English, Elizabeth (15 page)

Though
the far part of the hall still bustled with talk and laughter, the knight's
table fell silent as the men all looked to Alistair.

"What's
this about?" Alistair said to Jemmy.

"It's
nothing."

"Nothing?"
Sir Calder roared. "The churl attacked me. Ye call that
nothing?"

"One
of Kirallen's knights attacked by a peasant?" Alistair said smoothly,
leaning back in his seat. "Well, then, the matter seems simple
enough."

"Leave
it, Alistair," Jemmy ordered. "It's none of your concern."

"I'm
sorry to disagree, my lord," Alistair said with biting courtesy. "But
Sir Calder is under my command. His welfare is very much my concern."

The
knights were very still, their eyes fixed on Jemmy; a few with simple interest,
one or two with sympathy, but most with barely concealed hostility. They saw
him as the interloper, Kirallen's wastrel son come back again to do poor wee
Malcolm—Ian's son, Jemmy reminded himself, one mustn't forget that part for a
moment—out of his rights. He told himself he didn't care, that their opinions
meant less than nothing to him. And yet he did care.

"The
shepherd was flogged and fined," he said curtly. "Sir Calder, I'll
speak to you privately of this. Tomorrow."

Sir
Calder subsided, muttering, and the others turned back to their food.

"Flogged?"
the Laird said. "Tavis? But—"

Jemmy
rounded on him. "Do you mean to question every one of my decisions?"

The
Laird's eyes flashed. "When there's need for it, aye, I do. Did you think
ye could just walk in here after all these years and take up Ian's place?"

"Aye!"
Jemmy answered, his voice tight with fury. "If you want me, then you'll
take me as I am and let me do what I must do. Though God knows," he added
very low, "nothing I have done has ever pleased you."

"When
have ye ever tried to please me, Jemmy?" the Laird shot back. "Or
anyone save yourself?"

Alistair
was smiling, obviously enjoying the argument, and the knights were listening
avidly. Jemmy swallowed his anger and looked pointedly at the knights' table.
The Laird followed his gaze, then nodded briefly. "What's done is
done," he said stiffly. "We'll say no more about it."

Why
bother? Jemmy thought. We both know I'll be gone soon—but not soon enough for
me. He couldn't wait to get out of this place and back to his own ship, where
any man who dared question his orders never did so a second time. That's where
he should be right now, not here in this place where he would always fall short
of Ian's shining memory, no matter what he did.

Frowning,
he turned to Maude and found her watching him. Her gaze flicked to Alistair and
back. She smiled, gave the slightest of shrugs, and looked away.

Jemmy
felt as though he'd been dealt a solid blow between the eyes. He had expected
her to be furious when she heard what had happened with Tavis, but here she
was, taking his part, trying to make him feel better. And he
did
feel
better. He would feel better still when he had the chance to tell her what had
really happened in Dunforth village.

Oh,
Lord, he thought, studying the clear line of her profile. I have to be careful
here. She is not mine—not really—or not for long. Once I go, I won't be back
again. And here she'll be, just like a widow, but without the freedom to marry
again. What a wretched trick this was to play on her! She'll be utterly alone
here, just as I once was.

But
at least I won't leave her a virgin widow, without even the hope of a child to
show she'd ever been a wife at all. Taking her to bed would be the right
thing—the
fair
thing to do. That decision had nothing to do with the way
she made him feel that day beneath the oak when she had swayed toward him, her
full mouth just asking to be kissed. Oh, certainly, he told himself wryly.
Nothing to do with that at all.

"We'll
be riding out in two days," the Laird said, startling Jemmy from his
thoughts. "Have ye ordered the provisions yet?"

"Aye."

Realizing
his father was trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere, Jemmy found some
suitable comment to make about the journey they'd be taking. But even as he
spoke, his thoughts were still on the girl beside him, who had taken his part
against them all.

***

As
the talk turned to the gathering, Alyson reflected that she'd done Tavis no good
after all. She had seen men whipped before—in the courtyard at Aylsford stood a
post made especially for the purpose. She remembered the sound of the lash
against bare skin and the way even the strongest of the men had screamed. When
it was done one of the grooms would toss a bucket of water over the
cobblestones to wash away the blood.

But
brutal as it was, most men survived the lash. It was the fine that was more
likely to be fatal. Most peasants had nothing but their bit of land and few
animals with which to pay. Once those were gone, starvation was almost certain.
But of course that wasn't the sort of thing a nobleman would consider.

Kirallen's
voice cut through her reflections. "...to the McLarans? What do ye think,
Jemmy?"

"Oh,
aye," Jemmy said, obviously making an effort to be agreeable. "Emma
will be grateful, I'm sure."

"The
McLarans?" Alyson repeated, startled into speech.

"That's
where the gathering is to be held this year. It's a long ride, to be sure, but
a very pleasant one," Kirallen said, obviously pleased at her response.
"I must confess I'm looking forward to it myself."

The
McLarans. Her mother's people. At last Alyson would meet them and see the place
she'd dreamed of for so long. Thank you, God, she thought. I'm so sorry that I
ever doubted you. The McLarans would know what to do. And no doubt they could
find some way to bring Robin to them. She'd be home, home at last, and she and
Robin would be safe.

Jemmy
pushed back his chair and stood, grimacing a little as he regarded his dusty riding
clothes. "I'm going to have a wash. Good night, Father. My lady—"

Alyson,
who had scarcely been listening, nodded her goodnight. But her wandering
attention was riveted as he caught her eye. "—I will see
you
later."

And
with that terrifying pronouncement he vanished through the door.

Alyson
paced before the fire as her women moved quietly about the chamber. Why, why
did Jemmy have to choose tonight? In two days they would be gone, and soon
after she would be safe among the McLarans. Surely there was some way to put
him off for two days more!

But
how? The one excuse she could imagine would not serve her now. Every one of her
women would know the day her courses started. Nobles had no privacy, she had
learned, even in the most intimate of matters. And she least of all, since she
was expected to produce the next Kirallen heir.

She
glanced at the bed with its soft pillows and thick crimson hangings. It had
been her refuge, the one place she felt safe. But now it was the last place she
could hide.

Maybe
he would change his mind, decide he was too tired after all, she thought, her
steps quickening. Maybe he would drown in his bath. Or if she could make him
drink too much, he might fall into a stupor. It didn't seem likely, but she
asked Maggie to warm some spiced wine anyway.

Maggie
put the warming pan over the fire, and soon the scent of cloves and cinnamon
rose from the hearth. It reminded Alyson of the first night she had sat here
waiting for Jemmy to walk through the door. But he hadn't.

"Some
wine, my lady?" Maggie asked. "It's warm now and I've put in a good
dollop of honey, just as ye like."

"What?
Oh, no, no wine," Alyson said, resuming her pacing.

Maggie
pressed her lips together. She thinks I'm being difficult again, Alyson
thought. And I suppose I am.

"Then
I'll comb out your hair for you," Maggie said.

"No,
not now," Alyson said. "Or—yes, all right."

She
sat down and pulled the pearl gray chamber robe close around her throat.

"You're
shivering," Maggie said. "Here, drink this. It will warm you."

Alyson
cradled the goblet between her palms as Maggie unbraided the thick plait.
Having her hair combed was one service Alyson actually enjoyed, and she relaxed
almost imperceptibly as the minutes slipped past. Jemmy wasn't coming after
all, she decided with relief. He must have changed his mind.

At
that moment there was a light knock upon the door and it opened.

"Good
evening, my lord," Maggie said.

"Maggie,"
Jemmy answered with a pleasant nod. "You're finished here?"

"Aye."

Alyson
jumped to her feet as the women hurried from the room. Jemmy closed the door
behind them and leaned against it, arms folded across his chest.

"My
lady," he said.

Say
something, she ordered herself. Anything. But her throat constricted, making
speech impossible. She could only stand and stare, hating her own helplessness.
But even Maude would be helpless now, she thought. Not even Maude could refuse
to share a bed with her own husband.

Jemmy
was clad in a chamber robe of a kind she'd never seen before. It was crimson
velvet, hanging to his knees, over a pair of braes made of some silky fabric,
cut very full. It was a style she suspected had come from a far greater
distance than Sir Robert's London finery. The robe was open down the front,
tied loosely at the waist, and when he shifted his arms she could see the dark
hair curling on his chest. She had never seen a man's bare chest before, and
despite herself she could not seem to look away.

"May
I have some wine?"

She
glanced up, blushing, knowing he had seen her staring.

"Yes,"
she managed.

He
poured for himself, then picked up her goblet and offered it to her. She took
it warily, careful not to touch his hand. Then he clinked the rim of his goblet
against hers and drank. She took a small sip without quite knowing that she
did.

This
was just what she had been afraid of—the strange effect he had upon her
thoughts. It was impossible to think properly with him so close, his presence
filling the chamber.

He
perched on the arm of the chair and looked up at her. The robe fell open farther
and now she could see the way the hair on his chest continued over the hard
flat line of his belly, vanishing into the shadow of his robe. She resisted the
impulse to lean closer and peer into the shadow.

"You're
angry, aren't you?"

"Angry?"
she repeated blankly. She was many things right now, most of which she didn't
understand, but angry wasn't one of them.

"About
the shepherd."

She
blinked as though coming out of a dream.

"Ten
lashes," Jemmy said. "No more. I did it myself."

"Oh,
did you?" she asked, wondering if that bit of information was supposed to
please her.

"Aye,
well, I've had some practice," he said.

"You
have?"

"A
sea captain disciplines his men," Jemmy shrugged. "It's expected. But
I don't mark them. I didn't mark Tavis, either. He's fine."

"Ah.
I see. That was—was..."

She
couldn't say it was kind to lash another man, nor to fine him, either, though
it seemed Jemmy expected that she should.

"You
heard Sir Calder tonight. I couldn't just let Tavis go."

"Yes,
I understand."

And
it was true, suddenly she
did
understand that Jemmy had done his best.
Sir Calder was well within his rights to demand punishment for the shepherd.
Left to Sir Calder's judgment, Tavis would have suffered far more than ten
lashes.

"And
I gave him money for the fine."

Alyson's
head snapped up. "You what?"

He
shrugged again and the robe fell open even farther. Her stomach gave a little
leap. "You asked for his life, and it is yours."

He
sounds as though the shepherd isn't a person at all, Alyson thought. As though
Tavis' life is of no more importance than a few coppers lost in a chance wager.
And yet, she thought with sudden understanding, that wasn't how he acted.
Perhaps all nobles used words like this, to hide what they really thought or
felt.

"That
was very kind of you," she said. "I thank you."

"No
need for thanks. After all, a bargain is a bargain."

And
then he did the very thing she had most feared. He looked at her and smiled.

Alyson
took a step back.

"Isn't
it?" he asked softly, rising to his feet.

"My
lord, I'm very tired," she said in a rush. "My head aches and—and I
think I caught a chill—" she ended with an unconvincing cough.

"Then
we shouldn't keep you standing here," he countered neatly. "Let's go
to bed."