I shake my head at the irony of their newfound friendship. Even now the two are huddled together, laughing about something they see in the distance. Reyne points toward the trees as Cettina shakes her head.
Until I approach.
And then their laughter cuts off abruptly, as if I’d doused them both with a cold bucket of water.
“Lord Scott will see to camp,” I say, my eyes drifting toward Reyne’s long, lean legs as she stands. Her surcoat is much shorter than Cettina’s, and it gives me a perfect view of them.
“You are hunting for supper?” Cettina guesses.
I lift the bow in my hand. “Always perceptive, my queen.”
She makes a sound that some might interpret as a snort. Of course, she is a queen, and queens do not snort. Or so she’s told me before.
“Reyne.” I hardly know what to say to her. So many emotions roil through me. Anger, disappointment, worry and, as she stares definitely back at me, lust.
“Erik.”
With nothing more to say, at least in front of Cettina and the others within hearing, I nod to both women and turn to leave.
Reyne does not stop me.
Four of us head out in opposite directions to hunt. Another two scouts have already ridden a good distance ahead to ensure our location is secure. As I make my way east, away from the clearing where we made camp, the deep thicket of woods becomes even thicker. There is enough light to hunt by for now, but it will soon fade away. If I do not catch something soon, it will be left to the others to provide the meal.
Stopping to listen carefully, the sound of running water is the only one I can hear. Walking toward it, I’m surprised when the trees clear once again and a small stream appears. Larger than the one we crossed earlier but not so large as to be listed on the map, I make my way toward its banks to look for tracks. Seeing small prints freshly cut into the mud, I stop and listen once again.
Still nothing.
Crouching down for a better look, I realize a deer is close by, either a small buck or large doe. The distance between the prints made by the front feet tells me this deer is walking and not running.
A good sign.
Following the trail along the riverbank, I mark enough time that I consider heading back. And then I hear it.
The crack of a twig sounds behind me. Turning, I see someone back where I’d first left the woods. As I make my way toward the figure, my hand on the hilt of the sword at my side, it becomes quickly apparent that the someone is a woman.
With flaming red hair.
Wearing men’s breeches.
I break into a run as I see Reyne crouch down beside the water. Calling out her name, my heart thudding at the sight before me, I run faster. As if in a dream, she does not turn toward me. Instead, she reaches out, her hand dipping into the water.
“Reyne,” I call out again. She knows I approach, anyone trained to hunt as she has been would hear much quieter sounds, but still does not look my way. “Reyne.”
What is she doing?
Finally, I reach my wife and see, for the first time, she is crying as she slips her fingers into the water. But not in a terrified way. It is sadness that grips her now, and a love that engulfs me. An emotion so new I’d not even known the truth of it until I saw her kneeling by that water, facing her fears so bravely.
Without a word, I drop down by her side, seeing the bow and quiver for the first time. She followed me out here. To hunt. To show me she is capable.
And I am naught but your wife, so you may tell me what to do. Just like my father.
Holding her as she releases the tears that come after a person has done something terrifying, like approach a stream alone for the first time after having seen their sister carried away by the current, I murmur words she likely does not hear.
“I am sorry, Reyne,” I say, over and over again.
For her sister’s loss. For lying to her those first few days. For treating her differently than Cettina. For thinking not making love to her would do anything more than punish us both.
“I am so very sorry.”
We stand together, and I wipe the tears from her cheeks.
“I love you, Reyne.” It is so easy to say the words when they are true.
I pull her away so that I may look at her face.
“And am glad you are here, even though I do worry for your safety. And I’m so proud of you. How scared you must have been to kneel down there as you did.”
Wetness still glistens in her eyes.
“I grabbed my bow,” she says, “and followed you. I did not realize . . .” She looks down at the stream as I would toward my enemy. “I did not realize it was here.”
And then her head snaps back.
“Did you say . . . ?”
It was as if she’d listened to the words but only heard them now.
I nod.
“I love you,” I say again so she need not doubt herself.
Her lips part, and though I think, hope, she will say it back, Reyne does something more potent. She stands on her toes and reaches her lips to mine. The touch is soft, hesitant, at first. But when I deepen the kiss, taking her in my arms, all sweetness flees as surely as the deer we hunted.
Too quickly, I am lost in her. My hands cup her buttocks, so easily done in her breeches. It takes no time for me to grow hard, my need for her overwhelming. Even so, I made a vow to my wife, and my hands remain where they are.
Until she presses me toward her, lifting my long surcoat up from the back. I step away to assist her, and am lost when Reyne smiles and nods.
Lowering us both to the grass, I kiss her with everything that I am. Our tongues swirl together, as one, and I mourn that our first time together will not be as I had hoped. Night is coming, and while I’d strip my wife of every item of clothing she wears, keeping her safe this night is more important.
Not willing to wait another moment, I remove my boots quickly as Reyne sits up and does the same. I think to take off at least my hose but the look she gives me does not allow it. Instead, I kneel down beside her and take advantage of her peculiar women’s clothing. As my lips cover hers once again, I work open her braies and dip my fingers inside, anxious for her to know a new kind of pleasure.
When she gasps against my mouth at the first touch, I do not relent. Instead, I tell her with our kiss that such a thing between man and wife is acceptable. My fingers move in rhythm with my tongue, surging and retreating until she grasps the material at my arm so tightly, I know she is about to find release.
When she does, it is glorious. She cries out, and I break our kiss to let her. Eyes wide, her lips parted, Reyne looks down at my hand, which is still inside her breeches.
Not for long.
I remove it and pull the breeches down completely. Reyne kicks them off and continues to stare up at me.
“This is not at all what I envisioned our first time would be like,” I say, my voice low. “If you’d prefer, we can wait.”
She looks around us, and only when we are both silent do I hear the water nearby and realize the significance of this place.
“It is perfect,” she says, smiling like a woman well pleased. As I reach down to free myself, now straining and very much ready to make love to my wife, a sound in the distance startles us both.
Immediately on my feet, my sword out and at the ready, I’m prepared to face the intruder, until I see Reyne creeping toward her discarded bow and realize this is no intruder, but the deer.
A buck.
One who miraculously does not see us. Quietly, I lower my sword and watch as Reyne moves her bow into position. As she nocks her arrow, I ingrain the sight before me, one for a lifetime. Lady Reyne Moray, legs and feet bare, her surcoat falling just low enough to cover her bottom, aims. The waning sun touches her hair, glinting off a piece of metal, and though I cannot see it clearly at this distance, I know it is the pin she favors, the one with the Kona she purchased from the Garra that second day.
Watching her rathe
r than the deer, I only shift my attention to the woods after she releases the arrow. Seeing nothing, I can nevertheless hear the distant thwack of her arrow connecting with the target. We wait, and listen.
“You got him,” I say finally as Reyne realizes what she is wearing. The sight of her laughing, barefoot and barelegged, having just shot a buck, not even realizing how close she is to the riverbank, almost distracts me from the thought that, instead of consummating our marriage, I will now be dragging a buck back to camp.
28
Erik
We finally arrive at Carwell Castle.
The journey is torturous—made so by exchanged glances, innocent touches as we sit together at the fire for meals, and not-so-innocent touches during the few hours my wife and I have had in between late-night watches and early-morning rousings—and I am more than ready to stomp out this rebellion, arrest Rawlins and Whitley both, and make love to my wife.
Although not necessarily in that order.
In fact, as the towers of the castle come into view, my thoughts are firmly fixed on the latter as I wait for Reyne, who rides in the rear alongside the queen. Our riding party will be able to sleep tonight, within the safety of the castle walls.
Or at least the others will rest.
I look forward to not resting. Tonight I intend to make good on the promise I made to Reyne this morn as we woke.
“This night, you will be mine in every way.”
I had thought she was sleeping, but as I pulled back the flap of our tent, no light streaming inside just yet, my sleeping wife whispered, “As you will be mine.”
Smiling like a fool the rest of the morn, and grateful our journey had been an uneventful one, I saw Reyne just once that day. We pushed hard, knowing Carwell was within our reach. Watching now as the men ride past, I urge my mount forward so that I might find Reyne and Cettina. My wife’s face lights up when she sees me, and I feel a reflection of that light within me. I turn and my horse falls in next to Reyne’s mount. It is then I greet Cettina, who appears worried.
“When will the scouts return?” the queen asks.
I break my gaze with Reyne to answer.
“Those to the west and east may already be within the castle walls. But I don’t expect those across the river just yet.”
By arriving early, we’ve time to scour the area surrounding Craighcebor and Firley Dinch too, before Rawlins and Whitley are due to attack. Doing so without alerting anyone beyond Carwell of our presence will be as tricky as containing the information we are staying at the castle.
The Curia agreed Lord Carwell, a loyalist to the crown, could be trusted, and even now the gates are being secured. No one in, or out, of these walls until this is all over. Any who question the reason will be told a sickness is within, a regular enough occurrence that it will not raise suspicions.
“I would speak with Lord Carwell immediately,” she says.
“Of course.”
Cettina spurs her mount ahead without a backward glance.
“This is suddenly so real,” Reyne says, “not just some discussion of traitors and battles.” She swallows. “Will you be safe, Erik?”
“Aye.” And then, remembering I vowed never again to lie to her, I amend my answer. “As safe as one can be in a battle. You are the daughter of a warrior and know the way of things, Reyne.”
We ride across the drawbridge, a wet moat under us. One Reyne does not so much as glance at.
“We will know more in the coming days,” I add.
I can tell she’s worried, but I’ve no words of comfort for her. The truth is we have only the word of a man who admitted to his involvement in the Saitford slaughter. In truth, I worry more that naught will happen. We will be forced to move against Rawlins and Whitley with little proof of wrongdoing other than a few whispered words and a secret meeting at the tournament.
Enough for an arrest? Aye. But to quell the chest pounding of noblemen unhappy with a woman as their leader? Likely not.
I am about to tell Reyne how we might distract ourselves this eve when Scott appears from seemingly nowhere, having apparently ridden forward from the back as we approached.
“Stokerton,” he says in the gruff manner to which I’ve become accustomed. “We need you in the hall. Immediately.”
He says nothing more.
Although we have not yet reached the inner courtyard yet, Carwell is a large circle and easy to navigate, so I respond to the urgency of his tone and say to Reyne, “You will be well taken care of here.”
“Go,” she says, “I will find Gille.”
I don’t see my friend but know he is somewhere behind us. Perhaps I should have taken Bradyn. The poor boy begged to come, but someone needs to keep Breywood safe while we are gone. He did not believe my excuse for a moment, but I have Reyne to protect now and cannot worry about both of them. There are too many uncertainties with this mission.
“Go,” she repeats.
I follow Scott through the second, smaller, gatehouse and into the inner courtyard. He leads me to the stables, and we both dismount in quick succession. Handing off our reins, I follow him into the keep, which he has obviously already entered. Like most here along the border, it is tall and rectangular, impossible to properly enter without a ladder.
Thankfully, more permanent stone steps have been added since the original keep was fortified by two curtain walls. We climb them now, Scott yelling back down to me.
“The queen is inside already. With a visitor.”
I think immediately of her sister. But of course it is not Lady Hilla. She doesn’t know we’re here. In fact, none but Lord Carwell and his men knew of our attention. We were careful to avoid well-traveled roads, so who is this visitor?
“Who?” I ask as Scott leads me through an arched but open doorway into darkness. Have they no knowledge of torches and candlelight here? Following the only bit of light ahead, we emerge into the great hall.
There, seated on a dais, is Lord Carwell, a border lord whose family has retained this castle since the days when the two kingdoms were one. Despite its location, Carwell Castle has managed to avoid being overtaken due to their control of the bridge. They collect taxes from those who would cross. The Carwells’ support of the kings of Edingham extends from those sovereigns’ tolerance of this tactic.
I’d not seen the man in years, but he had been old then, and is even older now.
By his side, in a high-backed chair as ornate as his own, sat Cettina. And in front of them both, his back to me . . . nay, it could not be.
29
Erik
“There he is,” Cettina says. “Will you speak to us now?” she asks as the hooded Elderman turns toward me. But I don’t need to see Father Aiken’s face to recognize him.
“I will speak to Stokerton, and he alone,” the priest says.
Such flagrant disregard for the queen’s authority, and that of our host, to whom I incline my head in greeting, makes me rash.
“That is my queen,” I remind him. “Anything you say to me, you say to her as well.”
That his hood is still raised is an insult I’m willing to forgive, but his disrespect to Cettina cannot stand.
“Would you dismiss King Malcom so easily?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Aye.”
“Try again. And don’t neglect our host.”
“Your host,” he emphasizes. “I am here but briefly, to bring you news.”
Cettina waves me off, but she is disrespected enough behind her back. I’ll not allow it to happen in front of me. Or her.
“I am but her representative,” I say.
Father Aiken looks from me back to Cettina, and then to Lord Carwell. Something in him seems to give, and he nods once, a slight but definitive movement. Cettina and Carwell send all others from the hall, including Scott, who is rightfully displeased as he outranks me. But he says nothing as he leaves the room.
Only then does Father Aiken remove his hood.
“How did you know we
were here?” I ask the priest.
“They move in two days’ time,” he says, ignoring my question. “Rawlins has retreated back to Hempswood, apparently thinking better of his involvement despite that Saitford was his doing. Whitley nearly called off the attack, angry over Rawlins’s retreat, but instead he means to move forward without the twenty men Rawlins was to provide.”
Cettina leans forward. “So Whitley is here already?”
“Aye. He and his men are scattered throughout the village with their supporters.”
“How many?”
“No more than fifty.”
“Do they suspect us? Is that why Rawlins retreated?” Cettina asks as I move forward to stand between her and Father Aiken.
“They do not. Rawlins retreated because he is a coward.”
He says it as a statement of fact, not opinion. And I’m reminded once again how dangerous this man is, and what he’s done in the past, in the Prima’s name.
He is not a man I’d trust if given the choice.
“Whitley is a fool and a coward,” Cettina says, her voice nearly as deadly frightening as the Elderman’s.
Father Aiken reveals nothing of his opinion of Cettina’s brother-in-law.
“Why do you help us?” she asks him. “And why does Father Silvester wish to start a war between Edingham and Meria?”
The priest lacks expression as he studies her. “Because Lord Hinton has made a formal declaration that he intends to fight King Galfrid for his crown.”
No words could have surprised the three of us more. I think of my meeting with the king’s commander, Lord d’Abella, in Murwood End.
“Galfrid is reluctant to name Hinton as heir, but the man is gathering support from the church. The same church that crosses the border. Hinton will be no friend to the queen.”
“Who will King Galfrid name instead?” I had asked.
“I do not know.”
“Father Silvester,” I say now, “wishes for war as a means to help Lord Hinton secure the crown. Turn the people against a king who cannot control the borders. Turn the king’s attention away from his usurper.”
My Highland Bride: Kingdoms of Meria Book 2 Page 15
