their grime-crusted lids before he met Alan’s steady gaze. “See if you...agree.”

“To this?” Alan asked, biting his bottom lip. He touched the page of slanting marks that meant nothing to him.

“Orders for my lady,” Tavish explained through gritted teeth. His white-knuckled hands clutched the moth-chewed blanket as his breathing grew labored and irregular. “Good plan, eh?”

Alan followed the wavering lines of lampblack ink and came to rest on the larger, ornate loops at the bottom. “Well writ, Tav.” He tapped the parchment with the back of his fingers and smiled. “’Tis braw advice. She’ll be minding ye, too, if I’ve aught to say to it.” His friend’s peace of mind justified Alan’s small pretense. And the Lady Honor would take comfort in her husband’s last thoughts and wishes, no matter what they were.

Though he could see Saint Ninian’s roof from here, Alan knew that moving Tavish would only hasten death. He hated to tell Lady Honor that her husband breathed his last neath a gnarled old oak at the edge of the battlefield. But no lie would make it finer. Dead was dead. And if ever a soul made heaven without benefit of a final blessing, it would be that of Tavish Ellerby.

Everything south of Stirling lay in ashes. He prayed Tavish’s keep, nestled in the Cheviot Hills, lay out of both armies’ paths. What the English had not laid waste to in the last few weeks, Robert Bruce had, in order to keep his enemies shelterless and hungry. Now many Scots would suffer the same, even though they had won the battle.

Tavish reached out, fingers weak and trembling as they grasped Alan’s forearm. “You will take me on home? Lay me under a cairn by the Tweed? Do not...let Honor see me first. Not like this. Promise?”

“Aye, I will. Got yer leg, by God, and I’ll take that, too.”

Weak laughter trickled out like the dregs from a wineskin. “Put me back together, will you?” The eyes closed again and Tavish shuddered. “Alan, tell her. Tell my Honor...that ’tis for the best, my dying. Say how much I... cared.”

“She’ll be knowing that, Tav. I’ll sing it like a bard, I swear. Sweet things she’ll be weeping over long after she’s grown old and...Tav? Tavish?”

Alan drew in a deep, ragged breath and expelled it. Stinging wetness seeped down his cheeks. “Ah, Tav, lad. Would that yer Honor coulda seen ye smile just so.”

He looked long into the blank, blue eyes before he closed the lids at last.


Chapter One

Byelough Keep

June 28, 1314

“I saw murder in his eye, my lady. Lord Hume will never let the marriage stand if he finds you. God alone can help you if the comte de Trouville becomes involved.”

Lady Honor Ellerby fought her rush of alarm at the messenger’s words. She must remain calm, think what next to do.

Could her father possibly find her here in this littleknown border keep? Would he remember her friendliness toward Tavish Ellerby when they had met at the French court? If so, he would guess where she had flown. Since nearly a year had passed, Honor had begun to hope he would have given up the search. She should have known better, since she was his only heir.

He could force her to return home with him unless Tavish could hold out against Hume’s forces. Her marriage was very probably invalid. After all, she had stolen and altered the documents her father had prepared, which named the comte de Trouville as her intended bridegroom. The very thought of that man caused her to shiver, even now.

Trouville had come to her father’s house in Paris, not three days after the death of his second wife, and demanded Honor’s hand. After spending nigh to a week locked away with no food and little water, Honor had reluctantly signed the contracts her father provided. In her mind, that certainly constituted force and was not legal. But since when must relatives of the king adhere to law? If the comte had gotten away with murder, what penalty need he fear for a mere marriage by force? Since wit was her only weapon of defense, Honor had devised a way out of the match.

Tavish would never have married her unless he believed her father approved, so she had brought her father’s copies of the signed contracts with her, minus, of course, the comte de Trouville’s name. A careful scraping of the parchment had eliminated that, as well as the listed property her father was to receive from the comte in the exchange for her. Honor had inserted some nonsense about her own happiness being sufficient to satisfy her sire. Then she had sold her jewels to provide the mentioned dowry.

Neatly done, if she did say so, but a dangerous ruse for all that. Consequences could be deadly if her father and the powerful comte regained control of her life.

She should have confessed her misdeed to Tavish once he had come to care for her, but she had needed to wait until she was absolutely certain he would fight to keep her. Then he had left so suddenly to join Bruce’s forces near Stirling. Hopefully, there would be time to make amends for her deception and soothe Tavish’s anger on his return. She must do so before her father arrived. And he would likely be here, sooner or later, if Melior had the right of things.

“His lordship is truly furious, Lady Honor. They do say at first he thought you had been stolen. Your lady mother tried to foster that belief, and for a while, succeeded. Then he finally discovered the betrothal and marriage contracts were missing, and that your jewels and clothing were gone.”

Melior continued, “Not long after I returned from showing you the way here, he began to question the prolonged absence of Father Dennis. When he decided that you had run away, his rage knew no bounds.”

The musician continued, “Even had I not promised to come and warn you did he guess what happened, I could not have remained there a moment longer. He strikes out at everything and everyone in his path, even after all this time!” Melior declared with a shudder.

“When has he not?” Honor asked wryly, though she could recall such a time when she was very young. Her father had once been a fair, if not doting, parent. Some unaccountable and violent madness had overtaken him once she reached an age to wed.

Seven long years she had matched her will to his in selling her off. She meant to have a kind and loving husband, and he had chosen only irksome court toadies. A good dozen suitors Honor had sent running, employing every device possible from outrageous insults to feigning madness. But the comte de Trouville would not be put off by her. And her father had starved her into submission that time. Temporarily.

“How long before Father finds me, by your reckoning?” she asked Melior.

“He has already surmised whom you wed, but he dares not abandon his place at court until he has completed his business there. Once that is accomplished, who can say how long his search will take? Not long, I should think. You know his resources as well as I.”

“You do not believe he has informed the comte de Trouville?”

“Not as yet, unless he did so after I left. He has stalled your betrothed with some tale of a prolonged illness you had contracted. Said he had sent you to the countryside to recover. Afterward, he vowed to your mother he would have you in hand for the wedding come autumn, and that is nearly upon us, my lady.”

Honor sighed and shrugged. “Not many know the location of Byelough Keep. Please God, Father cannot find one who does know it until my husband returns from the war.”

“At least that should happen soon enough,” Melior assured her, imparting the first good news she had heard in many a day. “I did hear upon landing on this coast that there has been some great victory for the Scots at a place called Bannockburn close by Stirling. The English fled like frightened rabbits. Most of the Scots are following into England, giving chase. Some are not, however. I met many on the road, bound for their homes.”

“Thank God for it. No doubt my lord will rush back with all speed since he seemed so loath to be away.” Honor felt she had seen to that with her parting kisses. Tavish swore he would leave her not an hour longer than he must.

“I only hope your husband is warrior enough to withstand the wrath when Lord Hume does come,” Melior added with a grimace.

“As do I!” Honor quaked with apprehension at the very thought of the gentle Tavish facing either her tyrannical sire or the vicious brute who had been her betrothed.

Unfortunately, she had not had the time to search out a man who was strong as well as kind. At the moment, kind had seemed infinitely more important. “Go and make yourself comfortable, Melior. Will you stay here?”

“Would you mind, my lady? My journey was no dance around the Maypole. I spent many a year singing keep to keep here before crossing to France, however, and I like Scotland. Have you need of a troubadour?”

She smiled and reached for his slender hand. “I have need of a friend, which you have certainly proved yourself to be. I owe you much and this will be your home for as long as you like, Melior. You are well come. We have sorely missed your music.”

Relief flooded his foxlike features as he bowed over her fingers. His thin lips brushed her knuckles in a manner that seemed a bit too familiar, but she knew it was only gratitude mixed with a bit of flattery. The well-traveled minstrel possessed a sly nature and kept an eye out for the main chance, but he knew his place well enough. Entertainers who reached above themselves, especially with a lady, did not survive two score years as this one had done.

Honor understood Melior’s needs well enough to keep him faithful to her cause. So long as she paid him generously, both in coin and praise for his music, he would serve her without fail. If only she could judge every man as neatly as she did this one, she would not need to fear.

Her husband presented no challenge at all, though he believed himself cannier than most. Tavish desired her body and the wealth she had brought him. Honor thought those a fair trade for his name and protection.

He swore he loved her, and she was inclined to believe that he did. She tried as best she could to return the feeling. Once she had even said the words to him and made them sound real. Though Tavish had been overjoyed by it, Honor felt a bit guilty. She had never employed a pretense of affection with any man. It seemed unfair now that she must pretend. She wanted to love him.

Tavish’s devotion, real or otherwise, certainly sweetened the fact that she had followed him here from France and placed herself at his mercy apurpose.

She had chosen Tavish Ellerby because he showed himself to be the exact opposite of her father and, not least, for the fact that he owned a secluded keep in the wild borderland of Scotland. To Honor’s relief, she had come to care for her husband in the two short months they had shared. She looked forward to his return from the war so that they might know each other better. Though quite new to this marriage business, Honor felt she could become an excellent wife, given time. Her words of love to him would be true soon enough, for Tavish was a lovable sort.

For the first time ever, a man with the power to alter her life, willingly gave her some say in her future. He considered her as a real person with desires of her own. However, Tavish’s placid nature might not serve her so well once her father found them.

Would her husband give her up without a fight once he realized she had deceived him about her father’s consent? Would he even have the choice? Of a sudden, Honor experienced another sharp stab of the guilt she tried to hold at bay. Had she stated her reasons truthfully at the outset, would Tavish have wed her anyway? Somehow, she did not believe so.

“Ah, well, hindsight serves nothing,” she muttered to herself. Under no circumstances would she surrender to her father’s keeping. To escape him and his onerous plans for her, she had lied, stolen and wed under false pretense. She felt no satisfaction at all in that. Only relief, and even that now proved temporary, considering Melior’s news. However, wrongly as she had behaved, Honor admitted that whatever else it took to maintain her sanctuary here, she would do without hesitation.

More than her own life lay at risk now.

Alan had brought Tavish home. The huge stone settled into place as though it had formed there. Alan released the ropes lashed to it from his captured warhorse and tethered the fractious beast to a nearby tree.

Blood trickled down from beneath his crudely wrapped right shoulder. Damn! The wound had broken open yet again. He cursed the mess even though he realized the fresh bleeding might likely save him from Tavish’s fate. Hopefully any poison would leak out with the blood and sweat. He swiped his arm clean with the tail of his plaid and hoped he had not lost his needle.

After a longing glance toward the cool, rushing water of the nearby burn, he sat down beside the smooth, rounded rock and began to chisel on it. Plying a fist-size rock and a sharp jag on his old, broken broadsword, Alan pounded out the design.

Poor Tav, he thought as he worked, had everything in life a man could ask. Snug home, bonny wife, a bit of coin put by. Alan supposed he would never know suchlike himself. Considering that, mayhaps Tavish had been the luckier one after all. For two months, at least, Tav had lived every man’s dream. “Leastways, most men dream of it. Not me, o’ course,” Alan muttered, chipping away at the stone. “Aye, ye had it all, old son,” he grunted. “And ’tis sorry, I am, ye lost it too soon.”

When Alan finished, the outline of a shield listed slightly to one side and the wolfs head he had intended resembled a bitten apple with two leaves. Well, the Lady Honor could replace this if she wished. For now it would serve to mark the place. Frowning at his clumsy effort, he piled up a pyramid of small stones in front to form the cairn. Then he rose, straightened his muddy breacan and shook the kinks out of his legs.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Alan held the hilt of the broken sword high above the marker he had made to cast the shadow of the cross over it. “God keep ye, Tavish Mac Ellerby.”

He thought to say more of a farewell, but the sudden thunder of hooves shook the ground beneath his bare feet. Facing the approaching riders, Alan drew Tavish’s undamaged sword from its sling on the horse and assumed a battle stance. Just then, the wind unfurled the colors held by the advance man.

Lion D’or on a red field. The Bruce.

The party of horsemen surrounded him in a flurry of jingling harnesses and stamping hooves. Alan dropped to one knee and grinned up at the rider on the prancing gray.

“We might have been Edward’s men, Strode. Did it never occur to you to run and hide?” Bruce asked.

Alan threw back his head and laughed. “If there’s an Englisher this side o’ London, I’ll kiss yer beastie’s arse and call him sweeting!”

Bruce dismounted and stretched out his arm for a clasp of greeting. He winced when he noticed Alan’s wound. “We’re collecting Douglas’s men just south of here, and then on to York. My brother told me he gave you leave after our victory, and now I ken why!” Bruce wrinkled his nose at the sluggish red trail still working its way down Alan’s bare arm. “See to that hurt or we’ll be burying you. You’re like to lose that arm.”

Alan nodded once and looked away, over the hills that separated him from Rowicsburg castle. “It will heal. Mayhaps I’ll join ye later.”

“You would see your father first, then?” Bruce asked, more than a hint of warning in his voice.

“I’ll never go to Rowicsburg,” Alan answered with a lift of his chin. “Neither will I go north. I have done with Uncle Angus as well. Neil Broglan is his tanist now, and a good laird he’ll be. I’ve no business wi’ either side of my family.” He cocked his head toward the new grave. “I am here because Tavish Ellerby sent me with orders for his widow. And the news of his death.”

He had nowhere to go after this mission for Tavish. His English father had packed him off to the Highlands, to his mother’s people when he was but a lad. The uncle who raised him there had chosen another nephew, a full Scot, as the next MacGill chieftain. That was as it should be, Alan supposed.

Life as a soldier suited him well enough. However, stubbornness and one strong arm were all he had to offer any cause at the moment. This king of his clearly had no use for either.

“Aye well, I believe you then. ’Tis well known, your love of the truth.” Bruce glanced over at his men. “Some do say you take it to extremes.” Several of Bruce’s retinue nodded sagely and exchanged wry looks.

Alan knew why. He never said what he thought a man—or a woman, for that matter—wanted to hear, unless it was true. Not even when a falsehood would serve him better than a fact. ’Twas a thing all the Bruces depended upon. As had his uncle. Alan took tremendous pride in the one inarguable attribute he possessed and held so dear. He was an honest man.

Only Alan knew the reason behind his one constant and unwavering virtue, and why holding to it had become a near obsession over the years. His father had lied, saying that he would bring Alan home soon. His mother had lied, promising to write to him regularly and come for him when the border troubles eased. His uncle had lied, vowing to the mother that her son would be groomed as the next laird. None of it came to pass. Disgusted with the lot, Alan vowed to himself that he would never visit a lie on anyone, regardless of the price. So, he was known as Alan the True. His reputation had followed like a faithful hound when he left the Highlands. Sometimes it bit him, but for the most part, served him well. As it did now.

The Bruce glanced at the crudely carved device on the stone marker and back to Alan. “Give Ellerby’s lady my condolence. I heard that he fought well. He made plans for the lady and his property, did he?”

“Writ and sealed, sire. Betwixt him and her, I’m thinking.”

“I’d see it, Alan.”

“I think not. ’Tis private word from the deathbed to his beloved.”

Bruce turned away and paced for a moment, then came face-to-face with Alan, looking up, since he was a head shorter. “Give me the letter, Strode. I command it.”

Alan tensed, his left hand closing over his sword hilt.

“Give me the goddamned letter, man, or we’ll take it from you!” Bruce thundered.

“Och, but ye’ve less than a score o’ lads wi’ ye, sire!” Alan remarked.

Bruce tightened his lips. His eyes bugged out for a full second before his crack of laughter shattered the tense silence.

Alan waited, wearing a beatific smile. He knew well the image he presented, even enhanced it whenever he could. The irreverent, overgrown jester. Opponents usually underestimated him because of his demeanor, but not Robert Bruce. The king knew well what lay under the cloak of humour. And would brook no insubordinance concealed by it. Much as he hated to do it, Alan prepared for surrender.

Bruce sobered after a bit and raised an arm, draping it casually around Alan’s shoulders. “Now listen to me, Strode, and listen well. Byelough Keep is important because of its protected location. The hidden caves near it could hide an army. Or a wealth of supplies to keep one victualed. I’ll not have it fall into unsympathetic hands by some whim of a dead man.

“Now then,” Bruce continued, “we could kill you and take the letter. I suspect we would have to. Even should you overpower my wee troop here and escape, I would simply follow you to Byelough and demand it of the widow. You choose.”

Alan considered. Tavish’s lady would be upset enough as it was. Devastated, most likely. A visit from Bruce would hardly provide any consolation, especially given the king’s current mood.

“Verra well, have it then.” Alan reached beneath his wide leather belt and drew out the folded packet, slapping it into Bruce’s outstretched hand. “But I mislike this.”

Bruce frowned as his long fingers broke the amber glob of crude candle wax sealing the letter. “And I mislike you at times, Strode. I ought to kill you for insolence, you know. Might do so yet.”

Silence reigned as Bruce read the words Tavish had written at the hour of his death. A calculating smile stretched his noble face as he finished and refolded the parchment. Then the smile swiftly died. “Kneel!” he ordered in a sharp voice.

Alan knelt, bracing himself as the Bruce raised his steel to the level of Alan’s neck. It hovered just above his left shoulder. He did not want to believe Bruce meant to kill him, but neither could he disregard the fact that he was on his knees with the man’s blade at his throat. A protest seemed cowardly under the circumstances, as well as futile, if the Bruce meant business.

“Could I have a priest?” Alan asked conversationally, holding Bruce’s gaze.

“You’d shock one out of his frock, and I am in trouble enough with the church as it is,” Bruce declared.

“Ah, well, then. Proceed wi’ what ye were about to do.” He hoped Robert only meant to make a point, frighten him a bit. God knew the rascal had a wicked twist to his mind. Then Alan recalled the blow Rob had dealt the English deBohun just before the battle when they rode out one to one. The man’s head bad bounced along the ground like a sheep’s bladder ball while the rest of him rode a ways on down the field. Laugh, the man might, but Bruce never wasted time with idle threats.

Alan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to recall the prayer of contrition, the first bead of the rosary, his mother’s face. Nothing came to mind.

Death held no appeal for him in the best of circumstances, but he had always faced it without fear. Determined to brazen it out to the very end, he looked up at the king and smiled. “I expect ye’ll be sorry for this.”

“No doubt.” Bruce chuckled. Hardly a royal sound, but then he was new to the post, Alan thought.

The sharp edge of steel pressed threateningly against Alan’s jugular for a long, nerve-racking moment. Then Bruce’s voice rang out, “I dub thee Sir Alan of Strode.” The flat of the blade bounced on his left shoulder and gently touched the damaged right. “Serve God, king, protect the weak and strive for right.” He turned the sword, holding the jeweled hilt for Alan to kiss.

Alan tasted the metal-and-emerald surface against his lips, cool and faintly salty with sweat. He welcomed it like a lover’s lips, smacking of honeyed mead. Kiss of life, he mused, barely restraining a shudder of relief. He even prolonged the gesture, bidding for time, since his legs felt too weak to support him just now.

It was not that he had feared dying, he told himself, for had faced death often enough in battle. But dying like this, on his knees, and for no good reason, would have troubled him a bit.

“Ready for the buffet?” Bruce asked, clenching and unclenching his gloved right hand, grinning with new merriment. Alan could just imagine the strength waiting behind that blow. The cuff supposed to help him remember his new charge of knighthood might well render him unable to recall his own name.

“Aye, ready.” He rolled his eyes and puffed out his cheeks. The king’s fist connected with a solid thunk that knocked Alan backward to the ground in an ungainly sprawl.

“Rise, Sir, and do glory to Scotland!” Bruce let out a bark of laughter. “And right that plaidie, mon. Yer own glory’s naked to th’ breeze!”

Alan scrambled to his feet and made a sketchy bow. He was a Sir! He wished to high heaven Tav could have witnessed this farce. He glanced at the cairn under which he’d laid his friend, and then up at the clouds. A unexpected breeze fluttered through the leaves of a rowan tree. Mayhaps he had.

“Do I do homage or some such?” he asked Bruce, uncertain of the protocol. The whole event bore no structure at all and damned little ceremony. He had witnessed a knighting only once. There was a good deal more to it than this if he remembered rightly.

“I took your oath last year, if you recall. Knowing your penchant for truth, I don’t doubt me that will last your lifetime. Plus, you’ve killed at least a score of English in the past fortnight. We’ll let that do.”

Bruce picked a wad of grass off Alan’s muddy elbow. “Clean yourself up a bit before you call on the lady, eh? You look as if you’ve been dragged through a bloody bog. Have you soap? And proper clothing?”

Alan drew himself up, ignoring the noisy mirth of Bruce’s men. “Aye, I do. Ye needn’t worry I’ll disgrace ye, sire. ’Tis just that war dulls a mon’s polish.” He followed the king’s gaze as it traveled downward to Alan’s bare legs and feet.

“It does that.” Bruce slapped him on his good shoulder and turned to mount up. “Oh, by the way, tell Lady Ellerby that I second her husband’s behest. Nay, wait. Say that I command she follow his directions to the letter. Immediately, as he instructs.”

With a hoot of laughter, the king kicked his horse and galloped away.

Alan shrugged and grinned. King Rob was a daftie. Always had been.


Chapter Two

Byelough Keep blended well into the landscape, nearly invisible. Had Tavish not given such clear directions, Alan knew he might never have found it. The cottages bore the same gray-green color as the surrounding hills of mottled stone and bracken. ’Twas just as Tavish had described a hundred times in the hours he had spent longing for the place. If not for the wisps of smoke from the evening home fires, Alan might have missed seeing it altogether.

He urged the English warhorse onward toward the gates of Byelough, towing his own highland pony and the two wain drays loaded down with booty from the battle.

“Who goes?” came a steely voice from the lichencovered watchtower. That tower looked nothing more than a massive tree from a distance, rising from a wall that appeared a naturally formed cliff. Ingenious. And difficult to breach, he reckoned, despite the lack of drawbridge and moat.

“Sir Alan of Strode,” he announced gravely. “I bear word from Lord Tavish Ellerby for his lady wife. Open and bid me enter.” Alan marked the two archers poised on the battlements.

A long silence ensued before the heavy gates swung open. Alan rode through. He noted immediately the cleanness of the small bailey. There were well-kept outbuildings and neatly clipped grass, what little there was of it. Even the bare ground looked raked and free of clutter and mud holes.

The few people he could see appeared scrubbed to a shine and well fed. A silent stable lad took the reins as Alan dismounted, and a young, dark-haired priest met him at the steps leading into the keep itself.

“Welcome, my son. I am Father Dennis,” the priest intoned in a voice that sounded three times as old as its owner. Alan suppressed his laughter. Son, indeed. He likely had a good five years on the holy lad. The lanky priest smiled serenely as though he divined Alan’s thoughts. “Our lady awaits within.”

Alan nodded and followed the cleric inside, uncertain whether he should have kissed the laddie’s ring. Priests were as uncommon as clean linen where he had spent his last nineteen years. They trod the fresh, fragrant rushes toward a door at the back of the hall.

Several servants arranging trestle tables paused to study him. He threw them a smile of approval for the looks of the place. Colorful tapestries softened the stone walls and the few tables already set up bore pristine cloths without any obvious holes or spots. A brightly painted depiction of the Ellerby device crowned a large fire hole built into the wall near the head table. And where, he wondered, were the hall’s dogs? Banished or being laundered? He chuckled inwardly at the image of hounds spitting maws full of soapwort. Dead easy, this ranked as the cleanest place he had ever been. No wonder Tav had loved it.

Alan silently thanked the Bruce for suggesting the bath and change of clothes. Of course, given a moment or so, he surely would have thought of it himself. After scouring himself raw with the grainy soap and drying in the sun, he had prepared his knightly regalia with care. He had ripped the yellow gryphon device off the red silk surcoat and donned the garment over the confiscated English mail hauberk and chausses.

Chain mail had necessitated the wearing of a padded gambeson and a heavy loincloth, as well. Both of which he despised. Even his hair felt too confined, its dark auburn hank bound at the back of his neck by a remnant of the torn yellow silk. Altogether discomforting, was this grand chivalric posturing. But necessary.

As soon as he established the fact that he was a knight to these people of Byelough Keep, he would change back into his breacan and be damned to them all if they thought him common.

Being a baron’s son had never counted for much in his life, but he did feel pride in his newly earned title of Sir. The least he could do was make a good first impression.

“This way,” the priest said, beckoning Alan toward the sturdy oak portal at the back of the hall. “Milady’s solar,” he explained.

“Sir Alan of Strode, the lady Honor,” Father Dennis announced in his low-pitched voice. “He comes from your lord husband, milady.”

Alan’s stomach clenched with apprehension as the lady raised her gaze from her needlework. Eyes the color of a dove’s breast regarded him with bright curiosity. Her dark brows rose like graceful wings. The small, straight nose quivered slightly as her rose petal mouth stretched into a blinding, white smile. He stood entranced, just as he had expected to. Tavish was ever an apt one for description, and Lady Honor proved no exaggeration. Alan thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Perfect.

“You are well come, good sir. Pray, how fares my husband?” She rose from behind the large embroidery frame and came to meet him, holding out her hands.

Her heavy, voluminous overgown hid her form. It caused her to appear a wee bit stout despite the daintiness of her face, neck and hands. Nonetheless, her movements proved graceful as a doe’s. Alan released a sigh of pure pleasure in the mere seeing of her.

“My lord husband has been detained?” she asked, her soft speech as welcoming as her smile. He supposed the speaking of French most of her life had mellowed it so, though she spoke the more gutteral English with hardly any accent. He recalled her father was a Scot, a baron and a highly educated man. Living at the French court a goodly part of her life would have exposed her to many languages. Tavish had boasted of her accomplishments. A woman of vast charm and keen wits, he had said.

Alan cradled her soft palms, raising her fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, reluctant to release her. She smelled as heaven must, of rose water and absolute cleanliness. The woman radiated gentleness and contentment; a contentment he must now destroy. God’s own truth, how he hated this task.

Placing her palms together, he encased them in his own and shook his head sadly. “Because I stood his friend and comrade-at-arms, Tavish bade me bring ye all his love, Lady Honor. His last thoughts were of ye.”

“No!” she cried, snatching her hands from his. A fiery epithet scorched the air between them. A French word, if memory served him, and one that ought not be uttered in the presence of a priest. Surely he had misheard, but that and others like it were the only French he knew.

He watched her, in awe of the change. She paced frantically, kicking her heavy skirts forward. Her palms slammed against the needlework frame, scattering skeins of silk thread the length of the room. Then she marched smartly back to where he stood and cracked her palm against his newly shaved cheek.

Alan stood fast, hurting for her as he saw her fury dissolve into grief.

The young priest hovered uncertainly as Alan took the lady in his arms, cradling her lightly against him, muttering softly in Gaelic. He held her loosely as she repeatedly pounded one small fist against his silk-covered mail. By the rood, how he had dreaded doing this, and ’twas worse even than he had expected.

He shot the priest a look of helplessness over the top of her head. “Father Dennis, a posset to soothe?” he suggested, hoping to stir the befuddled young fool into action. Some priest, this one. Unmoving as a standing stone and about as much use. “Th’ lass is overset! Bestir yerself!”

“No! No posset!” she said, shoving away. “I’ll hear this now. All of it.” Savagely, she wiped her face with the edge of her linen undersleeve and sniffed loudly. Within seconds, she had composed herself and raised her brave wee chin. Large, luminous eyes brimmed with more tears, which she refused to let fall. Her braw courage near cracked his heart in twain.

“Come you,” she ordered briskly. She grasped Alan’s wrist with both hands, guided him to the padded window seat and pushed him onto it. She remained standing so they were near eye to eye. “Now you will tell me. Father Dennis, would you see to—” She paused to draw a deep breath. “See to my lord’s remains?”

Alan shook his head, looking from her to the priest. “I did that already. He bides little more than a league away, ’twixt the Tweed and a wee burn. That’s what he wished.”

The winged brows drew together in a scowl. “Not home to Byelough? Why?”

“He didna want ye seeing him as he was. I promised.”

She gulped, touching her chin to her chest. “How...how was he, then?”

“Met death as he met life, head up and leanin‘ forward. ’Tis all ye need know.”

“Devil curse you, sir! I would know it all. Everything. I must!” she demanded, biting her lips and wringing her hands together. A visible shudder ran through her, but then she braced up like a soldier.

Alan drew her to the wide seat and pulled her down beside him. Looking directly into her tear-brimmed eyes, he gave exactly what she asked for. “Toward the end of the fight, an English blade took Tav’s leg ‘twixt knee and hip. I tied it off and put fire to seal it soon as I could strike one up. Then I found an English baggage wain to cart him home. He died four days ago. I gave him what solace I could, my lady. Ye gave him more, I’m thinking, if ’tis any comfort at all. He loved ye well and worried for ye.”

She absorbed the words in silence, her fingernails biting his palms, her eyes searching his. Suddenly she nodded, released his hands, and stood, dismissing him. “Stay to sup and sleep in the hall. Tomorrow you may take me to him.”

“Aye, and glad to,” Alan agreed. Then he reached into the lining of the English surcoat and pulled out the folded message from Tavish. “He sent ye this.”

She thumbed the broken seal and frowned. “You have read it?”

“Nay, I swear not. The Bruce did so agin my wishes, but he strongly approved the words. Made them his own command and bade me tell ye to obey. Immediately, he said.”

The lady seemed not to hear as her gaze flew over the message. Disbelief dawned on her face, then contorted the fair features into something approaching horror.

The troubled gray eyes flew to his and narrowed with suspicion. “You wrote this! Oh, it bears Tavish’s name and is signed by his hand, but you made the rest. Foul! And you call yourself his friend? Shame on you to use a dying man for your own gain!”

“Lady, I did not...could not,” Alan protested, looking to the priest for help. “I swear!”

“You did! See how the lines waver, not his fine, steady letters at all!” Her forefinger punched viciously at the crinkled parchment.

“Pain and fever racked him as he made the marks,” Alan explained. “On my soul and all that’s holy, Lady, I canna write! I canna even read! God’s truth, I dinna lie. I never lie!”

Lady Honor turned away from him, dropping the letter as though it were filth. The priest picked it up and read. Alan heard him gasp. “You are to marry!” Father Dennis exclaimed.

So that was all. Ah well, Alan understood now. The poor lass hated being dished out like a treat to whomever Tavish wanted to hold his lands. He could not blame her in the least.

Marry, indeed! Why, she needed time to accept Tav’s death. He would see she got her time, and no mistake. All the time she wanted. The hell with Bruce.

He laid a hand on her back and patted gently. “I’ll bide and protect ye, my lady. I’m certain Tav only wanted to—”

She rounded on him with her hands on her hips, leaning forward with her chin up. “What about what I want? I have no wish to wed anyone. Especially not you!”

“Me?” Alan heard the word croak out of his mouth, leaving a bad taste behind. Then another followed, more in the nature of a groan. “Marry?” He backed up and dropped to the window seat, his knees too weak to hold him. “Oh, shite!”

“Just so!” Lady Honor snatched the letter from the priest’s hand and, crumpling it under Alan’s nose, assaulted him in rapid French. Still shocked by Tav’s orders and unable to grasp more than the occasional word, he simply stared at her until she switched to English.

“Saints! He has commanded us to wed this day! This very day! He swore that he loved me and now he demands that I marry a—”

. “A what?”

“A highland savage,” she retorted, shaking a finger under his nose. “Mais oui, I can tell by your speech that is what you are in spite of that fine mail you wear! And ignorant, as well, by your own admission!”

“Unlettered, Lady. ‘Tis not the same as ignorant. And de’il take ye wi’ all yer plaguey French airs! Ye’re still a Scot yersel’!”

“Praise God, only half!” she shouted.

“Then I wish to God ‘twas th’ upper half wi’ th’ mouth!”

She gaped. Her chest heaved up and down like a bellows. Alan wrestled with his anger until he had a firm grip on it. Surely ’twas only her grief speaking here. Shock had undone her, and him carrying on as if she were to blame for it all.

“Why would my husband do this to me?” she demanded, turning to the priest.

“Well, how d‘ye think I feel, eh?” Alan countered. “Trapped, is what! Bound by a stout chain of friendship reachin’ inta th’ verra grave. Hist, I’d as lief fall on my dirk as surrender my freedom, but my word’s my word, by God!” He slapped his forehead and groaned toward the ceiling. “Och, Tav, what’ve ye wrought us here? What have ye done?”

He fumed. She paced. He could hear the scuffing of her feet through the rushes, the rustle of skirts about her legs. The sounds were near as loud as the thudding of his heart.

Alan realized Tavish had no way of knowing the words he had written to his wife had gone unread that night. And just who bore the fault for that misunderstanding? Alan himself, none other. Tav had asked whether Alan agreed to the missive and got a ready answer for his trouble. Aye, braw advice. Ha!

That had been as near to a lie as Alan ever uttered, and it troubled him sorely. Everyone he knew remarked on his word and how he could be trusted to speak nothing but the truth in all matters, never mind the consequences he must suffer for it. That was a thing of great pride for a man who had little else in the world to recommend him. His departure from honesty—even in such a small way—had brought on disaster.

Lady Honor spoke truer than she knew just now, he thought. He had acted as ignorant as the barmiest village idiot in this. How stupid to agree to a thing when he had no idea what it was. Just proved what he had always known. A lie, even a near lie, led to one sort of perdition or another. This one had cost him his freedom. And the poor lady, her peace of mind.

Oh, he admitted he might have imagined himself lolling about a castle with a well-born woman now and again, especially when Tavish had waxed poetic about his own, but Alan knew very well such a life did not suit him. He had been thrust out of that sort of existence and into a rugged bachelor household too early on. But not so early that he did not know what he had lost by the move. To be perfectly honest—and he strove always to be honest, if nothing else—Alan simply was not equipped to deal with marriage and family life. Even if he wanted to, he did not know how. Now, due to this almost lie of his, he knew he must team.

Father Dennis cleared his throat. “Pardon, sir, my lady, but the hour grows late. If there is to be a wedding—”

“No!” she shouted, throwing up her hands.

“Aye!” Alan declared, rising again on steadier legs. “Go, Father, and gather all who will come to yer chapel.”

“We have no chapel, sir. The hall must do.”

“There will be no wedding!” the lady said heatedly, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Leave us, Father, and make ready,” Alan repeated. When the door had closed, he turned to his new intended. She looked ready to scratch out his eyes and he could hardly blame her.

He forced himself to speak calmly, reasonably. “If ye loved yer husband, Lady Honor, ye must mind his last wishes.”

“That fever you spoke of baked his brain! Rightminded, Tavish would never have wished this on me. Or on you,” she added belatedly, obviously hoping now to enlist him in her rebellion.

Alan wondered if she had the right of it. Had the fever affected Tav’s mind? No matter. “Even were that true, my lady, Bruce made Tav’s wish a command. We dare not go agin’ the king.”

She laughed, a mirthless sound if he had ever heard one. “La! King, indeed!”

“Aye, well, he is that and owns Scotland now. Ye might flee to France and yer father if ye wish to escape the royal wrath. Where am I to go, then?”

In truth, he had no fear left of Robert Bruce. The man would either kill him or not, and everyone died sooner or later. He only thought to stir a bit of guilt in the lass. She had hurt his feelings, calling him ignorant. Even if it was true, she had no call to treat him as pig droppings on her foot.

Her fury seemed to die out on the instant and leave her sad. The tears were back, trailing one after another down those petal soft cheeks. “You don’t want this any more than I,” she said softly.

“Ye have the right of that. But ’tis a matter of duty now, yer own as well as mine. Tavish asked it of us.”

He cocked a brow and gave her a half smile for her forlorn little nod of agreement. “I know ye grieve for him, sweet lady, as do I. But come now and we’ll make the best of it, eh? ’Tis all we can do for him.”

“Wait!” she cried as he grasped her hand more firmly and headed for the door. “Hold a moment, sir. We must speak further before we do this thing.”

Alan capitulated with a weary sigh. “Look ye, we have years in which to know each other. As yer priest said, the hour grows late and I’m fit to drop to the nearest pallet.”

She colored to a bright rose hue and glanced guiltily at the curtained bed in the corner. “Well, that is the problem, you see. I cannot... that is, we must not—”

“Lie together?” he said and laughed at the thought. “Lady, I’ve ridden four long days wi’ no rest or aught to eat but dry oats, dug Tav’s grave one-handed wi’ a broken sword, faced down the king and near lost my head to the bargain. All that, after herdin’ a hoard of lowland pikers through the bloodiest battle of the century. ’Tis not bed sport on my mind this night; so dinna worry on it.”

She shook her head and wrung her hands. “I must tell you, I am enceinte,” she blurted.

Alan frowned. Enceinte? Enchanting? In sin? What?

“Verra well, then,” he said agreeably, hoping she would elaborate so he wouldn’t need to admit to further ignorance.

She looked vastly relieved. “God bless you for your understanding, sir. This babe is all I have left of Tavish.”

“Babe?” The news hit him harder than Bruce’s fist had done earlier. “God’s truth, ye carry Tav’s bairn?”

Alan had not grasped until that moment how the thought of bedding her had wormed its way into his mind. He had not intended to do it this night because of the reasons he had just given her, but he certainly meant to do it soon. Guilt washed over him like a cold wave. Taking Tavish’s woman to bed ought not have occurred to him at all. Even with Tav’s blessing—and king’s orders—it seemed devilish wrong even to consider it, let alone do it.

“You will wait until after the birth?” Her fingers worried her lips as though she were frightened he would change his mind.

“Aye, of course I’ll wait,” he said gently, nodding, even as the import of his promise sank in. He had been celibate for nigh on a year, since just before he had joined Bruce’s army. Now he must needs delay until Lady Honor delivered of her child and recovered from the birth.

Easing himself with another woman after wedding Honor would be unthinkable. Even were she not breeding, Alan wondered if he could really allow himself to bed his best friend’s widow. But he would have to bed somebody. Eventually.

Ah well, his own discomfort was not the lass’s fault, and she looked nigh to collapsing from fretting over it. He smiled and reached for her hands. When she allowed him to clasp them, he squeezed her fingers with gentle reassurance. “Ease yer mind, my lady. We’ll share yer chamber for the looks of the thing, but ye need no’ worry I’ll risk Tav’s heir. ’Tis precious to me, too.”

A single tear broke over her lashes and trailed down one cheek. With a callused thumb, he brushed it away. “There now, dinna greet. Come, let’s go and give yer wee’un a foster da, eh?”

Honor sniffed and nodded. “We will need protection.”

“Just so,” he agreed as he placed one of her hands on his mailed arm and led her to the hall.

Three women surrounded her as they entered, the skinny one gabbling excitedly in French and shooting him wary looks. He kept an eye on Lady Honor as they led her away from him, noting the quiet reserve in her manner now that she had accepted her lot.

A pang of longing pierced him like a crossbow quarrel. What must it be like to win the heart of a woman like herself? Fairer than dawn, she was, so cool and clean, and sweetness itself until she thought something threatened her babe.

He blamed her in no way for her recent defiance. She did not know him at all, and had only sought to protect the child. Honorable as her name, she was. So brave, for a lass.

Tavish had known and appreciated her well. He had loved her dearly despite their short acquaintance and brief union. Two months of heaven, Alan did not doubt. Tav had declared as much, more than once. How proud he would have been of his wife’s courage, and to know of the coming child.

Alan knew Honor had led a sheltered life until now; born and reared in her mother’s castle in Loire Valley in France, a frequent visitor to the court. No doubt shamelessly indulged by her father, a Scots baron embroiled in the tangle of French politics. Coming to Scotland with naught but her women and one lone priest must have been a shock for one born into cultured splendor.

She had weathered it well, Tav said. The hall Alan stood in shone as proof of that. She had made this keep a home, a comfortable refuge and delight to the eyes. Tavish often had boasted of it and rightly so.

Now, newly widowed and pregnant, hardly more than a child herself, wee Honor risked the wrath of a rough warrior husband by denying Alan his marital rights even before they said the vows. All to protect Tav’s bairn. Her loyalty and courage stirred something inside Alan that pushed aside his dread of a loveless union. It would not be completely loveless, after all, if he loved her. For all he knew of the woman now, he believed what he felt might be more akin to worship.

“Ah, Tav, I see now. I ken why ye sent me here. She’ll be needing a strong arm and I’ll try to do ye proud,” Alan whispered. “Lady Honor has, and so shall yer son. I’ll see to it.”


Chapter Three

Honor only half listened as her women exclaimed over the news of Tavish’s death and this eve’s rushed nuptials. She barely noticed their comments on the hard-muscled warrior who stood alone in the midst of the hall. She just watched him.

He waited at his ease, as though he had nothing better to do. She supposed he did not. He just stood there, weight resting on one foot, arms crossed, and green eyes lively as they surveyed the gathering of castle folk.

“You should send him away, madame,” said Nanette, her trusted maid. The woman spoke in French so the others would not understand. “Even smiling, that one looks fiercer than your lord father ever did on his worst of days. You mark me well, he means you no good! No good at all. How can you marry such as he, especially now?”

Nanette’s dainty hands fluttered like crazed butterflies when she got excited and this Scottish knight certainly provided excitement if nothing else.

Honor ignored Nan then and stole another long look at Sir Alan. In a strange way, he appealed to her senses. However, handsome did not exactly describe him if one judged by court standards. No doubt many women swooned over him with a combination of terror and wild fantasy. Or simple lust. Not sensible women, of course. Not her.

His hair, a wild dark chestnut and probably combed with his fingers, escaped bit by bit from its tenuous tethering at his nape. A soft waving strand drifted over his high, wide brow and just missed covering one dark-lashed eye. Thick brows, a darker auburn than his hair, rose and fell, changing his expression from curiosity to satisfaction when Father Dennis approached him, Book of Prayers in hand. She liked the fact that he did not make the least attempt to conceal his feelings.

The knight’s full, mobile lips broke into an amazingly open smile, revealing two rows of even, unspotted teeth. He had good strong teeth, Honor noted, exasperated with herself for giving attention to that. One did not judge men as one did horses, after all. If so, Tavish might have been a fine, sleek Arabian, while this fellow looked a hell-inbattle destrier. But the teeth were fine, nonetheless.

Why had God seen fit to take her gentle Tavish and leave this warlike specimen to live? She could not help but question, though she knew it impious. Well, piety had gotten her nowhere.

Nanette pulled on her arm. “Listen to me! This man will be your undoing, madame. He will! Send him away and forget this nonsense.”

Honor tore her gaze from the knight and settled it on the old maid. “And then what, Nan? You know as well as I, someone would take his place. If not tomorrow, then the next day or the next, another will come. I cannot hope to hold this place alone. At least this chevalier knew my husband and cared enough to bring the body home. He promises to foster my child and protect us. Tavish knew I would need someone and he sent me this man. The king commands that we marry, so he surely trusts him. What would you have me do, forfeit everything I have to the Bruce and flee to France?”

“Oui!” Nanette said with an emphatic nod. “Just so! Let us go home.”

“Never!” Honor declared. “I would wed the devil himself before the comte de Trouville.”

“God help you, my lady,” Nanette whimpered. “This man may qualify! Look at those arms and fists. He might very well kill you should you raise his ire. And with your temper,” she said with a bob of her head, “I do not doubt me you will.”

Honor heaved a loud sigh and shook off Nan’s clutching hands. Her maid could be right, but life with her father held absolutely no hope at all. Honor felt reasonably certain she could handle this knight. He responded gently to her tears. She sensed an underlying compassion, concealed by that rugged warrior’s exterior. And surely there would be benefits in all that strength.

Chances were good that she might control the man and make him do her bidding. She had found a way with Tavish Ellerby and she would find a way with this one, though the two were different as a pigeon and a hawk. La! First comparing them to horses, then to birds. Consigning men to the level of animals stirred a bitter smile. Not so farfetched as all that.

“Go on, Nan, and order the women to prepare the solar. Take in some of the best wine and see to a tub for his bath. Father Dennis beckons me, so it must be time.”

She quit the group of women and approached the priest and the knight. This might prove the greatest mistake of her life, but thus far, her instincts had led her aright. She sensed Alan of Strode would wax tame enough if she kept her wits about her.

The father of her child lay dead now, unable to keep her past at bay, unable to secure their little one’s future. But perhaps he had, in his last moments, seen to it that someone else would. She thanked Tavish for that, for thinking of her, and for loving her as he had. Her husband had been a noble and admirable man and she would miss him greatly.

Despite her first stunned reaction and her grief at hearing that Tavish had died, Honor realized now that Alan of Strode offered her the only chance she had to hold what belonged to her and to Tavish’s child.

Unlike her first, this marriage would be real and binding for certain. Properly documented and witnessed. Tavish had arranged this union for her and wished her happy in it. She would comply with his plans, for his sake, her own and especially for their child’s.

“Sir Alan, Father Dennis, shall we proceed?” she asked, chin lifted and eyes bright. If the man respected bravery, she would pretend it. She certainly had enough practice in pretending.

“Well, ah, there are certain procedures,” said the priest. “There is the confession. You made your own just this mom, my lady, but—” He eyed the knight warily. “Sir Alan, if you would step into the alcove yonder, I would hear yours.”

Strode shook his head, his hands resting on his narrow hips. “Nay, I canna think of any reason to hide what I’ve to say. The lass should know what she’s gettin’.”

Honor perked up at that. A public confession? Unheard of.

“B-but, sir, ’tis always done in private!” Father Dennis gnawed his thin lips, glancing from one to the other several times. A titter of nervous laughter rippled among those listening to the exchange.

The knight stared them down with an arrogant look. When they fell silent again, he looked directly into the priest’s eyes. “Let her hear it. I’ll not lie.”

His brows drew together, this time in a thoughtful frown, as though searching his mind. Then he snapped his fingers and grinned. “Och, now I remember it! Forgi’ me, Father, for I have sinned!”

Father Dennis cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him, clutching his rosary and prayer book between them. “How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”

Strode flashed another frown, the tip of his tongue worrying the corner of his mouth as he rocked heel to toe to heel. Mental calculation apparently completed, he steadied. “Nineteen years, give or take a six-month. Aye, that’s right,” he said with a firm nod. “I was goin’ on seven.”

Nineteen years! There were murmurs of horror and a few giggles, quickly squelched with another piercing green glare.

“And what have you done since that requires forgiveness?”

Honor wondered just how long they would be standing here if he decided to list everything.

Strode seemed at a loss. He started to speak, snapped his mouth shut, then began again. “Well, what is it that matters here?”

“Do you believe in the One God, keep the Sabbath holy, honor your father and mother?”

“Aye for th’ most part, though I dinna like ’em all that much. The father and mother, that is. But I do give ‘em proper respect. ’Tis only right.” He looked triumphant. “Is that all, then?”

“Not all, but a beginning,” the priest said, looking askance at the penitent. “Have you killed anyone?”

“Oh, aye to that as well! Twenty or so, all English, mostly. Mayhaps one Welshmon. Before that, I recall only three. One, a thieving Cameron, and two nameless reivers what tried to steal my horse. All good, clean, righteous kills. Should be clear on that score!” His proud smile was blinding and totally guilt free.

A shocked silence ensued while the priest drew in a long breath and expelled it slowly. “And have you stolen?” he asked.

“Aye, all the cattle I could trod up for my uncle Angus. A few sheep here and there, but the buggers are devilish hard to herd!” He paused thoughtfully. “Did my part, but I’m thinking I coulda done a bit more had I put my mind to it. Aye, all right, then, I admit to a wee touch of sloth a few years back. Is there a penance for sloth, Father?”

Honor bit her lips together. Small wonder Tavish had liked him. The man was amusing, she had to give him that, though it seemed to be inadvertent.

She could hear Father Dennis’s teeth grind before he spoke. When he did so, he adopted a slow cadence, as though speaking to a half-wit. “These things—the killing, the stealing—are sins, Sir Alan. Sins! Not things you should do, but things you should not. Now then, have you lied?”

Strode clasped his hands behind him and hung his head, peering from under thick, dark lashes like a guilty child. There was something endearing about it, Honor thought. As though one could always depend on that very look every time he sinned. “I let Tavish Ellerby believe I could read, when I could not.” Then he went on the defensive. “But, mind ye, I ne’er said I could.”

“A lie of omission, the same thing,” the cleric declared in a stern voice. “Now, have you committed adultery?”

The answer accompanied a vehement shake of the head. “Nay, I would not! I never took another’s wife or betrothed.” A quick shadow of worry darkened his open features. “Unless... unless some of the lassies lied. Then that would be their own sin, eh?”

“Fornication!” the priest gasped. “You’ve had sexual congress with many women!” Father Dennis did not phrase that as a question.

Sir Alan grinned and combed a hand through his long waves, dislodging the frayed silk tie altogether. Honor never thought to see embarrassment and pride combined with such equality. “I’m hoping ye’ll not be asking for a head count there, Father. Guilty, wi’ damned little regret!”

The hall erupted into raucous laughter. Even Honor could not keep her face composed. She hid her mouth behind one hand and turned away. She was appalled, but God help her, wanting to giggle. What an outrageous scoundrel he was. Then her silent laughter faded to nothing. Tavish meant for her to marry this scoundrel. A killer, a thief and a womanizer. An unrepentant womanizer!

The priest waited until the hall quieted and then resumed. “Have you ever coveted another man’s wife or possessions?” he asked in a hushed monotone.

Alan of Strode answered in kind, looking directly at Honor with a troubled expression. “Aye, I have that.”

The admission and the man’s distress over it bothered Honor. He looked as though he meant he had coveted her. But the knight had never met her or, as far as she knew, seen Tavish’s lands or keep.

Father Dennis cleared his throat again and broke the spell. “Well, I should need a tally stick, mayhaps several of them, to tote up your penances. Will you repent for your sins?”

“Aye, certainly,” Strode answered. “Could we settle up later, d’ye think? I’m good for it.”

Father Dennis blew out an exasperated breath and shook his head. “Fine. Consider yourself absolved for the nonce. Go and sin no more.” Then he threw a surreptitious glance at the waiting tables. “Shall we get on with the ceremony?”

Honor stepped forward. She could see little point in postponing the inevitable—and what she now believed necessary—event. The more she thought on it, the more she appreciated Tavish’s idea. He could not have known the trouble she would encounter, but somehow had managed to send her a solution of sorts. She hoped.

While the priest’s words droned on, she let her gaze rest on Sir Alan’s hand, which supported her own. Rough calluses and broken blisters covered his broad, square palm. His nails looked recently pared, the fingertips scrubbed almost raw. He did not tremble as she did, Honor noticed. Strong, steadfast, supportive.

Hands told much about a person. She thought of Tavish’s hands, slender, well-groomed, agile, like the man himself. By comparison, this knight standing beside her looked a rough-and-tumble piece of work, the kind of man she dreaded. And needed.

“I will,” she responded when Father Dennis prompted her.

“You are man and wife together. Tate, the marriage lines, please,” the priest called to the tall young crofter he had selected to assist him. Spreading his brief document flat on the nearest table, he motioned Sir Alan forward and placed a slender finger on the bottom of the parchment. “Make your mark here, sir.”

Alan dipped the quill Tate provided and laboriously scrawled his name. Honor noted the pride with which he did so in spite of the awkward, all but illegible results. He then handed her the plume and she signed with a scratchy flourish.

“So, it is done. Felicitations, sir, my lady. May God bless and keep you both. The kiss of peace, if you please?”

Honor turned her face up to the knight, who blushed dark red. His wide-eyed gaze darted everywhere but at her. She smiled. Good lord, the man was shy? After all those women he had bragged of bedding? This seemed too much to hope for.

Honor reached for his face and pulled it down to hers, planting her closed lips squarely on his as was customary. Just as she relaxed her hold, she heard it; a soft, almost inaudible sound of yearning mixed with denial.

Their eyes locked at close quarter and she felt trapped in a green sea of anguish. Slowly, the lashes dropped over the emerald orbs and his lips descended again, this time open and probing. Here was a kiss, not of peace, but of raging need and dark promise. Her insides melted like butter on a hot scone.

Honor stumbled back, breathless, when he released her. At least he was not gloating. In fact, he looked as astonished as she felt. Her mouth throbbed, tingling with the taste of mint and something wild and uniquely him. Unsettling did not begin to describe how she felt.

Thoroughly disconcerted, Honor looked away, unable to face him longer. The crowd around them seemed stunned, or scared to death for her.

She was frightened for herself. What in the name of heaven had she done, wedding this wild Scotsman? She could as soon control the tides, or a tempest force wind as to order this knight about.

Honor jerked back instinctively as he lowered his mouth near her ear. He only meant to speak, she chided herself, gathering false calm like a cloak around her. “What is it, sir?” she whispered.

“Could we eat now, do ye think? I’m fair starved.”

She laughed a little, as much with relief as at his earnest inquiry. His kiss had shocked her, but perhaps he meant no harm by it.

Upon reflection, she realized Alan of Strode had done nothing underhanded, nothing sly at all since the moment he had arrived. So far as she could tell, he said what he thought, made clear his needs, and did what he felt was right even when it went against his own wishes. Could any man be that simple, she wondered?

Only time would reveal his true nature. At least she grasped a fighting chance to keep what Tavish had left her. More of a chance than she’d had yesterday.

Pushing aside her worries, Honor nodded toward the dais. “Our feast, such as may be, awaits. You must understand, rations are shortened with winter coming, and we had not expected a wedding. Roast hare is the best we can offer this night.”

“Tomorrow I’ll hunt,” he promised with a grin. “Have ye neeps?”

She rested her hand on his as they stepped up to the dais and took their seats in the carved chairs. “Turnips? We do, and in great supply. Also mutton for slaughter when the weather cools more. Our location was protected from the armies, thank God.” But not from the neighbors, she thought. Time enough later for him to realize that burden. Pray God he proved as fierce to her enemies as he had first looked to her.

The meal revealed that what few knightly virtues she had credited to Sir Alan of Strode did not extend to his eating habits. Honor fair lost her appetite watching him devour everything within reach.

His pleasure in the meal seemed almost wicked in its intensity. Little groaning noises of pleasure escaped his throat as it worked to swallow with gulps the steamed turnips. She looked away to hide her reaction.

Honor heard the slurping of ale go on as though he never meant to stop. The tankard thumped down on the table accompanied with a tremendous belch. “God, ’tis good brew, that!” he exclaimed.

She ventured a sidewise look and saw him rubbing his flat stomach with both hands. “Just how long since you last ate, sir?”

He grinned and pushed away from the table. “Like this? Oh, nigh on a year. Not since I left Malaig. Afore that, I canna say. On the march, we made do wi’ oats, most times dry when we couldna light fires to heat water. Some small game, half-cooked and wi’ no salt. Grubbed up wild tatties when we found ‘em. Picked a few greens here and there. Fish when we could tickle ’em out.

“Ahh,” he crooned, stretching one arm full length above his head. “Nothing like a full belly! I’m for bed an it please ye, lass. Sore tired, I am.”

He rose and held out a grease-filmed hand.

Honor took it gingerly. “Your bath awaits, husband.”

He threw his head back, affronted. “I had a bath this day!”

“You need another!” Honor retorted, risking his wrath. “You reek like—”

“Soldier?” he offered with a wry twist of his lips. He plucked at the surcoat. “Aye, ’tis this garb here. English. The gambeson was a bit gamey when I donned it, I will admit.”

Honor snapped her mouth shut and appraised what he wore with a careful eye. “English?”

He nodded, wrinkling his nose. “Took at Bannockburn. ‘Twas this,” he ran a hand down the front of his chest, “or m’ breacan. That’s still wet from th’ wash I gave it in the burn.”

“Come,” she ordered, feeling much like a mother with an errant child in tow. “We’ll see you to rights.”

Aside to Nanette who stood waiting, she instructed, “Unload his packs and have all the clothing cleaned.” Then she called to Tate, the priest’s assistant. “You, come and help Sir Alan off with his hauberk. Sand scrub it and dry it well so it does not rust.” To Father Dennis, she bade good-night and tugged her new husband into the solar.

So far, so good, Honor thought with satisfaction. He followed her suggestions like an overgrown lamb. Would he always be so docile? Dare she push him further? Not tonight, she decided. Tomorrow would prove the true test. When he had rested and realized that he, by law, ruled where he roosted, she would know the full extent of her folly.

For safety’s sake, Honor allowed Tate to complete the knight’s disrobing and get him settled in the tub of steaming water. Meanwhile, she retired behind her dressing screen to ready herself for bed. When the splashing stopped, she reappeared wearing her long woolen robe. He was asleep in the tub, his knees drawn up to his chin and his wet head lolling forward.

She ventured a soft prod to one heavily muscled shoulder. “Sir? Sir Alan? Wake up. You cannot sleep in the bath. The water cools. Come now!” She poked again, this time harder.

“Hmmph,” he grunted, sitting bolt upright and sloshing water over the edge. “Och, sorry, lass! Stand away.” Hefting himself to his feet, he stepped out and fumbled for the toweling draped over the stool.

Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to force her eyes away from the massive body that looked twice as large unclothed. Smooth sun-browned skin reached to just below his waist. Resuming downward at knee level to include his huge, well-shaped feet. His nether cheeks gleamed almost white, as did the muscled thighs, which were dusted with golden hair.

Honor thanked God he was turned away from her. If he proved anywhere near as generously proportioned in front, she was not ready for a glimpse of that! A shiver of apprehension rippled through her middle.

With an industry to make any housewife proud, Honor busied herself turning back the coverlet and shaping the pillows. Anything to keep her eyes from straying near the bath.

“I’ll take th’ floor,” he said, so near her shoulder, she jumped with fright.

“No, do not!” she shrieked before she could stop herself. The words were meant to stop his advance, but he obviously misconstrued.

“All right, then,” he said. “If ye insist. I only thought ’twould make ye a mite shivery to sleep beside me.”

Still not daring to look at him, Honor heard the rustle of the mattress stuffing as he climbed into bed. She finally ventured a peek and saw about a third of the wide bed vacant and waiting. His strong back glistened with droplets of bathwater.

What should she do? Take to the floor herself? Were she more spritely and not heavy with child, she might. But there was nothing to sleep upon unless she rolled up in her robe and lay on the hard wooden boards. The cold window seat boasted only a few thin cushions. Where would she rest?

Soft, intermittent snores drifted up from the pillow, drawing her attention to the man in her bed. Honor quirked a brow. He appeared harmless enough for now. All she had to do was lie down and then wake before he did. He would never even know she was there, fatigued as he was. Gingerly, Honor stretched out beside him, carefully not touching.

After a few tense moments, she relaxed. What an exhausting day. But sleep eluded her as she reviewed the happenings. First Ian Gray had ridden up to her walls and offered—insisted, rather—on giving her his protection. His unruly gaggle of reivers frightened half the occupants of the keep into hiding and the rest to gathering makeshift weapons.

Honor had paid no mind when Gray loudly expressed his desire to wed her. She had called down that she already had a husband. Her men issued a shower of arrows over the visitors and cut short his next exchange. No marksmen, her small troop of defenders, but their hail of missiles pricked some few. Thusly treated, and probably given the lateness of the afternoon, Gray rode off, laughing and shouting promises to return anon. His keep, Dunniegray, lay nearby. She knew that from questioning her men.

Honor had to wonder now whether Ian Gray came because he had known she was already a widow. It stood to reason he did know it, else why would he have come here offering marriage?

Honor had barely seen the last of his men disappear into the wood when this rackety knight rode in with the shocking orders from Tavish and the king.

As wedding days went, this one left a lot to be desired. But it could have been worse, she admitted. Much worse. Ian Gray probably would not have been so kind as Alan of Strode in announcing her loss of Tavish. Or in waiting on a consummation.

She balked at the very thought of a marriage to the deranged Ian Gray. The man laughed and thumbed his nose at everything, even the threat of death! Sir Alan might not be the deepest of thinkers, given his rather amusing confession tonight. But at the very least, he did seem capable of an occasional serious thought.

Honor stole a glance at the broad back not half an arm’s length from her face. Light from the single bedside candle threw dancing shadows across the tanned expanse left uncovered by the sheet. The muscles, even in repose, appeared formidable. His skin, still damp, gleamed bronze like a statue after a soft rain.

An absurd longing to touch it proved almost irresistible. She closed her eyes against the impulse. What a foolish thought, prodding a sleeping giant. Still, against her will, her hand stole out and the pads of her fingertips pressed lightly against his shoulder blade.

Warmth suffused her as she allowed her palm to rest flat against the indentation of his spine. How different he was from Tavish, the only other man whose body she had ever willingly touched. The skin felt smoother, more finely grained, not downed and lightly freckled as Tavish’s had been. The padding over these bones felt solid, dense, in no way soft. Honor flexed her hand.

Huge muscles quivered, tensed, and then moved like flash lightning.


Chapter Four

Honor shrieked and snatched her hand away as the huge knight turned, almost rolling on her as he shifted to his back. Dark green eyes, heavy-lidded with fatigue, regarded her with a sleepy, unspoken question.

“Pardon,” she muttered, nearly nose to nose. “I did not mean to wake you. You are wet. I worry for your health.”

He gave a little grunt of a chuckle. “Lady, I’ve slept wet on th’ ground for nigh on a year now. This be my first night in a real bed since I turned seven years. Should I sicken, ’twould be from too much comfort, not lack of it.”

“You jest!” she exclaimed, subtly inching away from him to the very edge of the bed.

“Aye, betimes, but not about this. Dinna look afeared. I recall my promise and the bairn ye carry. ’Tis grateful I am ye let me share this much.”

He arched his back and sighed, wriggling out a comfortable niche in the soft, feather mattress. “Sheets,” he crooned. “I forgot how sleek they be.”

Honor inhaled sharply, her trepidation increasing with every shift of his overly large frame. His chest fairly commanded her attention. She could not seem to pull her gaze away from it. Mounds of muscle, crowned by small, flat nipples, heaved with every sensuous breath he took. An intriguing mat of springy curls lay in between, beckoning her hand. Tavish’s chest had been pale, flat and almost hairless. She clenched her curious hands into fists.

He moved again. Then Honor saw that what she had first thought a large patch of dirt he missed washing was a huge bruise surrounding an ugly, poorly stitched cut on his shoulder. “Sir! You’ve taken a wound! Why said you naught of it? Let me see!” She scrambled to her knees and leaned over him, touching the skin near the injury to see whether it felt feverish.

Sir Alan glanced down at it and winced. “I tended to it again today. Mayhaps my sewing’s not so dainty as yer own would be, but ‘twill hold this time. ’Tis on the mend.”

“I have herbs to aid that,” she offered, gently probing the area around the awkward stitching. How could a man sew his own flesh together? It did not bear thought. “It looks reddened.”

He cocked a brow, grinned, and looked straight at her nipples, which were beaded and quite visible through her bedgown. “So will yer face if ye don’t get off me.”

Honor flung herself back to her side of the bed and groaned with embarrassment.

“Are ye ill, lass?” he asked with what sounded like real concern. He rose up on one elbow and peered down at her. “Ye look a bit fashed. Does the child make ye sick?”

“No,” she replied quickly, forcing a smile. “I am past the time for that.”

“Ah well, I know naught of such things,” he admitted in a conversational tone, turning to his side and resting his head on his left hand. “But I should learn now, should I not?”

Honor shot him a wary glance and tried to scoot farther away. The very idea of his touching her made her shake with need. He would surely misunderstand her if she allowed his nearness. A plea dammed in her throat, but she feared what she might plead for if she let it out. She badly needed holding this night, but simply for comfort.

He looked quite willing to do that, but Honor knew he might insist on more. Saints, but she felt ridiculous! Looked ridiculous, as well, she supposed, this far gone with child.

“Will the babe come soon?” he asked as though he read her thoughts.

Honor let out the breath she was holding. “Next month.”

“Ye seem verra small to be so far gone,” he remarked, frowning at her mounded middle, which the covers hardly concealed.

In truth, she was. Nan had told her the babe would be a mite of a thing, given Honor’s own tiny size and Tavish’s slender build and lack of height. “I am fortunate there. Some women become quite unwieldy and have trouble getting about the last few months of confinement. Everything goes well, however. He is quite active, you see.”

“He? Who?” Strode asked, his brow wrinkling as though he had missed some part of their conversation.

“The child,” Honor said, laughing in spite of herself. The man must never have known a pregnant female. “The babe turns and kicks in the womb. Did you not know this?”

The look of surprised wonder on his face almost undid her. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and his eyes widened in delight. Then he laughed. “Truly? Do you tweak me?”

“No, it is true!” Honor declared, feeling quite superior and not at all afraid of him now. A gentle giant, she thought, smug in her newly confirmed assessment of him. Harmless.

He laughed again, softly this time. “I wonder what that must feel like to ye. Passing strange, I’d think.”

Without aforethought, Honor reached for his right hand, recalling its comfortable strength from the wedding ceremony and even earlier when he had delivered the awful news about Tavish. “Would you like to know?”

“To know what?” he asked, again a quizzical frown marred his brow.

“How it feels,” she explained as she dragged down the covers and placed his palm on top of her abdomen.

He uttered an exclamation of absolute awe when a tiny limb rolled against his hand. He shifted his palm. “There! Again! This is wondrous!” His ready laughter rang out around the chamber and he rolled closer to her, warming to the event as though it were a fascinating game.

Strong fingers undulated gently against the soft fabric that separated his touch from her tightly stretched skin. “Ah, Honor, how do ye bear such sweetness all the day and night? Can ye no’ wait to hold him in yer arms?”

His excitement like that of a small boy, the big knight’s features grew animated. “I cradled a babe once! The mother had a case in the laird’s court—stolen pig or some such—and she thrust the bairn at me to hold when she was called up.” A wistful expression softened his features even more. “I ne‘er forgot the trust in those wee lights. The smile. No fear or worry atall,” he said, recalling the incident with a faraway look. Then he pulled himself back to the present and beseeched her, “Could I hold yers when ’tis small, do ye think? Would ye mind?”

Honor felt tears rise at his question. How could she ever have feared a man who wore his feelings so near the surface, who felt such wonder at tending a peasant’s babe? She touched his face with her fingertips. “Tavish was wise to trust you, I think.”

Surprisingly, he retreated from her then, his smile dying as he withdrew his hand and lay back with a sigh. “Mayhaps not so wise.”

“You had other plans for yourself, did you not?” Honor guessed.

He smirked. “Oh aye, I did. Planned to chase the English right out of England and inta the sea, soon as we finished routin’ them from Scotland. There’s a right ambition, eh?”

Honor toyed with the edge of the coverlet, feeling even more at ease now that the conversation turned to politics. “You hate the English so much?”

“Nay, not all of them. My father’s English. I dinna hate him, though I feel no great liking for him, either.”

“What!” This one, half-English? Nothing he could have said would have surprised her more. She would have sworn Strode was a woven-in-the-wool highlandman.

He elaborated with a negligent wave of one large hand. “When my father was a young mon, a minor baron with a prosperous estate in Gloucester, he swore to King Edward. He rode under Gloucester’s banner in the war against de Montfort. Longshanks rewarded him with the post of sheriff at Rowicsburg and had him wed a MacGill lass for her dower lands. An Englishmon wi’ property in Scotland is apt to fight the harder to keep it under English rule, y’ see? Da’s land in Gloucester would be forfeit if he did not. So there he was then, a foot in both camps.”

“Your mother left him and took you north?” Honor guessed, since Alan was obviously reared in the Highlands and Rowicsburg a border castle. What other explanation could there be?

“Da sent her to her old home and me with her. What with our barons, Wallace, and Old Edward all scrambling for power, Da said we’d be safer well away from the border. King Edward was not above taking hostages to insure loyalty.”

Honor sensed his anger. “How old were you then?”

“Seven,” Alan replied.

“You hated leaving him, did you not?” She knew she ought to leave well enough alone, but he seemed to need to speak of it.

Alan smiled sadly, his profile clear, even in the near darkness. “Aye, I missed him, missed the family I took for granted, missed my friends. Especially Tav.”

“You knew Tavish even then? I assumed you just met on this last campaign.”

“He fostered a while at Rowicsburg before I left. Did he not tell ye? His mother married an English knight when she was widowed of Tav’s father. Old Beauchamp sent Tav to Da for training up in the English way. We were like brothers, though Tav was four years older than I.” A moment of silence hung between them. “When I had to leave, Tav stayed on. I hated him for it then, not knowing that he left as well soon after. We only just met up again when he came to fight fer th’ Bruce.”

Honor wanted to comfort that young lad torn from his home and friends. “At least you had your mother with you when you went away.”

He laced his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Aye, for a whole fortnight. Then she returned to Da.”

“Mon Dieu! She left you there?” Honor could not imagine a mother abandoning her child. “How could she!”

Alan smiled at her, apparently amused at her belated defense. “I was seven, after all. ’Tis the usual age to send out for fostering. Mam told me her brother Angus would treat me as the son he never had.”

“And did he?” Honor found herself caught up in his story, worried for the boy he had been.

“Aye, he did that. Beat me every day thereafter!”

Honor moved closer without a thought but to comfort. She cupped his face with one hand. “Beat you? Oh—” Tears streaked down her cheeks, but she made no effort to stop them. Her memories of swinging slaps and harsh accusations rose up and broke free.

A huge arm encircled her and drew her close. “Well, dinna greet over it!” She felt his laughter as much as heard it since her head rested against his bare chest. “Ah, Honor, ye have too tender a heart. I’d ne‘er have told ye had I known ye’d weep.” He drew away a little and caught her tears on one rough finger. “Here now, ’twas not so bad as all that.”

Honor knew how bad it was. She found it near impossible to stop crying long enough to speak. He made light of what had happened, his only defense against it. His pride would not allow him to admit the true horror of it to her, but she knew. God, how she remembered. “Only a base, mean coward raises his hand to his child! I hope you killed him when you grew old enough!”

“Killed him? What a thing to say! He’s my uncle, Honor.”

“He beat you! Called you foul names! Locked you away in the dark!” she accused. “You should kill him!”

“Nay, sweeting,” he soothed. “He didna do all that, I swear. He only strapped me when I cursed him and tried to run away. My own hardheadedness caused it. I acted the hellion on every waking hour for nigh a year. I earned every blow and more, believe me.”

Honor grasped his arm and drew him close, frantic to let him know she understood in spite of his denial. Better than anyone in the world, she understood. “You lie to soothe me, husband, but I know what you feel inside. You hurt still, but it’s over now. He cannot hurt you now. I will never let him beat you more!”

“Stop this!” he ordered, his voice brisk. “I tell ye ‘twas naught more than my uncle’s caring to make me behave as a mon and not some snot-nosed weakling. Ye make yerself ill wi’ all this weeping. Now cease!” He shook her gently.

Honor caught herself in midsob, aghast at her mistake. Her body lay flush against him, her heart thundered with grief for a much abused child. But Alan of Strode was not the child she wept for, she realized suddenly.

“I would sleep now,” she whispered, horribly embarrassed and at a loss as to how she might explain away her foolishness. Surely he would guess why she had taken on so.

“Aye,” he agreed, tenderness softening his voice to velvet as he smoothed her hair with his hand. “Sleep, mo cridhe.”

She almost missed his vow, hushed as it was. “No mon shall ever raise a hand to ye again. Not whilst I draw breath. I swear it on my life.”

Exhaustion stole over her as she lay within his arms. Did she dare believe he would keep such a promise? She feared she had already revealed too much of herself, far more than she had ever let Tavish see. Great danger lay in admitting one’s fear and vulnerability. No, because of all she knew to be true of men, Honor dared not take him at his word. She could not possibly give this knight her full trust after only a few short hours’ acquaintance.

For all his seeming straightforwardness and honorable promises, Sir Alan of Strode would bear watching. And her subtle direction, as well, in order to keep the upper hand in this alliance. This new husband of hers seemed entirely too good to be true. And if she had not learned anything else in her twenty-one years, Honor knew that what seemed too good to be true, was. Always.

Alan feigned sleep until he heard the slow, steady breathing that marked Honor’s slumber. Poor angel, he thought with a frustrated sigh. Her defense of him against his uncle told a clear enough tale of her own poor treatment. How long had that rogue father of hers tormented her?

Alan’s blood boiled with an eagerness to kill the man. Slowly. Painfully. Muscles tensed and trembled with the need of it. Red bursts of fury clouded his reason. He fought the tremendous urge to leap from the bed and head for France. Sorely tempting, but impossible, of course. Alan sucked in a steadying breath.

Hatred proved an unfamiliar and unsettling emotion for Alan. Even the opposing forces at Bannockburn had not engendered this feeling. That had been war, an impersonal conflict in which he understood the enemy’s motives. Greed and lust for power, he could fathom well enough in a man. He could not hate his uncle Angus just for being what he was, or his parents for their neglect. They were his blood and he loved them despite what they had done. But for a parent to attack a defenseless girl-child? Hatred might be new to Alan, but it had a name now. Lord Dairmid Hume.

Tavish had told him of the man, wondering why Hume laughed in his face and threw him out that summer in Paris when he had asked for Honor’s hand. Then, before the snows came, Honor had arrived in Scotland with the marriage contract in hand and her priest in tow. Perhaps Hume ran mad on occasion. Still, that did not excuse cruelty to one’s own get. The man sorely needed to die. God help the wretch if he ever set foot on Scots soil again and Alan heard tell of it.

He turned his head and examined Honor’s sleeping profile. A draft in the candlelight sent shadows dancing across her perfect features. God’s own jest, this faultless lady was his wife.

She had been right about one thing. Tav must have been caught up in the devil’s own fever to have wished her such a fate. Alan knew if he lived to be one hundred, performed all manner of charity, gave up all his sinful ways and prayed every hour on the hour, he would never deserve her. Not that he was likely to do all that. He was what he was. But even Tavish had not been good enough for Honor and had been quick to admit it.

Sadly, Alan closed his eyes and denied himself the pleasure of regarding her tranquil beauty. He would not impose himself on her, he decided firmly. Not ever. Such a gentle one as she must not be sullied by his rough touch.

He would husband her in his own way, then. With his life would he protect her. With all the wits he possessed he would try to amuse her and keep her content. He could guide her through life’s trials and train up her son to be an honorable man. All this he would do and gladly, he vowed fervently to himself. “But I will not touch her wi’ lust,” he whispered vehemently. “I will not!”

Next he knew, it was morning. Alan woke without the usual need to assess where he was. Long months of lying on a different spot each night engendered that in a man. This day he opened his eyes to a place that must be home. Alan had felt a peace creep through his very bones the moment he set foot inside Byelough Keep. So Tavish must have felt, he thought with a twinge of the guilt that had made itself a part of him the moment he set eyes on the lady Honor.

His heart had opened and enfolded the woman and this place immediately, before he ever heard the words Tavish had written to Honor. Even had his friend not bequeathed him the right to claim both, Alan knew he would have stayed on in some capacity. Mayhaps steward, guard, or crofter. Anything. He seriously doubted he could have made himself leave had the lady ordered it so.

For a long moment, he lay there, eyes closed, savoring the warmth of the small body curled next to his. Behind his lids, pictures of her teased him, Honor angry, Honor surprised, Honor smiling as she laid his hand against her middle, so generously offering to share her joy in the child.

Her sweet scent clung to the pillows, comforting his weary soul even as the down-stuffed linen cradled his head. The cadence of her soft breathing barely broke the silence of the dawn. A man should not ask for more than this, he thought. This perfect golden moment would he keep and hold forever.

She stirred and stretched, uttering a small groan. Alan lay still, watching her beneath his lashes. In the weak light from the window, he could see little more than the outline of her form. Still he did not move when she carefully rolled to her edge of the bed and stood with some effort. Without her usual grace, one hand pressed against her back, she moved behind the screen that partially blocked his view of the bathing tub.

He counted the sounds, most of which he identified. Intimate sounds he felt no right to as yet. Sounds a husband would hear as his wife readied herself for her day. There now, the soft splash of water poured from pitcher to bowl. The squeezing of a soaked cloth into it. A louder breath, just short of a sigh. Rustling fabric as she dressed herself. Alan smiled. Here was home.

Patiently he waited, feigning sleep so as not to betray his fascination, until she emerged to locate her comb. It lay on the table near the bed. Only when she took it up and began to draw it through her long, dark tresses, did he pretend to wake.

“Good morn,” he muttered. She only jumped a little. “You rise early,” he commented as he sat up and ran his hand over his face, stopping at his mouth to stifle a yawn.

“There’s much to be done,” she said a little breathlessly. When she began to fight a stubborn snarl in her hair, he reached out and stilled her hand.

“Allow me,” he said, taking the comb from her. “Come closer, then,” he ordered. When she did, he took over the grooming of the silky mass, loving the way it slid through his fingers and trailed over his wrists. “Bonny hair.”

“My thanks,” she murmured, and drew away. She twisted the length into a coil and secured it with combs. To his disappointment, she then covered most of it with a simple linen headrail and secured that with a silver circlet.

“Will you take me to Tavish’s grave now?” she asked, all formal. Her lady of the keep voice, he supposed.

“When there’s light enough,” he agreed. “’Tis not far.”

She avoided his gaze. “I shall await you below. We will break our fast first, of course. By the time we finish, the day will be on us.”

“Of course,” he agreed, smiling at her. “Have someone hitch a cart.”

“I shall ride,” she said as she started for the door.

“Is that wise, my lady?” he asked, concerned that she seemed to move more awkwardly than she had done the eve before.

She nodded. “If we are set upon along the way, I would rather be on a mount than dragged behind one in a chase.”

“No one would dare,” Alan assured her. “I will go well armed.”

“All the same, sir, I shall ride!” she declared firmly and did not stay to argue the matter.

For all her soft sweetness, Alan suspected the woman he had wed possessed a strong will of her own and was not above exercising it.

Her behavior on learning of Tavish’s death proved she was no weakling. He could still feel the slap on his cheek and envision her railing about angrily. But wasn’t that all to the good? She had spirit, his Honor. His. Well, she was, he argued with his conscience. By law, she was his now, even if Tavish did still hold her heart.

Even that spoke well of her, that loyalty, that ability to love even past the grave. Alan longed for someone to love him that way. He even dared hope that Honor might do so, should he somehow become worthy of her. She was a treasure, that woman.

Most women faced with news of a husband’s death would have taken to their beds and become inconsolable. If not for loss of their beloved, then for loss of a strong arm to protect them. That reaction might yet happen once Honor realized the full impact of Tavish’s death. Mayhaps this very day.

But thank God, she had borne her grief with such strength thus far. At least her courageous forbearance, however temporary, had allowed them to get on with what must be, the business of their necessary marriage and the change of command at Byelough.

When shock wore away and Honor finally allowed the mourning to take hold of her, Alan would be in a position to give solace. No longer would he be the stranger bearing wretched tidings of her true love’s death. He would be her friend, and foster father to her child.

That assuaged his guilt over wanting her heart for himself. At least a little.


Chapter Five

“Fitting weather for this,” Honor murmured as Alan lifted her to the rain-wet saddle. She centered her weight as best she could and suppressed a tired sigh. Sharing her bed with this stranger last night had done nothing to aid her ability to sleep. Now she must ride the short way to the gravesite and say her prayers over the husband who had left her. The husband who had loved her. Honor shifted forward, her back aching like a sore tooth.

Sir Alan handed up the reins, pinning her with a worried look. “We needna do this today,” he reminded her. “Riding cannot be comfortable for ye even should the day be fair. Ye even excused yer priest from this.”

She forced a smile. “Father Dennis is on his knees this very moment.”

“Well, at least he offers prayers. That’s something.”

Honor shook her head. “He’s shoeing his mule. He will say a mass for Tavish later today. This is a thing I must do and I thank you for coming with me. You are kind to bear with my groans. Truth told, embroidery wrings the same sounds as riding in a deluge would do. No comfort to be found anywhere, I fear. I want to go.”

“’Twill soon end,” he remarked as he swung up on his mount.

“This drizzling wet? It rarely stops, as you of all souls should know.”

“Nay, not that. I meant your...uh...” He gestured vaguely toward her lower body.

“Condition,” she finished for him. “Yes, I suppose it will end, though some days I do wonder.”

They sauntered out the gates and along the road through the village. Sir Alan’s huge roan frisked and tugged at the bit when they reached the open expanse of the valley. Honor could see mount and master quiver with eagerness for a wild run across the moor. Their barely suppressed energy roused her envy, irritated her. The long silence wore on her nerves. She wished she could gallop away some of the dreadful unease that stifled her breathing. Her backbone felt rigid, imprisoned by muscles drawn tight as fitted bowstrings.

This knight of hers, so at home in his saddle, appeared no knight at all this morning. He had forgone his silk and mail and donned the garment she had ordered her woman to dry for him last evening. Honor wondered how he had managed to pleat the long woven fabric so deftly with no stitches to hold it. A wide leathern belt with a tarnished buckle kept it in place over his well-worn saffron shirt. Several ells of the wool, secured with a huge round silver pin, draped his left shoulder and covered most of his back. Her gaze wandered down to muscular thighs, half-bared as he straddled his mount. Boots of brown hide encased his feet and legs to the knee. He had cross-gartered them with strips of thick sinew. So strange he looked. Almost savage.

Honor marveled at his donning of a purse. Attached to the wide belt by copper chains, the pouch hung to one side now, but had rested directly over his netherparts when he stood. Altogether, he presented a primitive picture. A highland savage, Father would have called him, a terrifying animal feared by all and sundry.

She hoped to God Sir Alan could live up to that image. They both might have need of that fearsome wildness one day. The broadsword slung from his saddle offered reassurance.

Honor rode on, enduring the discomfort, impatient to be done with this necessary farewell yet determined to carry it out. They traversed an almost nonexistent path betwixt the barren hills leading out of her valley and into the next.

“Ye’re angry,” Alan finally stated in a flat voice.

Stunned, Honor issued a short huff of denial.

“Aye, ye are. I know why. Tav left ye, didn’t he? Left ye alone when ye’ve need of him. ’Tis natural to feel so. I felt it myself right after he died.”

When she did not answer, he turned to rake her with those knowing green eyes. “’Twill pass.” He returned his gaze toward their destination and nodded toward the burn. “He lies just there.”

Honor watched Alan dismount when they neared the stream and allowed him to assist her off the palfrey. She stumbled once and felt the strength of his arm grasp her shoulders to right her. Neither said another word until they stood staring down at the poorly etched stone marking Tav’s grave.

Then Alan moved away several strides, bent down and gathered two stones. He walked back and handed one of them to her. She watched him close his eyes and kneel to place the rock next to the large one with the device chipped into it.

The crude rendering of the wolf’s head touched her somehow. Sir Alan could not make the letters to identify his friend. Neither could he make the design, but he had tried. “Tavish would laugh,” she whispered, voicing the thought. “He...he would have laughed.... Damn him! Damn!” She choked on sudden tears and threw the stone at the grave. At Tavish.

“I know,” Alan breathed against her ear. “Ah, Honor, I grieve for ye. I grieve for him. And for th’ child never knowin’ his da. I tried to make Tav live. I tried!”

She pummeled his chest with her fists as she had done before. Great sobs shook her body as he drew her closer and held her. Soft Gaelic phrases soothed her, as comforting to her as they were meaningless.

If this man only knew her heart, she thought with a deep shudder. He would shove her from him in disgust. Guilt racked her anew for the way she had used poor Tavish. The man had loved her, truly loved her, and she had encouraged that so shamelessly. She had tricked him into marriage, a marriage that probably was not even legal if anyone troubled to examine it. And her father would trouble to do just that if he ever found her. Tavish’s child might bear the shame of bastardy because of her foolishness. Because of her cursed fear.

Honor pushed away and dropped to her knees beside the cairn. “Forgive me,” she whispered repeatedly, a litany as futile as prayers for her soul. Her womb squeezed painfully as though the child sought retribution for the father. She gasped and leaned against the large stone, grasping it, feeling the cold, rough wetness against her cheek.

Strong hands tried to lift her but she moaned a plea for solitude. She deserved it, the soul-wringing misery. The grip on her shoulders lessened, but the warmth of his palms seeped right through her woolen cloak. She wept the tears of the damned and welcomed the keen knifing that twisted through her midsection. Her due. Her lot.

Something warm and liquid gushed from her, jerking her out of her self-absorbed guilt. “Nooo,” she moaned. Honor curled forward and surrounded the unborn babe with her hands. Another hand joined hers, exploring the tightness of her belly.

“Nay! ’Tis too soon!” he declared.

“Too late,” she groaned through her teeth, fresh grief already immobilizing her. “Oh God help me, too late.” She felt all the reason she had left slip away as she embraced the agony.

Alan hefted her into his arms, wincing at the pain in his damaged shoulder as he carried her to the waiting mounts. He lifted her up and swung up behind her before she could slide from the saddle. Lord, what was he to do now? Could she make it back to the keep? A good hour’s ride if he kept a pace that wouldn’t bounce her about.

He recalled passing a scorched bothy a half league back, but it would offer scant protection. A rough-made shepherd’s dwelling was certainly no place to pass a gentlewoman’s first confinement.

Jesu, his hands were shaking. He knew precious little of babes to begin with. He had taken lambs from the ewes, a troubling colt from its dam once, seen pups aborning. Was it the same? “Nay, nothing like that,” he mumbled to himself. He knew it was not the same at all. Human females needed more help, a great deal more than he knew how to give.

She stiffened in his arms and moaned again. The sound wrenched his heart. He dared not tell her how inept he was or he would scare her to death. With a deep breath to shore up his courage, he tried to foster hers. “Dinna fash, Honor. I may know naught of ‘em inside th’ womb or after they come inta th’ world, but I can bring a babe. Dinna fear, sweeting, for that I can do.” Please, God.

Alan set the beast to a slow walk toward the heap of scorched stone and wattle. He asked more of heaven during that half league’s ride than he had done in all his twenty-six years.

Vines surrounded the crude hut, making it all but invisible. Alan blessed his keen eyes and thanked God he had noticed the place, such as it was. The low walls were scorched, but someone had piled leafy branches over the burned out section of the roof to ward out rain.

He slid off the mount and reached up for Honor. She had bent nearly double and maintained the position for the whole of the trip. Aside from an occasional catching of her breath, she had hardly voiced her misery. Braw in the face of her pain, he thought proudly. A woman of courage, his Honor. Her body felt rigid in his arms as he carried her to the humble bothy.

He bent his head and shoulders to fit through the low doorway. The rasp of metal jerked his attention to the far corner of the one-room hovel as he straightened. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. A thin form reclined on the packed earth floor in one corner, its scrawny arms holding aloft what appeared to be a short sword.

“Put that blade down and help me here,” Alan ordered, “else I’ll take the damned thing and spit you where you lie.”

The ragged apparition did not move.

Alan spoke in Gaelic. “My lady’s time has come on us unaware. Get you to Byelough Keep and bring a woman to help.”

“Nay,” came the answer. “I canna.”

“Do it or die,” Alan ordered quietly.

“My leg’s broke,” the raspy voice declared. “Put her down there.” The tip of the sword waved toward the darkened fire hole and a lumpy nest of furs beside it. From the look of the bedding, the old one had just scrambled out of it. He hoped the fleas went, too.

Alan knelt and laid Honor on her side. “There, sweeting. I’ll have a fire going afore ye know it.”

“No fire!” the ancient voice squeaked. “The soldiers!”

“Th’ war’s done,” Alan announced quietly as he straightened the bedding and reached in his sporran for flint. He made a quick search and located a stack of peat. As he set about coaxing a blaze, he continued to reassure their host or hostess. “Rob Bruce has set the English running south. There’s naught to fear hereabouts. I am Sir Alan of Strode, Lord of Byelough. I’d have your help if you know aught of birthing.”





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