The Recruit (39 page)

What have I done?

Kenneth stayed away for as long as he could. He volunteered for anything and everything
that would take him from the castle. Scouting missions, escort duties—hell, even helping
to repair a wall at a nearby castle that had been damaged in an attack by Bruce’s
raiders.

But if he thought that absenting himself from the castle would take an edge off the
dangerous emotions clamoring inside him, he was wrong. No mission, no task, no amount
of physical labor could make him forget what had happened. Nothing could penetrate
the black rage that hovered around him like a dark, forbidding cloud. He was a man
on the edge, and he knew it.

He’d lost his temper. He’d wanted to force her to acknowledge there was something
between them, but all he’d succeeded in doing was proving her right.

Maybe MacKay was right. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this. How much longer before he
did something rash? The mission that he’d hoped would establish his place in the Guard
wasn’t turning out as he’d planned. He wasn’t impressing
anyone. Sticking close to Percy had yielded little information of value, he hadn’t
been able to confirm the castles the English would use on their campaign, his hopes
of turning his wife and her son voluntarily to Bruce were dwindling, he hadn’t lifted
a weapon in combat in weeks, and the steely control he’d fought so hard for was deserting
him.

Sangfroid!
Hell, he’d settle for anything below boiling right now.

It wasn’t until a week had passed that he trusted himself to return. It turned out
a week was not long enough.

He’d barely had a chance to wash the dust and grime from him when he walked across
the yard from the sea-gate (a cold swim in the River Tweed had seemed preferable to
a warm bath in his chamber) and saw something that set off every instinct in his body
to fight—and he had a hell of a lot of them.

Felton was in the yard practicing with some of his men. “Again!” he shouted.

Percy’s champion knight appeared to be demonstrating some swordsmanship techniques,
but the unfortunate target of this lesson was David Strathbogie.

The young Earl of Atholl was on his knees, apparently having been knocked down. From
the amount of dirt on the lad’s armor and the difficulty he seemed to be having in
dragging himself to his feet, it probably hadn’t been the first time.

Perhaps it was because Kenneth had been the one to drag himself out of the dirt more
times than he wanted to remember, but seeing Felton humiliate the lad struck every
raw nerve, going against every ingrained sense of fairness in his body.

David managed to get himself upright, but Felton came at him again, shouting orders
at him to get his sword up, to defend himself like a man, before knocking him back
down with a complicated and highly skilled set of swings
of his sword. Moves that no green squire could hope to defend against.

Kenneth’s blood boiled. He clenched his fists again and again at his sides. This was
a lesson all right. A lesson in humiliation. Felton was purposefully making the lad
look bad in front of the other men.

“Get up and fight,” Felton said, with a nudge of his sword in the boy’s side. “We
aren’t finished.”

Red swam before his eyes. Kenneth could almost taste the lad’s humiliation and feel
the sharp sting of his young pride. Before he could stop himself, he pulled his sword
from his scabbard—in a moment of sanity using his left hand, as he was still claiming
his injury prevented him from fighting full force—and strode forward, bursting through
the circle of men. All he could see was Felton’s sword, pointed at the lad. With one
sharp flick of his blade, Kenneth sent the knight’s sword sailing from his hand.

The shattering clash of metal seemed to echo through the shocked silence.

Beneath the steel helm, Kenneth saw Felton’s face explode in anger. “What the hell
do you think you are doing?”

“A sword is not a toy. I was merely showing the lads that you should not hold it as
such. You might remind yourself of that when you go pick it up.”

“How dare you interfere—”

“Perhaps your men might like to see you practice your techniques on someone your own
size.”

Felton didn’t miss the slur and his face burned hotter than before. One of his men
had retrieved his sword and stepped forward to hand it to him.

Felton’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as he took it. “I thought your arm was still
healing?”

“It is. I will use my left.” He wasn’t as good with the left, but he’d be good enough.
He was going to humiliate the bastard. Pay him back for everything he’d done to
the lad tenfold. And he was going to enjoy every bloody minute of it.

“Wait!”

Kenneth turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Looking over his shoulder, he saw
Mary rushing toward them. Something lurched in his chest, but he refused to acknowledge
it. She wore a hooded cloak that swallowed her up in its heavy folds, as much to hide
her pregnancy, he suspected, as for the cool weather.

“There you are,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Her words might have had a different effect on him if he didn’t see the worry behind
the overly bright smile.

His jaw clenched, guessing what this was about. Her next words confirmed it.

She feigned as if she had just become aware of the crowd around them. Her eyes widened,
and a delicate blush rose to her cheeks. “I’m sorry, did I interrupt something?”

She knew perfectly well what she’d interrupted. She’d done it on purpose. She didn’t
want him to fight Felton because she thought he would lose.

Suddenly, she noticed David, still on the ground covered in dirt. Kenneth anticipated
her instinctive move forward, and before she could embarrass the lad further by showering
him with motherly distress, he caught her by the arm to stop her. He shot her a warning
glance. “Nothing that can’t be resumed later. Was there something you needed?”

She glanced over at David again. She may have picked up on his warning, but it was
clear she didn’t want to heed it. “Uh, yes.” She forced her gaze from her son and
turned a beaming smile to Felton. “I hope you don’t mind, Sir John. But there is a
matter with one of my dower estates that needs to be attended to as soon as possible.”

Felton gave her a gallant bow. “Of course, my lady.” But it was clear from the taunting
look that he directed toward
Kenneth that he, too, had guessed the cause for the interruption. They both knew that
his wife thought Felton the better knight. “I can finish this anytime.”

Kenneth gritted his teeth at the boast, fighting a fresh surge of heat through his
blood. He didn’t need to prove anything to anyone, but he wanted to, damn it. His
muscles clenched.

“Kenneth,” Mary said, putting her hand on his arm.

The soft entreaty broke through the haze. No matter how tempting, he couldn’t do this.
The personal satisfaction he would get in besting Felton wasn’t worth the risk. His
wife was right—albeit for the wrong reasons—but antagonizing Felton wasn’t wise. It
had been a mistake to make an enemy of Felton, and she’d saved him from making an
even bigger one. Kenneth would have humiliated the other knight, and Felton would
have made it his sole purpose to discredit him. Felton was already watching him too
closely. But although Kenneth might appreciate her interruption later, right now it
stung. He never wanted to be second best in her eyes.

With a look that told Felton this wasn’t over, Kenneth led his wife away from the
fray.

They walked in silence back to the tower chamber that they’d shared since their wedding.
Once in the room, she untied her cloak and tossed it on the trunk before the bed.
He could tell that she was nervous by the way her hands shook and how she fluttered
around the room for a few minutes rather than meet his gaze.

He stood stone-still by the door, waiting.

She filled a goblet of wine from the pitcher at the side table. “Would you like some?”

“No.”

She turned to the side, and he could just make out the soft swell of her stomach beneath
the wool folds of her gown. She’d changed in only a week. She wouldn’t be able
to hide the pregnancy for much longer beneath heavy gowns and cloaks. He should send
her away …

He cleared his throat. “The babe … You are well?”

She glanced up at him, surprised. “I’m fine.”

There was another uncomfortable silence, in sharp contrast to how it had been between
them before. The walls of the small chamber seemed to be closing in on him. She was
too close. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to take her in
his arms and make love to her until she admitted that she cared for him.

He had to get out of here. “I believe you mentioned an estate matter.”

She flushed, biting her lip. “There isn’t an estate matter. I was on my way to the
Hall when I saw you and Sir John. The way he was looking at you …” She shivered. “Whatever
is between you, I wish you would put it aside.”

He gave her a long look. “That isn’t possible.”

She
was what was between them. But she didn’t see it.

“Why not?” Her face fell. “Sweet mercy, I thought he was going to kill you.”

“You should have more faith in me.”

She frowned, picking up on something in his voice. “I do, but …” She looked away.
“Your arm is still injured.”

But
. They both knew it wasn’t just his arm. He stiffened.

“You’ve nothing to worry about. I have no intention of locking swords with Felton.”

She looked at him quizzically. “You don’t?”

He forced a smile to his face that he didn’t feel. “I’ll not make you a widow so easily.”

She frowned. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him, although it did. Very much.
He was surprised how much he wanted her to believe in him. He didn’t know when it
had become important, but it had. Damn it, he thought he was done with this. He’d
been proving himself his whole life; he’d just never thought he’d have to do so with
his own wife.

“Did your argument have something to do with Davey? I’ve wanted to speak with you,
I’ve been worried—”

“Leave the boy alone, Mary. He needs to work this out himself.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Work what out? I knew something was wrong. He’s been so
quiet lately. Even more quiet than normal. Is it Sir John? One of the other boys?
You must tell me if you know something.”

She was fierce in her defense of her son, if only she could feel the same intensity
of emotion about him. She would be a good mother to their child, but mothering wasn’t
what Davey needed from her. Not now at least. “He’s too old for coddling, Mary.”

Her eyes shimmered with dampness. “I know that.”

“He will need you again. Just give him time.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait, where are you going? Are you leaving again?”

“I’m afraid not. Percy is waiting for my report.” He held her gaze. “Was there something
more you needed?”

She flushed and looked away. “No.”

He held her gaze. What had he thought? “I may be back late. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Oh,” she said, a strange look on her face. Disappointment? He didn’t know. He was
too full of his own emotions to try to decipher hers.

As Kenneth escaped from the room that was beginning to feel like a torture chamber
to him, he knew he was going to have to do something. He wasn’t going to last another
four days, let alone the thirty-three that remained of Lent, if he didn’t find a way
to rid himself of the frustration teeming inside him.

Twenty-one
 

Mary had made a mistake, and she knew it. The stiff, awkward conversation a week after
her husband had taken her against the wall in an explosion of lust—and nothing else—had
been a precursor of what was to come.

In the nearly forty days since she’d sent him from her bed, there had been no more
ribbons, flowers, or buns, no more rides, and no more long conversations. She arranged
her own bath, she couldn’t think of an excuse for riding, and their conversations
were brief and impersonal.

It was as if she were married to Atholl all over again. The only difference was that
Kenneth collapsed beside her at night when he finally returned from whatever it was
that kept him away from the castle so late, reeking of whisky and damp from a dunking
in the river.

Her heart stabbed. At least he had the decency to wash the scent of his liaisons from
him before coming to her bed. But she couldn’t be grateful for his discretion, when
the very idea of him with another woman made the misery she’d felt with Atholl seem
like a pittance in comparison.

Despite her best efforts to approach this marriage with open eyes and a hardened heart,
she’d failed. Miserably. She’d fallen in love with her husband. Not the starry-eyed
young girl’s infatuation based on a myth, but the mature love of a woman who appreciated
the flawed man as much as she admired the hero.