English, Elizabeth (5 page)

"God's
teeth, he murdered Ian! And now you want to take his daughter to your bed? I
always knew you were a sorry brother, but I expected even you would—"

"Why
is Ian dead, Alistair?" Jemmy cried. "You were the one he wanted
always at his side! Why didn't
you
protect him?"

He
stopped, appalled, too late to recall the words he had never meant to speak.
Indeed, until he'd spoken them, he had no idea that he held Alistair
responsible for Ian's death. It was wrong—wrong to even think it, and even more
terrible to say it to one so obviously bereaved.

"I'm
sorry," he said quickly. "I never meant to blame you."

"Aye,
but ye did. As does your father."

As
I do myself.
Jemmy
heard the words Alistair didn't speak and saw them in the bitter lines etched
upon his kinsman's face.

His
sympathy, though genuine, vanished when Alistair raised his head and looked him
in the eye. "Don't do this, Jemmy," he warned. "You're walking
into something ye canna understand. Give the order to attack."

"I
will
not,"
Jemmy snapped. "Now get back to your place."

"There's
no reasoning with you," Alistair said. "But at least I tried. Just as
Ian would have wanted me to."

"And
if I go through with it?" Jemmy asked, grasping his kinsman's wrist.
"What then? Are we to be enemies?"

"It's
not too late," Alistair said, pulling his hand free and jerking his
horse's head around. "Think about honor— ye ken the word? Ian's honor.
Yours. The clan's. They're all ready," he added, nodding toward the men
ranged behind him. "Let's finish the bastard right here and now."

It
wasn't until Alistair was gone that Jemmy realized his kinsman hadn't answered
his question.

***

At
a signal from Lord Darnley the company moved forward, at last arriving at the
chapel. It was a tiny place, seldom used, that Darnley had suggested, saying he
feared his people might disrupt the ceremony. Twenty men dressed in Kirallen's
blue and green dismounted; twenty men in Darnley's blue and gold followed suit.
They faced each other across the stableyard, hands inching toward their
weapons, every one of them tensed to fight.

Darnley
shot his men a warning glance as he held out his arm to Alyson. She dismounted,
feeling as though her legs would scarcely hold her as they proceeded into the chapel.
It was dank and dim inside, early twilight seeping through the narrow windows.
The tallow candles smoked and hissed in their sconces, adding to the gloom. No
flowers brightened the plain altar.

As
they waited for the others to take their places, Alyson was aware of Darnley's
fingers gripping her arm with enough strength to leave a mark. Darnley. Her
father. Even now she could scarcely believe it was the truth.

Until
a month ago, Alyson had no idea that any relationship existed between herself
and Lord Darnley than that of maid and master. At first she had refused to
accept his assertion that he was her natural father, believing it impossible
that her mother had concealed such an important truth until her death.

But
once the whole tale was revealed, Alyson understood her mother's silence. Clare
McLaran Bowden had sought to protect her daughter from the knowledge of her
birth and the terrible circumstances that had led to her own association with
Lord Darnley—one that he admitted with no shame.

Alyson
swallowed hard against the sickness rising in her throat as she imagined how it
had been for Clare, her gentle, fragile mother. At seventeen she had been
wrested from her home in the Highlands, torn from her family and all who knew
her, carried off as a prize of war, forced into her captor's bed, then given to
one of his men in marriage when she was found to be with child.

It
was far easier to accept that the man Alyson had believed to be her father was
no part of her. Jacob Bowden was a hard man with a hard hand who had never once
shown Alyson any sign of affection. She had not been able to mourn his death,
nor feel anything but joy that he was gone.

But
as bad a father as he'd been, he was still preferable to Lord Darnley. And now
she was actually helping this man—this monster—carry out his wicked scheme.

Oh,
Mam, help me now, show me some other way, she prayed as Darnley pulled her
forward. I canna do this— and yet I must. They'll kill our Robin if I don't. Ye
ken I have to do it for his sake—

The
journey to the altar was both agonizingly slow and far too quick. The groom did
not turn as she walked toward him, knees shaking and head held high. When they
reached the altar she shot Darnley one desperate look beneath her veil, knowing
all the while there was no hope of mercy from that quarter. He didn't even
glance her way as he placed her hand in the other man's and walked away.

The
priest began to speak, but Alyson couldn't follow his words. It was all a
meaningless gabble. Her hand still rested in the groom's, but it did not even
feel a part of her. She stared down at her daintily shod feet upon the
flagstones, then at the man's high boots planted solidly beside her own. They
were well worn, splashed with mud, covering worn riding leathers. He certainly
hadn't bothered to dress for the occasion!

Her
eyes traveled upward, noting the broadsword upon one hip and the Kirallen
blue-green tartan wrapped around his waist and fastened at one broad shoulder
with a plain silver brooch. Though he stood unmoving, his very immobility had a
frightening intensity about it, as though he held some strong emotion in tight
check. Like a great dark cat, she thought with a shiver, all coiled muscle and
deceptive stillness.

At
last she looked up, tilting her head far back before she could glimpse his
face. She drew a sharp breath and glanced away, but against her will her eyes
were drawn to him again. Safe beneath her concealing veil, she studied the
planes and angles of his face, forcing herself to consider each feature calmly.
He had two eyes, a nose, a mouth, the same as any other man. Yet some magical
alchemy had combined those parts into a countenance that was darkly handsome
and altogether fascinating, as wickedly exotic as the gold ring shining in his
ear.

As
though aware of her thoughts, he turned to her. Even through her veil she felt
his eyes burn into hers, banked fires smoldering within their sable depths.
What would it take to ignite the blaze, to shatter his rigid self-control? For
the space of a single heartbeat she imagined his arms enfolding her, the touch
of his hands, his lips...

She
tore her gaze from his, heart pounding wildly in her breast. Who
was
this
man, this Jemmy Kirallen? What had he just done to her? One slip, the smallest
lapse in judgment would mean her death—and Robin's. She could not afford to be
distracted from her goal. Yet even now she was aware of him in a way she had
never experienced before, with a rush of new and terrifying feelings that
coursed through every fiber of her being. Only by the strongest act of will did
she stop herself from fleeing down the aisle and out the door. There was
nowhere she could run to, no one who could help her now.

The
priest coughed lightly. "Say 'I do,' " he prompted.

Alyson
darted one wild look about the chapel, seeing the Kirallens on one side, Lord
Darnley and Sir Robert on the other, all watching her closely. She could not
let this happen. She had to speak right now—but then what? How would she
protect her brother when she had no idea where to find him? Oh, Robin, she
thought, despairing, I cannot—I
will
not let them hurt you.

When
at last she answered, her voice was firm and clear.

"I
do."

***

Jemmy
scarcely heard the priest's final words. He was stunned by the finality of what
had just happened. Bound for life, that's what the priest had said. Why hadn't he
considered this before he jumped feet first into his father's plan?

He
turned to the woman beside him, grasped her jaw, and turned her face to his. He
pushed back the veil and regarded her coolly, careful not to let his expression
betray his surprise. Last night he'd been told that Maude Darnley was her
father's pampered darling, a harsh, demanding mistress who was heartily
disliked among the Aylsford servants. No one had thought to mention that she
was beautiful.

Her
eyes were just the color of the summer sea, and her hair shone like a pagan
bonfire against the gray stone walls of the chapel. He had a sudden impulse to
reach out and bury his fingers in the shimmering curls, just to see if they
would feel as warm as they looked. When she jerked her chin from his grasp and
lifted it proudly, he felt reluctant admiration.

She
was so small, so delicate—somehow he'd imagined she would be tall and stout, a
formidable lady. She bit her lip, then released it with a little grimace of
pain. Of course, he realized, staring at her cut and swollen mouth, they must
have beaten her to get her here at all.

His
pulse steadied and he felt swift pity for the poor frightened maid who stood
before him, trembling from head to foot. This wasn't her fault—even if she was
a Darnley.

It
seemed Jemmy had always known, as if he had been born with the knowledge, that
Darnleys were murdering, heartless things, not really human at all. It had been
easy enough to dismiss such tales as nonsense—when he was safe across the sea.
Now every instinct warned of danger. Though Jemmy couldn't see what danger this
lass could possibly pose to him, he had relied upon his instincts too long to
doubt them now.

But
danger or no danger, the Darnley wench was now his wife. When he put his hands
on her shoulders and pulled her toward him, she stiffened in sudden fear.

"Calm
yourself," he ordered. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She
allowed herself to be drawn into his embrace, her slight frame trembling in his
arms. She smelled faintly of some light flower scent, very different from the
bold musk and ambergris that Spanish ladies favored. Lavender, he thought.
That's what it was. In Spain, where the gardens were so highly scented that it
made a man dizzy just to walk in them, he had forgotten the sweetly subtle
scent of lavender. It brought back a thousand tumbled images of childhood:
sunlit days and long cool nights, his mother's smile, Ian's laughter—all of
them a part of him he could not escape, no matter how far or fast he traveled.
It filled his senses as his arms tightened around her without conscious thought
or plan, his fingers twining in her soft, bright hair. Bending to her, he
brushed her mouth with his.

It
was no kiss at all, just the merest token that courtesy demanded, yet at the
first touch of her lips he felt himself stir as eagerly as an untried boy.
Surprised and none too pleased at his body's unbidden response, he released her
so abruptly that she stumbled. Stopping his instinctive gesture of support, he
spun upon his heel, already calling for his horse before he'd reached the door.

Alyson
caught herself on the altar rail and pressed one
hand to her burning
lips as she watched Jemmy stride from the chapel. He was a Kirallen, the
enemy—how
could
she have forgotten that? And yet, in the moment when he
held her she had felt... safe. Protected. Until he all but threw her from him
and walked away without a backward glance.

She
was too shaken to protest as Lord Darnley caught her against his broad chest
and prisoned her with strong and hateful arms. Then he let her go and stumbled
toward the door, one hand fumbling at his eyes.

Sir
Robert kissed her cheek. "I'll find your brother," he whispered
quickly. "Don't worry. I'll see he's safe until it's done. Chin up, now.
You'll be home before you know it."

And
then Sir Robert was gone as well, and Laird Kirallen was approaching.

"Well,
daughter," he said on a sigh.

Poor
man, he didn't look well at all. His lined face held but little color and his
lips had a bluish cast that spoke of failing health. His faded gray eyes
regarded Alyson with sadness. She began to hold out her hand to him but
remembered just in time who she was supposed to be. Instead she raised her chin
and gave him Maude's look, the one she had practiced with such diligence.

"Where
are my women?"

She
was pleased to hear her voice was steady and it did sound much like Maude's—cold
and proud. And though she knew she was bound to slip into the familiar pattern
of her homeland, it was no more than Maude did herself. After a season at
court, Maude tried hard to mimic the strange, clipped accent of the south, but
she often lapsed. Sir Robert had assured Alyson that her own mix of London
speech and border dialect was no less ridiculous than Maude's.

"Waiting
at the manor," Kirallen sighed.

"Then
let us go at once," she answered carefully.

She
mounted and saw her serving woman, Celia, helped onto her palfrey by one of
Kirallen's men. Of Celia, Darnley had said, "She'll watch your every move,
my girl. Make one false step, and your brother—" He'd drawn one finger
across his throat in an all-too-eloquent gesture.