by Tamara Leigh
Regardless, Malcolm was right. She wasted emotion on him, and not only because her home was Scotland and the only way it would become his was if he died before failing to escape it. Because though he mostly forgave her knowing she had only sought to aid a child, if he did not fully regain his sight, it would be impossible to keep company with the one responsible for sentencing him to move cautiously and with stumbling through the remainder of his life. Such would require faith like that of his sire who, having fallen in battle and believed dead, had returned home a cripple and found his wife betrothed to another and a child in her belly.
Godfroi D’Argent had forgiven Robine, and when her misbegotten babe was born, claimed the boy as his third son. Then to the surprise of many who did not believe a man lacking the use of his legs could father children, a fourth son was born and named Theriot. Before long, a daughter followed.
Much grace granted Lady Robine and both told they loved each other better than before forgiveness was required to put their family back together. Now Theriot faced a debility that could end the warrior of him the same as his sire’s injury put finish to the warrior of him, requiring him to hire men to protect his family and home and enlist his brother to train his sons into fighting men.
Though Theriot’s legs remained firm beneath him, as they were of less use in the absence of sight to direct them, his injury would surely prove worse. But even had he his sire’s great faith, still he could not imagine a life with Marguerite of Dunfermline—or any woman. If he could not protect his family, no wife nor children would suffer alongside him.
Determining it best to slay all hope, he said, “Your king speaks true, Lady Marguerite. You waste emotion on this warrior blinded by your misguided efforts. I have heart enough to feel for your plight and attraction enough to try the lips offered me, but that is all. If you wish a husband, your king will make a good match with one capable of providing for and protecting a family as is no longer possible for me.”
Grateful her back was to Malcolm, Marguerite lowered her lids, shutting out the man whose hard eyes had been soft when they were so near she had seen more green in the thin amid the clouds. What had possessed her to reveal so much of her heart?
The mess of me who dares to love the mess I made of him, she silently answered, then opened her eyes. “Be assured, I shall waste no more emotion on you and only enough time to pray for your healing and return to your family.”
She turned to Malcolm. “You said the one you pursued is dead. Dead now or after he is made to talk?”
He closed the distance between them. “Dead now, and though that sword for hire told little ere I put him out of his misery, it was enough to confirm this day was born of vendetta.”
“My mother’s family.”
“Aye. Yer uncle, Gerald, lives and his son.”
“Pepin,” she named the one who had also been present when arrows slew her escort and Cannie.
“They must have been down a hole when I came for your grandfather. Though I would not know your uncle nor cousin by sight, I believe the former is the one who remained distant when Sir Theriot and I were attacked in the glen, the latter he who fled after we put down two of their men.”
“We?” Marguerite snatched hold of that.
He jutted his chin. “Sir Theriot is far from defenseless.”
Did she only imagine the stiffening of the man at her back who believed he could not protect a wife and children?
“With minimal direction, he can yet land a deadly blow.”
It was surely wrong to be glad Theriot had taken a life, but had he not, likely he would be dead.
“They came for me as well as you, Marguerite,” the king said.
“What of the second man who hung back with her uncle?” Theriot asked before she could question her kin’s fate.
“An Irishman,” Malcolm said.
“Dear Lord!” Marguerite exclaimed. “Was his name Patrick?”
“The man did not say, but likely it was the one to whom your grandfather would have given you had you not escaped.”
“Did you find the three who fled Sir Theriot and you?” she asked.
“I did not. Thus, I have sent men to hunt them down. If your kin are wise, rather than make for the border they will go to ground a few days and one by one depart.”
“If they depart.”
“I believe they are not done with us, but I do not think they will strike soon since they were only six and now are three. More, they have lost the advantage of being thought dead.”
She sighed. “Still, I will not be returning home, will I?”
“You will not. Ye shall remain here and go to the glen only with an escort.” He looked to the bed. “Dubh?”
“She should recover.”
“Good. I will have her brought to the tower. Now leave us. Sir Theriot and I have matters to discuss.”
“What matters, Your Grace?”
His silence that of disapproval, she retrieved the physician’s supplies. But she paused at the door. “The walking stick, Sir Theriot?”
Answer in the furrowing of his brow, she needed no more, but he said, “What was kind of you was ill of me, my only excuse that it was a dark day like too many come before. Much regret, Lady.”
Without further word, she stepped outside and closed the door.
Wasted emotion, she reminded herself as she started for the tower. She had known it was so, but now greater the waste for the kiss shared with Theriot—a kiss unlike that of Michel Roche who had given her an escort home when she revealed her truth and apologized for being unable to heal a heart broken by another.
“Not at all like that kiss,” she whispered. “This kiss…” Breathless one moment, all breath the next, then breathless again. Now better she understood Michel’s disappointment when she declined to give him more time to grow her feelings for him. Now more she was sorry for the hurt dealt that baron.
“I assume there are other shards.”
“There are.” Theriot jerked his head toward Dubh. “Beneath the mattress.”
“I have been lax,” Malcolm said.
Theriot settled his arms over his chest. “Certes, you provide more opportunities to strike and escape than the Saxon rebels provided my eldest brother during his captivity.”
The King of Scots clicked his tongue. “Be assured, were you not without sight, a closer watch would be kept on you.”
Theriot narrowed his eyes, and not for the first time wondered how long that instinctual habit of bettering his focus would persist. “Though this day I carried a weapon whilst in your company, it sounds you do not intend to increase the watch over me.”
“I do not. I shall loosen it now I have further evidence of my betrothed’s belief you are honorable. Like Marguerite, you will not depart the palace without an escort, but within these walls may go wherever you wish without a guard.”
Theriot did not suppress his surprise.
“Even the tower, though not abovestairs. My men will know that is too far.” Malcolm stepped nearer. “It is rare I am wrong about a man’s character. For that and keeping close just enough doubt even for those I trust, I am alive and my kingship secure—likely the same as your William whose childhood was more dangerous than mine.”
The two had much in common, both coming into their birthright as boys. But whereas William, younger than Malcolm had been, managed to keep hold of his dukedom despite attempts to end his life and make a puppet of him, Malcolm had been unable to take back the crown Macbeth claimed for himself until the dispossessed boy grew into a man. To overcome fearful uncertainty and suffering, both had become ruthless warriors and rulers, though there was much evidence the godly princess had wrought change in her betrothed.
“Be warned,” Malcolm continued, “the wrath spared the Norman who nearly slew my man, Hendrie, will not be spared if you disappoint. As for the shards…” He blew out wine-scented breath. “As now you are more guest than prisoner, and outside my hall I would not deny a man what aids i
n defending his person, especially in the midst of those who hold grudges, I leave them to you.”
“I am grateful, Your Grace, though more I would be were my sword and dagger returned.”
Malcolm chuckled. “That would be overly generous and require I take from the Aetheling that in which he delights.”
“As if he himself took the dagger from me,” Theriot scorned.
“I know he did not, but as he causes my betrothed little grief at the moment, I indulge him. But be assured, providing you depart Scotland in good stead, you will do so with sword, dagger, and chain mail.”
Theriot believed him as he would have been loath to believe King William. As this seemed an opening for that which would make the remainder of his time in Scotland more tolerable, he said, “I have a boon to ask of you.”
“I have not done enough?” Malcolm said with just enough humor to temper offense.
“I could not hope for a more accommodating jailer, but I wish word sent to my family that I am held in Scotland, not only to ease fears I perished in the harrying but to end any rumors my disappearance was willful.”
“Willful? If the D’Argents’ reputation is true, why would any believe you deserted your king’s service?”
“We are not without enemies. As you must know, envy is a powerful mover of men. Too, before and after the worst of the harrying, a good number of King William’s followers determined they wanted naught else to do with the subjugation of England and took what coin they could get from him and returned to Normandy. As I scouted out what remained of the resistance rather than take sword and fire among innocents, already some think me weak—thus, more likely to desert than those who can pack away whatever conscience they possess.”
“Hmm,” the king murmured and crossed to the bed. There came the barely perceptible sound of a hand moving over coarse fur. “Good dog,” he said and turned back. “I will not grant your boon. Until I determine how best you benefit me, you must remain missing. My days that run into nights are too demanding without keeping a pack of D’Argent wolves from my walls.”
His words more expected than not, Theriot said, “Then I hope you will make use of me soon. I do not doubt your country has much to recommend it, but as you said, I am of Normandy and England.”
“We are done here, Chevalier. I shall send a man for Dubh.”
As Theriot watched the shadow of him—mostly grey with some blue—move away, what pecked at the back of his mind pecked forward, and he asked what he was to have learned this day. “Lady Marguerite tells she recognized me at the village. For that I was not slain nor left to the villagers who would have extracted payment for the destruction wrought by others.”
The king turned. “That is so.”
“How did she recognize me?”
Amusement rumbled from Malcolm. “Though ye kissed her, you remain unaware of how you were known to her?”
“She meant to tell me, but we were interrupted. Now I ask you to reveal it.”
“Not my tale, Sir Theriot, though I will say there is more to the lady having seen you before and there are things about your family she knows that you do not.”
Theriot felt as if sucked into a bog and thrown a rope that would free him only if he could swim to it. “Then I wish to speak with her again.”
“Perhaps.” Moments later, Malcolm closed the door behind him.
Further regretting the kiss for time better spent on enlightenment about her knowledge of him and his family, it was difficult to suppress anger. But not impossible. Lessons aplenty here to learn to control emotions that could undo a man.
“Control,” he rasped. “You will control yourself, Theriot D’Argent.”
Chapter Eighteen
Late Spring, 1070
Once more Dubh turned traitor, and Marguerite did not mind. This past month, often the hound had gone missing though it did not lack for familiars in the great hall. The week after her injury was the first time her mistress discovered her absent. Marguerite had not had to venture far to find her, a man-at-arms reporting that twice in three days the hound had gone to the hut.
Then as now, Marguerite had waited for her to reappear. Not as then, but now more often, when the dog departed she did so in Theriot’s company, trotting near as if herding him. And Marguerite believed that was what she did, making Malcolm’s prisoner more a curiosity, so much he must be aware of his effect on those who paused to watch them.
While Theriot was accompanied by Dubh, and at a distance the clouds in his eyes could not be seen, his debility did not betray him any more than his stride, swing of arms, and turn of head in response to shifting shadows and sounds above the ordinary. In the hound’s absence, one had only to watch a time to know he no longer moved through the world in a natural way for one his age and strength of body. He was tense, stride and swing of arms shorter, and response to shadows and sounds more abrupt.
Marguerite had not spoken with him since he agreed emotion was wasted on him, but from the little Meg told of her visits to pray for him, he fared well and wanted for naught—except to get word to his family. But at least the king’s reasoning was mostly sound. He believed the D’Argents would come for their brother before he was prepared to negotiate the terms of Theriot’s release that could benefit him where the King of England was concerned.
Not surprisingly, the tension between the two rulers had grown with the approach of Malcolm’s marriage. Thus far unable to avert it, William surely felt the threat of the princess birthing sons with not only a claim to the throne of Scotland but England.
Marguerite had considered sending word to Theriot’s family, but she could not defy her king. And even had she decided to risk his wrath, no longer was it possible by way of her Saxon escort, though they were ready to return to their liege.
Aware of Baron Roche’s connection to the D’Argents, Malcolm had determined those men should continue to avail themselves of his hospitality and, for the second time, sent word to Michel that they were well and would return to Derbyshire before long. The Saxons were not prisoners, but nearly so since he would not grant safe passage and they were allowed their mounts only in the company of Malcolm’s men.
Roche’s vassals had expressed outrage to Marguerite, but just as the king would not relent on alerting Theriot’s family to his fate, neither would he have those Saxons alert the D’Argents through Michel Roche. And the King of Scots’ precautions to ensure his will was done did not end there. Not until after the nuptials would Edgar be permitted to venture beyond Dunfermline.
Malcolm was wise. The most effective means of preventing a marriage between him and the Saxon princess was capture of the Aetheling since threat to him would prevent Meg from speaking vows with the enemy of her enemy.
“My lady?”
Looking around, Marguerite saw Hendrie approached, his plaid tied around his waist.
He halted, jutted his chin at Theriot. “Just as Malcolm grants that Norman too much freedom, too much regard you show him—as does your dog.”
It was not the first time since departing the sick room the aged warrior had spoken where he was not welcome, but since it was out of concern, she bore it.
Returning her gaze to Theriot and Dubh, she saw their destination was the stable where he visited the mount of the Norman he slew after the first blind swipe of the dagger found horse flesh rather than that of a warrior.
“Aye, too much regard you show the Norman,” Hendrie muttered.
She startled. “Forgive me. I was late gaining my bed last eve.”
He harrumphed. “Once one pries open the physician’s lips, ’tis not easy to close them.”
No truer words spoken, she mused. Though Colban was mostly likable, it was good she had decided better a life spent alone than as his wife. It was not only that once he began talking it was difficult to return him to silence, but that he preferred listeners to those who sought to converse. Last eve, several times she had tried to retreat abovestairs, but ever there was one more thing about whi
ch he wished to enlighten her.
“He is a good man,” she said, “but he will never be more to me than that.”
Hendrie sighed. “There are other Scots who could win your heart. Be patient, and our king will provide.”
Doubtless, she was a topic of discussion between Malcolm and him, but they only wished her happiness and knew that did not lie in Theriot’s direction. She knew it as well. Now if she could only forget their embrace. And that kiss.
She cleared her throat. “Have you resumed practice at arms?”
“Soon,” Hendrie said, and his frown became hers when she followed his gaze to the Aetheling who strode from the smithy toward the stable, sunlight glancing off the jeweled hilt of the D’Argent dagger.
“Will the whelp’s mind never grow into his body?” Hendrie muttered. “And why am I the one who must keep watch over him?”
Marguerite had not known Malcolm set him that task, though there was sound reason in doing so since he was acquainted with the Aetheling’s machinations and not yet ready to take up arms again. Still, it had to offend that one much esteemed by his liege was reduced to this.
“You think he intends to trouble Sir Theriot?” she asked.
“I know he does. If he cannot harass William’s men over the border, he will harass the one this side. And I will have to answer for any injuries done him.”
It surprised more he was concerned over what might befall the prince than his blinded enemy. He did not like Theriot, but he respected him.
He cursed, then ran to overtake one so set on reaching the man in the stable he did not realize he was pursued. Within strides of the doorway, Hendrie snatched hold of Edgar, and as the young man swung around to face whoever dared set a hand on him, he was yanked to the side.
What Hendrie said beneath the regard of the castle folk could not be known, but a flush-faced Edgar wrenched free and stalked toward the iron door.
Hendrie looked back at Marguerite, rolled his eyes, and followed the Aetheling.
