by Cathy MacRae
“Aye. And to give Ewan a brighter future.”
Chapter Thirteen
Simon stared at the mug on his desk. How on earth could he have missed the lasses’ resemblance? That one sister was a fiery redhead and the other’s hair was black as night should not have made a difference. Those eyes! He shook his head, tempted to pour another cup of ale to assuage his confusion, but lost interest as his thoughts returned to Iseabal.
How was I supposed to know? He stood, the unsatisfactory interview with Marsaili still chaffing.
What does it matter? Her relationship to Lady de Wylde makes no difference to me. Even after five years it appears I have not forgotten my sweet Scottish lass, and I care not whose sister she is.
He crossed the room, arms folded behind him, to stand at the narrow window. Horses milled about in the yard. Marsaili and The Saint had returned. Cook would produce a meal adequate for their guests, Lady de Wylde would likely prattle on about her sister, and they would be gone in the morning.
After which, he would seek out Iseabal Maxwell himself.
“Sir Simon.”
He turned. Iseabal stood in the doorway.
“Ye need not call me Sir,” he murmured, drinking in the sight. The past five years had been kind to her, rounding her figure in a manner which pleased his eye, made his palms itch and his cock take notice. She possessed an air of maturity. Solemnity had replaced the carelessness of youth—which he found he regretted. He wondered if the passion they’d once shared still existed. Her black hair shone, the tip of her braid hanging below her hips. He remembered the weight of it, the thick strands like silk running through his fingers.
He cleared his dry throat and motioned to the lone chair by the hearth. “Please come in. Shall I have refreshments sent in?”
Iseabal crossed the room and stood next to the fire, her hands wrinkling her skirt in a nervous gesture.
“I dinnae believe I could eat a bite just now.”
Simon raised his eyebrows, not understanding, but determined to encourage her. “I see. Then have a seat and tell me what I may do for ye.”
She looked away. “This is difficult. For several reasons.” With a small huff, either for courage or to firm her decision, she lifted her chin and gazed at him.
“I must introduce someone to ye. Introduce him properly, that is.” She motioned to the door. Lady de Wylde stepped just inside, Iseabal’s son before her.
Marsaili gave the boy a gentle nudge, sending him to Iseabal. “I’ll be just outside, Izzy.”
Iseabal nodded once, her skin pale.
Simon couldn’t resist. “Izzy?”
Color rose in Iseabal’s cheeks. He liked that, so he said it again. “Izzy.”
Her eyes flashed. “Only my sister calls me that. Ye may not.”
He didn’t mind the rebuke. He’d gotten her mind off whatever was worrying her—at least for a moment. He’d do it again if necessary.
Iseabal placed her palms on the boy’s shoulders, holding him before her. “Ye saw Ewan the night we arrived, and again yesterday. But I dinnae introduce him properly. Ye . . . asked about his da.”
Something bothered Simon about the hesitance in her voice. “Ye said his father rode to fight with the English and never returned.”
“Aye. ’Tis true. Though somewhat misleading. He fought with the English, not against them. And ’tis true he never returned. I was never told what happened to him, and ’twas easier to allow people to believe his da had died.”
Simon stared at the boy, his wide brow and green eyes exactly like his mother’s. His hair, however, was bright golden blond with curls much like . . . .
Simon dragged his gaze to Iseabal, shock seared deep into his soul.
“Ewan is my son.”
Iseabal nodded, silent. Simon crossed the short distance between them. Cupping Iseabal’s cheeks between his palms, he tilted her face up and lowered his lips to hers. She startled but did not pull away. He slowly broke the kiss, the taste of her lingering on his tongue, as perfect as he remembered.
“I am sorry for what my actions cost ye, Iseabal. I’m a man grown, and know of ways to keep from siring a child, though such things are not always effective.”
He placed his hand atop Ewan’s head, marveling at the boy.
“My son.”
Simon couldn’t have hidden his grin if he’d tried.
“I’m very glad I had the chance to love ye, Iseabal. Very glad. We will wed as soon as the documents can be drawn up.”
Iseabal turned Ewan about. “Go with Auntie Marci,” she urged. “I will come find ye in a bit.”
Ewan nodded, a wary eye on Simon, then edged from the room.
“Simon, I dinnae bring Ewan here to force a proposal from ye. I have lain awake at night, worried ye would take him from me if ye knew he is yer son. Ye have power and I have none. Though ye would be within yer rights to claim him, I have no wish to marry ye.”
“I have lain awake, also, Iseabal. But ’twas because I’d encountered a green-eyed beauty on the road to the village three days ago whom I’d once thought lost to me. I will not take Ewan from ye. However, our marriage is in his best interest, also, and though ye seem certain I would be a poor husband for ye, I swear I will be a good father to Ewan.”
“He is doing fine with Aggie and me.”
With an effort, Simon crushed his rising temper. “I will not stand by and see my son raised to be a shepherd, outside the privilege and position I can give him. I would have him be more than my bastard son.”
Iseabal wrung her hands. Why had she allowed Marci to sway her?
“I have been offered a position at Belwyck. ’Twill be a good place for both of us. Protection, a roof over our heads. ’Tis not so far away ye cannae see Ewan from time to time. And Ewan will be able to obtain an education there.”
“I can provide for my own son, Iseabal,” Simon growled, eyebrows snapping together.
Iseabal’s heart raced. As she feared, he would not give in. Yet, succumbing to marriage without a bond between them brought her nigh to tears. By Saint Columba’s bones, she’d had enough of living as others expected. She’d suffered through the disgrace of being an unwed mother, of birthing a fatherless child. Everything she did was to Ewan’s benefit. She’d earned the right to the man of her choice.
Unless she fled Friar’s Hill, there was little she could do. And she was certain they could not travel fast enough or far enough to evade Simon’s reach.
“I simply dinnae wish to marry for the sake of charity.”
“This is not charity, Iseabal. If I did not wish to marry ye, I would not ask it. Ye have offered me a great gift—knowledge of my son. I want ye to marry me, and mayhap give me a daughter with yer black hair and passion for life.”
Iseabal bit her lip, his request striking a chord deep inside. A daughter—like her? He wanted her in his bed, ’twas plain to see, for his trim, laced breeches left little to her imagination. Her skin heated beneath his gaze. She could speak a lie to say she did not want him. But would either of them believe it?
“We are different. Ye’re English!” she blurted, tossing out her finest defense.
To her surprise, he grinned. “I was an English knight when ye seduced me. It didn’t bother ye then.”
“Och, it took a full day to decide not to turn ye over to my da,” Iseabal retorted, stung that he would laugh at her youthful indiscretion.
Simon caught her braid in one hand and drew it over her shoulder, the motion slow and sensual. “And how long did it take for ye to fall in love with me, sweet Izzy?”
She faltered. Her heart raced. “Three days,” she whispered. Three days after she’d met him, she was certain she could not live without him.
“Give me three days to win your heart again.”
“It feels deceitful,” Iseabal sighed. She set a platter of cheese and dried apples on the table before Ewan and filled his mug with watered ale. Popping a bite of sharp cheese into her mouth, she chewed and swallowed before sitting n
ext to her sister at the long table.
“If I refuse Simon’s proposal, he will believe I’m using his son as leverage, though for the life of me I dinnae know what I would ask of him.” Her shoulders fell. “Och, Marci, would Simon even have noticed me were it not for Ewan?”
Marsaili grinned, her eyes dancing, and Iseabal considered storming off in a huff, not in the least enjoying her sister’s obvious glee at her expense.
“Ye must have some feelings left for him, Izzy. He’s a good man, well made, and willing to give ye whatever ye ask.”
“I . . . .” Iseabal frowned.
“Ye want love and fear he only offers security.” Marsaili tilted her head. “Many women have neither.”
“I know. ’Tis unreasonable. Yet, I remember how it once was between us. No more than a sennight, yet ’twill be stamped on my soul forever.”
“’Twas good ye decided to tell him of Ewan. He appeared absolutely delighted when he ushered ye from his solar, Izzy. He still has feelings for ye.”
“He calls me Izzy now, Marci.” She rolled her eyes. “Your fault.”
Marsaili waggled her fingers dismissively. “Och, ye dinnae mind me calling ye Izzy. And I’m not always nice about it.”
Ewan drained his mug and set it on the table with a thump. “I finished, Ma.”
“Well done,” Iseabal said, seizing the opportunity to take action.
“I cannae do this, Marci. ’Tis best we leave.” She gathered Ewan and rose from the table. Brushing crumbs from his tunic onto the trencher, she pointed him toward the door.
“We’ve imposed on Sir Simon long enough. ’Tis time to return home. Aggie will have supper ready, and ’twill soon be yer bedtime.”
“I wanna see Da,” Ewan said, avoiding Iseabal’s reach and heading toward the solar.
“Little pitchers have big ears,” Marsaili mocked.
“Saint Ninian’s toes!” Iseabal muttered, aghast Ewan had understood her conversation with Simon. She dashed after Ewan, catching him several feet from the door.
“Dinnae fash, my wee nacket. Sir Simon is a busy man and we will see him another day.”
Ewan dropped to his haunches, breaking again from Iseabal’s grasp, this time to squat mutinously on the floor.
“I dinnae wanna go!”
“Haud ye wheesht, Ewan,” Iseabal scolded. “’Tis no way for ye to act. Ye will come home with me now.”
“No!”
The door to Simon’s solar opened.
“What manner of ruckus are ye creating, young Ewan?” Simon’s voice held steady, though his expression demanded the lad cease his caterwauling.
Ewan glanced up from his undignified spot on the floor. “I wanna see ye.”
Simon sent Iseabal a questioning look. She drew what dignity she could about her.
“’Tis growing late and the lad needs his supper and bed. We wish to return home.”
Ewan shook his head in disagreement. Simon arched a brow, matching the gesture with a curved lip as he stepped close to Iseabal and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Ye wouldn’t cheat me out of my three days, would ye?”
A shiver of desire shot through Iseabal before she could steel herself against the reaction. Simon leaned closer, the heat of his body overwhelming, his nearness both a frustration and a delight. Liquid heat softened Iseabal’s bones as Simon kissed her ear.
“Do not forget, my heart. Ye are home.”
“I dinnae say we would wed.”
“Ye will.”
Torn between laughter and outrage, Iseabal planted a fist on one hip. “Ye cannae force me into marriage, Simon de Bretteby.”
He caught her hand and drew it to his lips, dropping a kiss to the backs of her fingers. Her skin sizzled. “I do not plan to force ye, Izzy. Persuasion is a much finer tool.”
Chapter Fourteen
With a narrow look, Simon answered Garin’s silent request to join him in the lord’s solar. He trusted his captain realized the poor timing as he apologized to Iseabal and crossed to the small room, Lord de Wylde at his side.
“Found him knocking at the gate like a proper gentleman. As he was alone, the guard allowed him in.” Garin nodded to a disreputable man standing in the middle of the room. “Says his name is Henry. He’s a Scot.”
With a bob of his head, the man offered a placating smile.
Simon examined the wizened Scot with a wary eye. Lord de Wylde stood half in shadow in a corner of the small room, observing, offering neither command nor suggestion. The change in authority from The Saint was not lost on Simon, and marked Simon’s rise in rank. Simon was lord at North Hall and this was not Lord de Wylde’s business.
He transferred his attention to the old Scot. “Why should I trust ye?”
The old man, his gray hair unkempt, clothes tattered and in desperate need of a wash—or immolation—shrugged, his gaze traveling to the flask on the low table.
“I overheard two men in the tavern. I was sober, ye ken? Nary a bit of coin to pay for a shot o’ whisky.” He tilted his head in a hopeful manner.
“He’s known in the village,” Garin said, his stance close to the elderly Scot protecting both Simon and Lord de Wylde. “Harmless.”
“That’s me,” the old man agreed with a gap-toothed grin. “Harmless Henry. Nae one pays heed to Harmless Henry.”
Simon sent Garin a nod. The flask clanked against the mug’s rim as Garin poured a finger of whisky. Henry licked his lips, eyes glowing. He accepted the mug and took a sip, holding the spirits in his mouth a moment before he swallowed. He sighed and his eyes drifted closed.
“Peat. Driftwood. A hint of salty sea spray.” His eyes flashed with a wink. “Could cure the ills of the world, it could.”
“Tell me what ye overheard.” Despite the Scotsman’s unexpected accurate assessment of the lowland whisky, Simon brought him back to the reason he’d arrived at the keep an hour earlier.
Henry tipped the mug up, draining the last drop, releasing a slow gasp of pleasure. He wiped his lips with the back of a hand. “Auld man Johnstone’s wife, the one whose sheep ye saved from the reivers? Mistress Johnstone recognized the pair o’ ruffians in the middle of the village, bold as brass.” He held up his empty mug in a hopeful gesture.
Simon did not budge. “When ye’ve finished and I’m satisfied with your report.”
Henry shrugged. “She was in a dither. ’Tis likely the entire village has heard of ’em by now. But none brave enough to take ’em on and send ’em on their way.”
“What did ye hear?”
“I followed ’em to the tavern, heard they was lookin’ fer their fellows what dinnae make it home t’ other night. Hopin’ someone’d taken ’em in, though after creatin’ such a stramash, I dinnae ken why they’d think we would.”
Henry shrugged again, as if he’d encountered enough people who defied his definition of intelligent to easily place these two on the list.
“Nary a gleg thought betwixt them, if ye ask me. So, I pointed out their error and gave ’em the direction of the kirkyard to find their wayward laddies. They seemed a bit disturbed. Mayhap even riled.”
Simon strode to the door and spoke to the guard standing in the hall. “Take Henry to the hall and feed him. Have Alane find him suitable clothing, then send him back to the village.” He cast a brief look at the Scot. “Keep an eye on him.”
The guard stepped to the doorway and beckoned to Henry. Garin offered the flask and the old man beamed with delight, his cloth-bound feet making shushing sounds on the stone as he quit the room, the whisky tucked beneath his tattered cloak.
Simon folded his arms over his chest and glanced at his captain. “Do ye believe they’ll take the hint we will not suffer reiving and return to Eaglesmuir a bit wiser? Or should we place a guard in the village until this is sorted out?”
Garin’s lips drew together in a fine line. “We’ve enough men to spare for the village, and coin to spread about for further word.” His face cleared and
a wry look brightened his eyes. “Since ye’ve brought your Scottish lass to the keep, her guard is no longer about.”
“Yes,” Lord de Wylde drawled. “My wife has been most delighted with your decision. I’ll have to hear the story of how ye and her sister met sometime soon. And, I agree, the men can now be used elsewhere.”
“Send them to watch the shepherd’s croft where she lived.”
“Lived?” Lord de Wylde’s eyebrows rose.
“She will be my wife inside the week.” Simon’s grin matched Garin’s. “She’ll not live in a croft again.”
Iseabal frowned in indecision and drew her fingers through Ewan’s thick curls. “I’ve never been away from him before.”
“And I’ve never spent time with him,” Marsaili countered. “’Tis only for a few days, and we’ve sent for Aggie to come with us. He’ll be around people who love him, and a familiar face in case he gets a bit homesick. Dinnae fash. We’ll return in time for the wedding.”
Iseabal tilted her head in warning. “I dinnae wish to rush into this. I dinnae fall in love with a nobleman five years ago. I fell in love with a man who took notice of me, touched me kindly, and made me laugh.” Her gaze fell upon the closed door to the lord’s solar. “I fear he no longer has time for me.”
“I vow he will make time for ye, Sister. But ye are nae longer a child and cannae expect all of his attention all of the time. Decide how ye mean to live yer life and dinnae dither about.”
“Words of wisdom from my elder sister who has been lucky enough to find the love of her life.”
“I will love ye no matter what ye decide. Geoffrey has agreed ye are to come to Belwyck Castle if ye dinnae marry Simon. Though he said aye with a brief shrug that indicates he doesnae truly believe ye’ll come.” Marsaili’s eyes twinkled. “Now, go give Simon a chance, and dinnae worry about wee Ewan. I’ll see to it he’s cared for properly and kept busy.”
“If I agree, will ye promise not to give him a pony?”
The door to the solar opened and a wizened man hobbled out, guided to a corner of the hall by a guard. A moment later, Lord de Wylde, Garin, and Simon strolled into the room. Ewan abandoned his toys and bolted from the rug near the hearth.
