The Rock

by Monica McCarty

  Stepping back had been the only prudent thing to do. But why did he feel that in doing so he’d conceded something he didn’t want to concede?

  Perhaps sensing the direction of Thom’s thoughts, MacLeod said, “It would have to be done at night. We will see to it that no one from the castle is alerted.”

  The king lifted a brow. “You want MacGowan with you?”

  The Highland Chief nodded. “Aye.”

  Thom almost heaved a sigh of relief.

  Randolph shot Douglas a surprised look, at which his old friend just shrugged. They all knew what MacLeod’s command meant: Thom was being recruited by the Phantoms.

  “Very well,” the king agreed. He turned to Thom. “You may be able to help with a few other missions I have in mind.”

  Thom nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can, sire.”

  “My brother says you wish to become a knight?”

  “Aye, sire.”

  “Do well, and I will personally see to it,” he said. Thom was still reeling from the king’s words when Bruce added with an enigmatic laugh in MacLeod’s direction, “Although not everyone sees the value, knighthood still has much to recommend it.” He glanced down at Thom’s horse—a pathetic beast compared to the fine horseflesh ridden by the other men. “You will need to find a better horse.”

  Thom repressed a groan. “I’m working on it.”

  More than one man laughed as they turned their mounts and headed back through the forest to return to the abbey.

  Fortunately, it would be a short stay. With his release from Douglas’s temporary command, Thom would leave the abbey for the siege encampment at the base of Castle Hill—the elevated rise from the west that provided the only accessible entrance to the castle—about a mile away. Staying at Holyrood, being forced to watch Randolph woo his bride, would have been unbearable.

  Thom needed to put his head down and concentrate on the opportunity being given him with the Phantoms. Christ, the king had offered to knight him if he proved himself.

  He was riding at the back of the group with MacRuairi and MacLeod going over a plan to try to get a closer look at the cliff that very night, when he took the opportunity to ask about the king’s earlier remark. “What did the king mean when he said you did not see the value in knighthood?”

  The two West Highland chieftains exchanged a look.

  “We’re Highlanders,” MacLeod said as if that were explanation enough.

  “We have our own code,” MacRuairi added. “The chivalry of knights may make for romantic tales,” he said with an eye to Randolph. Apparently Thom wasn’t the only one not impressed by Randolph’s performance. “But it is not reality, nor does it win wars.” He gave him a slightly evil smile. “You’ll see.”

  Thom frowned. “There are no knights among you?”

  “A few,” MacLeod answered. “But it is secondary to their place in the Guard.”

  The Guard. Thom stored the information away for later.

  “There was another among us for whom it was not secondary,” MacRuairi said with a deadly look on his face. “He lost sight of his place and betrayed us. He fights for the English now.” He practically spat the last.

  Whoever the man was, Thom wouldn’t want to be in his boots if he ever came face-to-face with Lachlan MacRuairi again.

  Thom realized that Sir Neil Campbell, who in addition to being one of Bruce’s oldest friends was also brother to one of the Phantoms, must have overheard some of their conversation when he started prodding Randolph. “I hear you made quite an impression last night, Randolph. I’m surprised you did not call out the trumpeters.”

  Randolph said something Thom didn’t hear, but he suspected it was a suggestion for Campbell to do something that was physically impossible.

  The older battle-hard warrior just laughed. “Douglas’s sister seems too levelheaded to be charmed by such theatrics. That shining knight on a white charger routine isn’t likely to get you very far. I hope you have another plan in the works.”

  Randolph might be arrogant and a bit pompous—if not priggish—but he could give as good as he got. “If it doesn’t, I suppose I can always try your method of wooing.”

  “The hell you will,” Douglas said, obviously not appreciating the jest—Sir Neil had abducted his young bride a few years back.

  Randolph smiled. Thom could see he enjoyed getting a rise out of his friend and rival. “I won’t need to. I think your sister and I see eye to eye on everything.”

  There was something about Randolph’s arrogance—his cocksure confidence—that made Thom want to put a fist through his gleaming white grin.

  But it was the fierce surge of possessiveness that gripped him, which told him he wasn’t quite as over Elizabeth Douglas as he wanted to be.

  The question was, what was he going to do about it?

  Would he take another step back? Concede? Stand aside and do what he was supposed to do? What he’d been doing his entire life?

  Or would he fight for what he wanted?

  Fight for what now seemed possible. As a knight and a member of Bruce’s secret army, he would have something to offer her. And maybe, just maybe, a life together wasn’t a complete fantasy.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  Startled, Elizabeth turned to the man seated next to her at the high table. She plastered what she hoped was a relaxed smile on her face, although she was anything but. “Who would I be looking for when all of Edinburgh is gathered in this very room?”

  Sir Thomas chuckled. “Aye, you are right about that. My uncle has invited most of the city—well, anyone of import, that is, for today’s meal.” He lowered his voice, a mischievous smile turning his mouth. “I might even call it a feast if this wasn’t the middle of Lent.”

  Elizabeth laughed. It was hard not to be charmed by the vaunted knight. Sir Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, was witty, sophisticated, enjoyed the same things she did, knew the same people, and was just wicked enough to make things interesting. She was fortunate indeed. So why was she staring at doorways?

  “Anyone of import.”

  Not quite everyone—at least not to her. She hadn’t seen Thom since the night they’d arrived two days ago. She learned from Jo that he’d left the abbey to join the men in camp laying siege to the castle.

  It was for the best, she knew. But why didn’t it feel that way? Why did her chest squeeze every time she thought of his face that night?

  Was it guilt?

  Whatever it was, it was affecting her interactions with Sir Thomas, and she knew it had to stop. He might begin to think she wasn’t interested, and she couldn’t have that.

  He’d probably talked to her cousin Isabel more than he had her—which was her fault, as she’d made it a point to keep Izzie close to her side whenever he was around. Her cousin, however, didn’t seem very impressed with her soon-to-be-betrothed, and unfortunately Randolph sensed it. He went out of his way to charm her, but it had rather the opposite effect. Izzie watched him with an amused detachment that was halfway between rolled eyes and polite tolerance. Needless to say, Randolph didn’t like it, and Elizabeth sensed his growing frustration with her cousin. She certainly didn’t want that frustration extended to her.

  Turning her full concentration to the man at her side, Elizabeth responded to his irreverence with mock shock. “A feast on a Wednesday during Lent? The abbot would never condone such a thing.”

  Sundays were the only break from fasting during Lent.

  They both glanced down the table to where the abbot sat beside the king with a huge trencher of food before him, and at least one very large goblet of wine. There was no meat, but with all the lampreys, oysters, and fish it was hardly missed.

  Meeting each other’s gazes, they burst into laughter. When more than one person stared at them—including her cousin, who frowned disapprovingly at their loss of decorum—they managed to get themselves under control.

  Randolph took a long swig of wine from his own goblet. “Lent or not, I�
�m grateful for the distraction. I’m going out of my mind with boredom. How much longer can the blasted garrison hold out? It’s been over two months.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t resist teasing him. “Is that what I am, my lord, a pleasant distraction from the tedium of the siege?”

  If he was surprised that she was flirting with him—the first time she’d done so—he hid it quickly. “The siege is undeniably tedious”—it was well known that the Bruce had no love of laying siege to castles, which inevitably involved long periods of waiting and inactivity, and clearly his nephew shared his view—“but you are far more than a pleasant distraction.”

  The huskiness of his voice and the knowing look in his eyes—his dark brownish-green eyes, blast it (as her cousin had pointed out more than once)—should have made her pulse quicken and her skin prickle. Instead it made her regret changing the mood between them. She was comfortable with Randolph as long as they kept it light and friendly. But the first hint of amorousness was making her distinctly uncomfortable.

  Fortunately, she did not sense any real feeling behind his suggestive tone. Actually, it felt a little bit practiced and rote—like this was something he’d done hundreds of times before. With his roguish reputation, she didn’t doubt it.

  “There has been no movement, then?” she asked matter-of-factly, clearly departing from any hint of flirtatiousness. “No indication that the English might be getting ready to surrender?”

  If he’d noticed her shift in tone, he did not show it and shook his head. “Since Lubaud’s imprisonment there have been no talks at all.” Elizabeth knew that the former Gascon commander of the castle’s earlier negotiations with King Robert had sparked a riot among the garrison inside the castle, leading to his imprisonment by his own men. He’d been replaced by an Englishman. “But they must be getting dangerously low on provisions,” he continued. “We’ve intercepted every shipment and attempt by King Edward to resupply them.”

  “And there is no other way to take the castle?”

  She thought she saw something flicker in his gaze, but then realized it must have been the candlelight. Even in the middle of the day the abbey’s refectory was dark, and the king had ordered oil lamps and candelabra to illuminate every corner of the otherwise plain and sparsely decorated room.

  He shook his head and said dryly, “Not unless your brother can conjure another miracle.” Randolph apparently had taken the news of his rival’s latest feat with remarkable good grace—not that she didn’t think he would give his eyeteeth to better James by taking Edinburgh Castle in some equally dramatic fashion. “The garrison at Roxburgh were caught unaware; unfortunately the same cannot be said about the garrison here. We will not surprise or trick them into opening the gates.”

  He sounded so frustrated Elizabeth reached out and put her hand on his arm. “I’m sure you will think of something, my lord.”

  He covered her hand with his and smiled at her warmly. “And until then, I shall have you to distract me.”

  He really was incredibly handsome, she thought. It was easy to see why the women at court were so besotted with him. Wealth, power, connections, charm, and extraordinary good looks . . . it was a rare combination.

  Although not as physically overpowering as Thom, the earl was still quite tall—at least a couple of inches over six feet—and well muscled. His build was leaner—more tightly honed from years of wielding a sword than the thick, heavy slabs of hard muscle forged from physical labor and swinging a hammer that made Thom so physically overpowering.

  She’d never noticed it before, but the two men actually looked quite a bit alike. Both had dark hair, piercing eyes, and classically handsome features. Randolph’s were slightly more refined and arrogant perhaps, but there was something about Thom’s thick, long lashes, the dark shadow that appeared on his jaw within hours of shaving, the hint of a dimple in his left cheek, and the slight bump on the bridge of his nose from a boyhood fight with Jamie that gave him a not-quite-so-polished look that appealed to her.

  When Thom turned those smoky blue eyes on her . . . the shiver of awareness that ran through her awoke other feelings—other sensations that she’d never experienced before. Her nipples hardened, her breasts grew heavy, and warmth tingled between her legs.

  His mouth, too, was so perfectly wide and sensual. She couldn’t help but remember how soft and warm it had felt on hers. Randolph’s mouth was nice, but it was hard and perhaps a little cold. It didn’t make her think of hot, passionate kisses . . .

  Dear Lord. She stopped, realizing what she was doing. She’d been staring at Randolph comparing him to Thom, and Randolph had mistaken her interest—particularly when her eyes had dropped to his mouth.

  His gaze didn’t actually heat, but she detected a flicker, and perhaps the first real indication that he might be contemplating kissing her.

  Cheeks ablaze with mortification, she shifted her gaze decidedly away from his mouth.

  But the heat in her face didn’t last for long. No sooner did she look away from Randolph than her gaze met another. This one was definitely blue.

  She drew in her breath in a sharp gasp, and all the heat slid from her face in horror and what felt like guilt, although she’d done nothing wrong.

  Thom stood in the doorway with some of the other Phantoms. He’d just arrived, but he’d obviously been there long enough to witness at least some of what had transpired on the dais between her and Randolph.

  Good God, he thought . . .

  She wanted to push back from the bench, race across the room, and tell him he was wrong.

  She might have. But he didn’t give her a chance. He turned, said something to one of the Guardsmen who stood next to him—it appeared to be Magnus MacKay—spun around on his heel, and left.

  Only Randolph’s voice stopped her from going after him. “Do you know MacGowan well, my lady?”

  She dropped back down the inch she’d risen off her seat.

  He’d obviously caught the direction of her gaze. But there didn’t seem to be any suspicion in his tone, merely interest.

  She schooled her features in what she hoped was nonchalance. “Very well. We’ve been friends since childhood.”

  It was the truth, but such a small part of what was between them it felt like a lie. “He’s impressed my uncle with what he did to help free your brother. He thinks he might be useful.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “For what?”

  “A few missions here and there,” Randolph said vaguely with a dismissive wave of his hand. “What is your impression of the man? Can he be counted on? He is of low birth, is he not?”

  “His father is the village smithy, but his mother was the daughter of a knight. Thom is one of the most noble men I know, and there is no one I would count on more. The king is fortunate to have him in his army.”

  She didn’t realize how she’d bristled or how forcefully she’d spoken until Randolph apologized. “I’m sorry, I meant no offense. I was merely curious, that is all.” He smiled. “MacGowan is fortunate to have such a valiant defender on his side. I know your brother didn’t like him, so I just wondered.”

  “He and Jamie used to be as close as brothers.”

  Clearly, she’d surprised him. “They were?”

  She nodded. “They had a falling-out years ago.”

  “Over what?”

  Me. “I don’t know,” she lied, hoping he didn’t pursue the matter.

  Fortunately, her cousin interceded. “I wonder if the king will chance some music tonight, my lord?”

  Randolph’s gaze sharpened as it fell on Izzie. “I doubt my uncle will press his luck with the abbot tonight.”

  Izzie’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “How disappointing. I was hoping you’d sing for us. Lady Mary said you have the voice of a troubadour. Truly, my lord, is there no end to your accomplishments?”

  There wasn’t even a hint of sarcasm in her voice, but Randolph knew she was laughing at him—and didn’t like it. He drew as tight as a bow, his mo
uth pressing in a flat white line.

  Aye, he definitely didn’t like it—and her cousin, she suspected, even less.

  Elizabeth shot Izzie a chastising glare for prodding him, but she just smiled with pretty, wide-eyed innocence.

  Randolph’s gaze narrowed even more on that smile, and for once Elizabeth thought he might lose his composure, but he stared at Izzie for a long pause before turning back to her. “Do you sing, my lady?”

  “Horribly. I play the lute a bit, but it’s Izzie who is the gifted musician in the family. She sings like an angel.”

  He didn’t hide his skepticism, turning back to Izzie with a brow so sharply arched it almost came to a point. “Is that so?” he drawled. “Lady Isabel hides her accomplishments well.”

  The statement could be taken two ways, but they all knew exactly how it was intended. Isabel stiffened at the slight, which Elizabeth hastily tried to smooth over. “While we were in Paris, she sang for King Phillip himself, and Monsieur de Vitry permitted her to sing one of his chansons.”

  “Really?” If he was impressed that the man considered the greatest musician of his time had considered a woman worthy of one of his songs, he did not show it.

  Elizabeth nodded, while Izzie’s cheeks burned. “She made the nuns weep when we took alms to St. Mary’s Wynd Hospital yesterday and she joined them in a hymn. They asked her to come again tomorrow.” Suddenly she had an idea. “Perhaps you would care to join us after morning prayers to hear for yourself?”

  Women were forbidden from singing in church, as they were thought to be unclean and inherently wicked, although nuns were permitted to sing as part of their duties in a convent.

  “I will look forward to it,” he said, with only polite enthusiasm.

  As soon as she could, Elizabeth excused herself, pleading a headache. When it looked like her cousin would attempt to go with her, Elizabeth stopped her. “Nay, they will be bringing out the confections soon, and you must stay and hear the rest of the earl’s story. He was telling me all about the taking of Perth Castle, and you must tell me every detail when you get back to the chamber.”