English, Elizabeth (9 page)

He
could not break his word. He would not force her. There remained only one
course of action.

"That
is a lovely gown, my lady," he began, wincing at the smoothness with which
the lie slipped from his mouth. She turned to him, a spark of
something—derision? amusement?—flashing in her eyes, only to vanish in an
instant.

"It
was made in London," she said in a cool, repressive voice. And with that
she turned her back to him.

For
a moment he was intrigued by the challenge she presented. When was the last
time a woman had so completely spurned his advances? If such a thing had ever
happened, it was so long ago that he could not remember. In Jemmy's experience,
women were the ones to charm and flatter him, setting their pretty silken
snares. And it was he who decided whether to be caught, by whom, and for how
long.

But
Maude was no laughing, light-minded lady. Yet he was not sure exactly what she
was. The haughty ice maiden beside him now? The hot-tempered lass who had
slapped a goblet full of wine from his hand during their wedding feast? Or the
girl who had trembled in his arms before the altar?

He
could find out. He had no doubt of that. He could draw her out, set her at her
ease, make her smile if he set his mind to it. With time and just a bit of
patience he could surely win her trust. And then...

All
at once he could see her lying naked in his arms, tumbled, rosy, glowing with
the aftermath of love. The image was so unexpected, so vivid, so wildly erotic
that his body reacted to it instantly. For a moment he forgot everything but
the question of how quickly he could get her in his bed.

He
pushed the thought away, disgusted with himself. It would all be a lie, a
damned foul lie like this whole misbegotten marriage. Once she had learned to
trust him, he would abandon her, never to return. And though Jemmy's past was
hardly blameless, he had never stooped to lies to lure a woman to his bed. He
looked at her averted face, the long, white throat, and clear line of her jaw
and felt like the lowest form of life. She was quite right to guard herself
from him.

The
Laird leaned close. "If ye think ye are doing the lass a kindness, ye are
mistaken. She kens what is expected. Best to have it over."

Maude
on one side, Father on the other—the devil and the deep blue sea. How blindly
he had walked into the trap! Now he was shackled by his duty on the one hand,
his honor on the other.

Jemmy
could bear cold and hunger, loneliness and disappointment without complaint.
The one thing he could not tolerate was the feeling of confinement. Twelve
years ago he had fled these walls, abandoning all comfort and security in a
desperate bid for freedom. Now the reckless streak that was never far from the
surface blazed into full flame. No one held Jemmy Kirallen against his will.
And no one gave him orders. God help the man—or woman— who dared try.

Suddenly
it didn't matter how or why he had become entangled in this situation. He
wanted out. And he would do whatever must be done to make good his escape.

***

Alyson
shed the silver dress with relief and donned a plain chamber robe. Then she
paced the floor with restless energy. Two days gone. How many more to follow?
And how could she possibly survive them?

She
would
survive, she promised herself fiercely. She would be strong and
tough and clever. Nothing—and no one—could be allowed to interfere with that.
Certainly not Jemmy Kirallen, with his charming smile and empty compliments. He
was not important, not in the least, no matter how giddy and breathless she
might turn when he took her hand in his. She would, she
must
get back to
Robin, and together they would journey to the Highlands and the

McLarans.

"Find
where they're most vulnerable,"
Darnley had ordered. "
I
want
to know how many men Kirallen has and how prepared they are for battle. Since
the older brother died, I've heard they grow lax. Is it true?"

"Maggie!"
Alyson called. "Bring out my sewing. Edina, Mistress Selton—attend me,
please."

"It's
verra late, my lady," Mistress Selton began.

Alyson
quelled her protest with a single glance. At least Maude has taught me one
thing of value, she reflected as they settled down and pulled their work into
their laps. She would have to remember the trick when she went back to the
kitchens.

Mistress
Selton bent over her darning, her mouth set in an angry line. She was a
formidable dowager, with a stern face and iron-gray hair. Edina Kirallen was more
biddable. She was but three or four years more than Alyson, a plump and timid
widow with a sweet mouth and a perpetually anxious expression.

"Fine
weather today," Maggie remarked, her spindle moving up and down.

The
other women nodded, not bothering to answer.

"Let's
hope it keeps fine for the gathering," Maggie added.

"What
gathering is that?" Alyson asked, and the three women stared at her with
identical expressions of surprise.

"A
gathering of the clans," Maggie said at last. "Well, not all o'
them," she added after a moment. "It's just a small one, ye ken, a
time to meet our kin. We'll be leaving in a se'nnight or so."

"Oh.
I see."

Alyson
bent over her tapestry, frowning as she tried to frame the questions she must
ask.

"And
what might that be?" Maggie asked, her pleasant face wrinkling with
distaste as she peered at the bloodred stitches Alyson was setting.

"St.
George," Alyson said. "This part is the dragon."

"Oh,
aye," Maggie said doubtfully. There was an audible snort from Mistress
Selton.

Alyson
couldn't help but agree that the tapestry was a hideous thing, for the dragon
was spouting fountains of gore as St. George regarded it smugly through crossed
eyes. Maude had started it some years ago and had given it to Alyson with the
air of conferring a great gift. Alyson wondered if Maude had realized that the
subject must be offensive to the Kirallens, St. George being the patron saint
of England.

She
drew her needle through again, then said, "Ravenspur is larger than I had
imagined. How many men can the Laird put into the field?"

Mistress
Selton shot her an unfriendly glance. "Enough," she said succinctly.

"And
better fighting men ye ne'er have seen," Edina cried, startling everyone.
Her round face reddened beneath her coif and she added with a burst of spirit,
"So long as they're not set upon by treachery."

"Aye,"
Mistress Selton agreed. "No man, however braw, can stand against a dagger
in the back."

"No,
I suppose not," Alyson murmured. "But would you say—"

She
broke off, astonished, as Edina burst into tears and ran from the chamber.
Mistress Selton gathered up her sewing and followed her.

Maggie
looked up from her spindle. "Edina's husband was Lord Ian's man," she
said.

"Oh,"
Alyson said blankly. "Was he?"

"Slain
last January, ye ken," Maggie went on, looking at her curiously. "By
your father, lady," she added bluntly, as Alyson made no response.

"Yes,
but—well, it was a battle, wasn't it? And he was a soldier. Of course some men
were bound to die."

Maggie
snorted. "Oh, a
battle?
Is
that
what ye call it over there?
I laid Lord Ian out with my own hands," she continued, her pale blue eyes
filling with tears. "Stabbed in the back, he was, plain for anyone to see.
He lived long enough to name your father as the man who struck him down from
ambush."

"Oh,
no!" Alyson exclaimed. "But he said—"

Maggie
wound her yarn into a tidy ball. "Aye, lady? What was it your father
said?"

Alyson
shook her head, not bothering to answer. So much for all the tales of Darnley's
glorious victory over Kirallen's heir! The minstrel at Aylsford had even made a
song of it, describing each blow in a deadly contest that had lasted half the
morning. Every groom and varlet proudly hummed it as he went about his chores.
But looking into Maggie's honest face, Alyson knew it for a lie.

"Pray
excuse me, lady," Maggie said coolly, dropping the wool into her basket.
"If ye've no more need of me, I'd like to get to bed."

***

In
the darkest part of night Alyson woke shaking, her
face wet with tears.
In her dream she had wandered into the landscape of her tapestry. St. George
stood, the crimson cross emblazoned on his snow white surcoat, his gory sword
raised high. When he turned, he bore Lord Darnley's face.

"Look!"
he cried, "I've slain the dragon! Surely God is on my side."

The
blood-soaked form lying in the snow stirred, and Alyson saw with horror that it
was Jemmy, his eyes fixed upon her with an expression of mute suffering that
was worse than any reproach he might have made.

She
fell to her knees and tried desperately to staunch his wound, but nothing she
could do would stop the flow of blood.

"I've
slain the dragon!" Lord Darnley repeated, his face exultant. "Come,
hear the song my minstrel made of it!"

"He's
not a dragon, he's a man," Alyson cried, and Darnley looked down at her,
face contorting in rage as he raised his dripping sword above his head—

She
started awake with a cry of fear, then fell back among the pillows, pushing the
sweat-soaked hair back from her face. It was just a dream, she told herself.
Just a dream, no more. It hadn't really happened.

Not
yet, at any rate.

The
next morning Jemmy came to her door as was his
habit. He was dressed for
riding, in the same high boots and leathers he'd worn for the wedding.

"Good
morning, my lady," he said, stepping into the room. There was a flurry of
curtsying from the serving women as Alyson moved toward the window, turning her
back to him.

She
stared blindly into the courtyard, which at this hour was bustling. The people
below called to each other, and though she couldn't make out the words she
recognized the brisk laughing tones of people who had no doubt of who they were
and what they were about. Once—was it just a month ago?—Alyson had known who
she was, too. Now she was no one, not Alyson Bowden, the best cook in
Northumberland, and not the Lady Maude.

But
no, that wasn't quite true. She was still Robin's sister, the one thing that
stood between him and certain death.

"I
trust you slept well," Jemmy said, just as he always did. But this time he
sat down on the window seat beside her.

She
nodded curtly, not looking at him, though she was very much aware of his
presence. Now it was time for her daily complaint, and she found herself at a
loss. She was well fed and splendidly clothed. Her chamber was spotless, the
bed linen shining, the rushes freshly changed and sprinkled with fragrant
flowers. Half a dozen women waited for her lightest word to bring whatever she
might desire. Maybe Maude could find some fault with the arrangements, but
Alyson could not.

Jemmy
leaned back and drew one knee up, clasping his arms about it. "Now let me
see," he said. "What will it be today? Would you like me to fetch you
the Stone of Scone for a footrest? Shall we pull down the manor and rebuild it
bit by bit? Or— I know—perhaps you would like me to hunt you a unicorn this
morning!"

She
glanced at him and saw he was smiling up at her, his eyes alight with mischief,
and for the first time she noted the hint of a dimple beside one corner of his
mouth. She looked away quickly.

"What?
Don't tell me you are at last content?" He gave a great sigh of mock
relief. "Then I see we must look further afield! Today I ride to Dunforth.
Why don't you join me? Surely you could suggest some... improvements...
there." He gestured toward the open window. " 'Tis a fine, fresh
day."

When
Alyson didn't speak he added gently, "You can't stay in this one room
forever, Maude. Come out and ride with me."

At
his change of tone Alyson felt the breath catch in her throat. She stared out
the window, longing to escape. She could almost feel the fresh wind and
sunlight as she imagined herself free.

Every
day of Alyson's life had been spent in an unending round of work, every moment
planned. To ride somewhere she'd never seen simply for the sake of seeing it
was something she'd never once experienced. And what would it be like to go on
such an adventure with this man beside her? Would he tease her as he'd just
done—and, oh, the thought of laughing with him was almost irresistible. Her
life had held so little laughter. If only she was Maude and could turn to him
and say, "Yes, I'll ride with you." How dangerously easy it would be
to do just that!

With
a tremendous effort she dragged her gaze back into the shadowy chamber. Lifting
her chin, she looked down her nose and said frostily, "I think not."

All
the softness vanished from his face as he stood and turned his back to her. As
he walked away she nearly cried out for him to wait, that she could be ready in
a moment.