Bedding the Enemy (25 page)

There was silence at the table, many of the men pulling their hands off the polished surface.

“Make no mistake, I am very interested in discovering the truth of this deed. But there will be no assumptions. No use of torture to gain a confession.”

Lord Bramford leaned forward. “Sire, I suggest a baron's council be convened to try Lord Hurst by a company of his peers.”

The others nodded. James could see the quest for vengeance burning in their eyes, but his own temper ignited.

“Lord Hurst?” He rose out of his chair and planted his hands on the table with a loud smack. “Dinnae ye mean Lord Hurst
and
Lord Ronchford? Or does being English mean that the man is guiltless by blood alone?”

“Lord Ronchford did not marry—”

“Because he was beaten off the girl. But my fine-blooded Lord Edmund Knyvett told his sister that she was to wed Ronchford. I am suspicious that there was an agreement between Ronchford and Knyvett that would have led to the man being angry that he didn't get the bride he wanted. Or possibly paid for, since the girl's dowry ended up on a gaming table.”

His councilors did not speak, but their eyes were full of brewing discontent. James sat down, forcing his own temper to cool. Balance was the key to maintaining power. Elizabeth Tudor had taken England from a penniless country and built it up into one of the richest kingdoms in the world by maintaining balance.

“They will both be tried. Bramford, I wish a list of noblemen to be presented to me for consideration. We will be fair with an eye for justice, gentlemen. I suggest Lord Warwickshire be placed on that list, since his daughter is married to a Scot.”

“An excellent plan.”

Lord Bramford didn't care for it but he masked his displeasure well enough. James looked around his Privy Council, his gaze resting on each man for a moment. Most were placated by his plan. For the moment, it would keep the discontent from boiling over.

Yet it would not hold forever. Someone's head would have to rest on a pike for Knyvett's murder. That was a shame. The man had been an arrogant fool upon whom fate had taken its vengeance. James didn't mourn him and he doubted that any of his Privy councilors did, either. No, their insistence for justice was about protecting their own skins. Many of them were not the most likeable men, either. They had abused those around them and taken far more than they had given in return. They craved knowing that the masses had an example made to them to keep them in their place, with them remaining on top.

He just hoped that he didn't have to do that at Keir McQuade's expense. He frowned, dark thoughts settling over him. Being king came with a burden. Sometimes it was so heavy, he believed it might crush him. Now was one of those times. He didn't want to sign Keir McQuade's execution order, but he very much feared that he might have no other option.

Aye, heavy. Too heavy.

C
atriona McAlister knelt behind the queen during morning service. She couldn't pray, couldn't force even a silent one through her mind. Three weeks after Raelin had gone missing, the queen had ordered the morning prayers to be said for her soul.

Catriona knelt but could not pray for her friend. Every fiber in her resisted accepting the idea that she was dead. There was no body, no one coming to the palace to say they had found a noblewoman drowned by the surging storm waters. There was nothing except time passing and everyone whispering about what had happened on the dock.

I won't let you go….

The service ended and she followed the queen, still denying that her friend was dead. They made their way through the palace hallways and it felt surreal. How could someone so dear to her vanish so easily?

She suddenly froze. A group of Scots were bowing to the queen. Their laird was a dark-haired man she recognized well. Alarik McKorey stood back up to his full height, in which he towered over Anne of Denmark. He wore his clan colors proudly, the kilt around his waist a combination of maroon and lavender on a gray background. He still wore his riding boots, which were laced up to his kneecaps. The tops of his socks were visible, as was a hint of bare thighs when he moved and the pleats of his kilt shifted. His long sword was strapped to his back and every man with him looked the same.

“Forgive me, Yer Majesty. But may I have a word with young Catriona?”

Anne glanced at her and she immediately sank into a curtsy. Appearances were important at court, but she fluttered her eyelashes, telling the queen that she was not against speaking with Alarik McKorey.

“She has my permission. Lady Gibbs shall wait for her.”

Alarik swept the queen another bow but it was short and quick, his attention clearly on what he wanted. The man must have ridden hard to make it to London in the three weeks since his sister had gone missing. It would have taken the messenger more than half of that time to travel to McKorey land. Rage flickered in his eyes as he closed the distance to where she stood. It was not personal and still she shivered. This was not a man to cross. He had been a laird since he was a lad of ten, and the duty had hardened him. That told her something about him. Men like Edmund Knyvett became arrogant with their station, but some, like Alarik, became forged steel when duty was yoked on their young frames.

She decided that Edmund was lucky to be dead, because she planned to tell Alarik exactly what had happened to his sister—beginning with Edmund's attack on her person.

Being dead was going to prove very fortunate for the English lord today.

 

“By the king's permission, you have a visitor.” The captain of the yeomen announced his news in a clear voice. Helena hurried to shrug into a dressing robe while her husband dealt with the Tower guard.

Keir lifted one eyebrow. “Who is it?”

Alarik McKorey walked into the chamber before the yeoman could answer. The door shut behind him and the key ground in the lock. He swept the chamber before speaking.

“Damn miserable place.”

“We've recently made improvements, thanks to my wife's knowledge of these English yeomen and their enjoyment of bribes.”

The two trunks had arrived and thick bedding now adorned the bed. There was a writing desk and candle holders on the once-bare table.

“Is that a fact?”

Keir stood and studied Alarik. His father had raided McKorey lands. He was unsure what to make of the man. Alarik stared at him in silence.

“Ye've brought honor back to the McQuade name. 'Tis a welcome thing, I'm thinking.”

Alarik offered him a grin and his hand. Keir took it. “What news?”

The grin faded from Alarik's face. Helena moved to the bed and sat down, leaving the two chairs for the men. She chewed on her lower lip, awaiting what Alarik had to say. There had been no word from court, only a simple letter informing her that Edmund had been sent home for burial.

“None that is good.”

“Well, ye're nae a bishop, so I'll take that as a sign that I'm keeping me head, at least for the moment.”

Alarik rubbed his jaw. “A trial has been agreed upon. A trial by yer peers.”

“Barons…” Helena clamped her mouth shut when she realized she'd spoken. Alarik looked at her.

“Nae quite. The king has made sure to place a few earls among them, yer brother-in-law Brodick McJames among them.”

“That's sporting of Jamie.”

“It is. He wasna so kind toward Ronchford.” Alarik smirked. “I'm set to judge him.”

The attempt at humor didn't work for Helena. A trial was double-edged. So easily it might lead to the word
guilty
being placed on Keir's name. There was much to condemn him and little to clear his name. Fear dug into her, raking its claws across the fragile hope she had kept cradled against her heart. As more days had passed, it had become harder to keep her hopes kindled against the amount of time that passed without Raelin being recovered.

“When, McKorey?”

“Tomorrow. I figured those English wouldn't tell ye until ye were standing before them.”

Keir scowled.

“I didna do it.”

Alarik shrugged. “Of course ye didna. Ye're a Scot. Ye'd have snapped his neck with yer own hands, or I'll rip that kilt off ye myself.”

“It's a relief to have someone who understands me at last.”

Both men chuckled, making Helena shake her head. Men did not make sense. Their humor was incomprehensible. But that left her with nothing to ponder but the coming trial.

 

Keir tried to kiss her the moment Alarik left.

“Don't.”

She pushed past his arms and he frowned at her.

“'Tis good news.”

She turned on her husband. “How can you say that? Without Raelin, there is no witness.”

“Ye're assuming the lass will have something to say that will point the finger at the man who paid for the crime.”

Helena frowned.

“'Tis most likely that yer brother was slain by an assassin that those English lords will say I paid. A trial has always been the only end to this.”

He crossed his arms over his chest in a pose that she recalled too well from their first few days together. The man was fixing to be immovable.

“I am strangling in this waiting noose, Helena. I'll face every peer they line up to judge me and gladly.”

“They may return a guilty verdict.” Her voice trembled in spite of her effort to contain it.

“Better some decision than this.” He opened his hands to indicate the chamber. “I willnae live like this just to hold onto life. 'Tis no life, Helena. I want to take ye to Red Stone, nae babble about it like some old man who is too broken by age to step outside any longer. Time will do that to me soon enough. What is the point of growing old if I have nothing to talk about except these walls when I get there?”

He meant it. Rage flickered in his eyes but it was the frustration that punctured her own temper. He nodded and closed the distance, reaching out and pulling her into his embrace in spite of her protests. They were only halfhearted ones. In her heart she understood that the man she loved was dying in front of her eyes.

“I cannae bear to think of ye growing round with my babe in this place.”

And he wouldn't tolerate her thinking him coward enough not to face what was to come. Of course not. That gallant man she had first been attracted to could never hide in a prison because it allowed him to draw breath.

“I love ye, Helena. But I am nae content to hide.”

She reached up and placed her fingers against his lips. “Let's not speak.”

He kissed her fingers, agreement shimmering in his eyes. But there was also a glimmer of anticipation. He was eager for the battle. Of course he was. So she would be as well. Instead she reached for him, her fingertips far more familiar with his form now. For all the horror that the chamber might have seen, in the last month it had been a place where they had become lovers, where they laughed and teased, doing all of the things that time had not allowed them to do.

Keir threaded his fingers through her loose hair, pleasure lighting his eyes. Here she left it hanging down her back because she knew he loved it that way. He pushed the dressing robe off her shoulders, leaving her in her chemise. He bent his head, angling it so that his lips might be pressed against her throat. He kissed the smooth skin and she gasped at the heat. It rippled over her skin and down her body. Only a loose chemise covered her and she made a little sound of delight when he pulled her against his own shirt-clad body. Her breasts were free to enjoy the way they compressed against his harder body. His cock was hard and it pressed against her belly.

But her husband lingered on the column of her throat, teasing her with unhurried kisses before gently biting her. It was a soft nip but it sent pleasure surging through her. He licked over the bite, a low rumble vibrating his chest and throat. Her hands curled into talons on his biceps.

“Ye make me impatient, lass. Like a lad without a beard.”

“Patience is overrated as a virtue.”

Her voice was raspy with need. Keir slid his hands over the curves of her hips, gripping them and lifting her up onto the tabletop.

“I agree.”

He pushed her chemise up to bare her thighs, his hips pressing them apart. He gripped her hips again, holding her firmly as he raised his kilt and moved his body until the head of his cock pressed against her. For all the rush to penetration, neither of them hurried the pace. He rode her gently, keeping each thrust smooth. He lingered deep inside her, letting her feel the way her body stretched around him. Helena reached for his hair, tangling her fingers in it. Her senses were full of his smell. Pleasure tightened slowly until it became unbearable. Her husband sensed it and abandoned his lazy pace, his body working fast and hard to push them both over the edge into a pulsing rapture that wrung a cry from her.

He held her, remaining deep inside her as their bodies quieted. His hands smoothed over her. He plucked at her chemise and finally moved back enough to pull it over her head.

“I think I shall keep ye nude.”

“I'll freeze.”

He grinned and scooped her off the table, walking across the floor toward the bed. He settled her among the bedding and joined her there, his hands cupping her breasts while he trailed kisses over their soft skin.

“I'll keep ye warm, lass, and that is a promise.”

 

The Chapel of St. Peter-ad-Vincula was silent. Keir walked down its center aisle, making the only noise, and that was minuscule. His fellow peers sat waiting for him. It was the same place that others had been condemned, the same aisle that Anne Boleyn had walked down before her head was struck from her body. Had she been as full of life? Helena watched her husband and couldn't help but marvel at the way he moved. It was powerful and striking without a hint of hesitation.

He reached the end of the aisle and stood firmly in front of the assembled lords. The trial commenced and each moment felt like a dagger being poked into her skin—small torments that produced an agony that lasted for an eternity. When the last question was asked, they both watched the lords retire to a chamber for deliberation.

Helena wondered if it would, in fact, be a true verdict of their opinion on the facts. So many times the guilty verdicts pronounced were given in response to the king's whim. Anne Boleyn's had been. The large doors shut, preventing her from seeing what transpired. She stood with two yeomen of the guard. Their faces were like stone while they guarded her. Soon enough she would be called to answer to the details of whatever the lords wanted to know. But she smiled because her husband would have at them first and Keir McQuade was no fool.

 

The nine lords sent to judge her husband were quite intimidating. Helena faced them without fear. Her husband was gone now, so that her testimony might be kept from his ears. A test of their honesty, to see if their accounts matched. Lord Warwickshire sat among them along with his Scottish son-in-law, the Earl of Alcaon. Brodick McJames was dark-haired like Keir and he wore his kilt proudly. They were the highest-ranking men present. True to his word, Alarik McKorey sat among the English barons but that was only three votes against the others that she felt sure would judge the situation fairly. Lord Bramford rose and began questioning her the moment she stopped in front of them. His voice was coated with disdain, and he peered at her like one might a rodent. Helena refused to be intimidated. She answered his question but the man became bolder.

“Come now, Lady Hurst, do you intend to maintain that your brother lowered himself to striking you because you did not defend him in the presence of the king?” Lord Bramford said as he pointed at her. “Admit that you were Lord Hurst's lover.” He spoke it so calmly, as though it was the most common truth. She lifted her chin in the face of his accusation. She had no shame to cast her eyes at the floor over.

“I was not. We'd barely met. I was pure on my wedding night.”

“Is that why there was no witness to your wedding sheets? No inspection by a midwife before the wedding that we may call upon to prove you a maiden at that time?”

“I held no control over those matters.” Helena tried to keep her voice even. Anger might so simply be considered a sign of guilt. “I was ordered to wed by the king and my brother. The queen herself brushed out my hair. I obeyed.”

Bramford glared at her. “Obeyed? You ran from the king's will, madam.”

“Enough, Lord Bramford. I have a few questions myself.” Brodick McJames, the Earl of Alcaon, silenced the blustering English lord with one hard look. He was not an easy man to read. When he returned his dark stare to her, she felt the intensity of his gaze.

“Why did ye flee into the night?”

“My brother told me I was to be wed by royal command to Lord Ronchford, but that he would spare me that and sneak me to the country if I braved the three blocks to make it appear that I had fled on my own. Edmund promised me that his carriage would be waiting.”