Valor (Sons of Scotland Book 2)

by Victoria Vane

  “Nae, Davina.” Domnall laid a hand on her arm. “I would speak first.” He was damned if he wouldn’t take advantage of this moment.

  “What is there to say?” she softly asked. “Ye ken as well as I do what this matter is about.”

  They both knew there was only one reason for the king to concern himself with her. This could only be about arranging her marriage. But the very idea of it jolted him to the marrow. Domnall had pledged years ago to protect her when this day came. He doubted that he had even understood the reason at the time. Back then, he was too young to recognize his feelings. But not anymore. The real reason he’d wanted to defend her from others was that he loved her. He had always loved her.

  How could he stand to lose her to somebody else? But he was still in no position to offer anything. He’d been robbed of his inheritance when the king had him decreed illegitimate. He had nothing but his horse, his sword, and the cloak on his back. He had little chance of gaining favor unless he sacrificed everything else he held dear—his claim to Moray. He knew that he should hold his peace. He knew that no good could come from a declaration of his feelings, but the sadness in her green eyes was tearing him asunder.

  “Aye,” he said grimly. “Nevertheless, there is one question that must be asked and answered,” he said.

  “And what is that?” she asked.

  “I would ken yer heart, Davina. I would ken if things were different, would ye have me?”

  She stared back at him with a tormented look. “That choice is nae mine to make.”

  He lifted her chin with his fingers, focing her to hold his gaze. “Ye dinna answer the question, Davina. I asked if ye would have me.”

  “Why?” she demanded almost angrily. “Why do ye ask me this?”

  “Because I love ye,” he said. “And I would ken if ye—”

  She answered with a strangled sound and then her lips met his.

  Her kiss was soft and sweet, but hinted of hidden passion that made his heart pound. Unable to help himself, he pulled her into his arms, deepening the kiss. A brief taste of her lips wasn’t enough. Davina was his. She was always meant to be his. Desire bloomed. Swift, potent and powerful, it heated his blood.

  With something between a whimper and a sigh, Davina pressed her soft body to his. He had wanted this, dreamed of her, for so long. He was on fire as he guided her backward into the shelter of the orchard. Desire blurred his brain as he pressed her against a tree, and groped for her skirts.

  “Nae!” she cried, tearing her mouth from his. “What are ye doing?” Her eyes were wild and her breasts heaved.

  “Doing?” He didn’t even know. She demended an answer he was unable to summon. The kiss had overwhelmed him. No, her kiss had nigh slain him. In sooth, he’d stopped thinking almost the moment her lips had touched his.

  “Is that all ye want from me?” she asked. “Did ye whisper sweet words of love to me just so ye could… could…” Too flustered to finish, she shoved him away. But she didn’t leave as he feared she would do. Instead, she studied him with anger and uncertainty warring in her green eyes.

  “Nae, Davina!” He clawed his hair with an anguished sound. Painfully aroused and fully frustrated, Domnall struggled to unscramble his thoughts. “Ye dinna understand!”

  “Dinna I?” She tossed her head.

  “I dinna intend to take liberties.” But passion had made him forget himself. He paced the garden, trying to untangle his emotions. “Please, Davina, will ye forgive me?”

  Her eyes flickered and then softened with her sigh. “There is naught to forgive. I started it. I wanted to kiss ye, and I wanted ye to kiss me back… but ’twas a great mistake.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  Her eyes were sad and wistful, but her voice was resigned. “Because ye ken as well as I that it canna be between us. I’m sorry, Domnall. The prince is expecting me. I can tarry here no longer.”

  Squaring her shoulders, she marched toward the garden gate, leaving Domnall, helplessly and hopelessly staring after her.

  *

  Davina entered the solar to find both the prince and princess waiting for her. The princess was by the fire with the infant, Marjory, asleep in her arms, while the prince sat at his writing table frowning over some document, presumably the correspondence that Domnall had delivered to him.

  “Ye called for me, Highness?”

  Prince Henry looked up and beckoned her forward. “I have a letter from the king regarding the disposition of Crailing.”

  “The disposition of it?” Davina frowned. “I dinna understand what this means.”

  “It means you are to be wed,” the princess answered.

  Although it was what she’d suspected, the blunt news still came as a shock. “It canna be!” Davina protested in a choked voice.

  “You have known from the moment you came here that this would be,” the princess reminded her.

  “B-but I am barely seventeen! I thought I would have more time,” Davina said.

  “You are old enough to wed by a year,” the prince said. His brows rose subtly. Davina followed the direction of his gaze and found Domnall standing in the doorway behind her.

  “May I speak with ye, Highness?” Domnall asked.

  “I am occupied at present with the king’s business,” the prince replied.

  Glancing at Davina, Domnall licked his lips and squared his shoulders. “’Tis the verra business I would discuss with ye. I have served the king faithfully these past three years…”

  Davina’s heart fluttered.

  “You waste your breath if you wish to petition for Davina’s hand,” the prince replied.

  “My service is worth naught?” Domnall asked.

  “’Tis not enough,” the prince replied.

  “Foolish lad.” The princess looked from Domnall to Davina and back again. “She is already betrothed.”

  The fragile tendrils of hope instantly withered inside Davina. “Is this true?” she asked.

  “Aye,” the prince said. “’Tis already decided.”

  No! Davina wanted to shout and rant and rail.

  “’Tis nae done until the vows are spoken,” Domnall argued.

  “The vows mean nothing,” the prince replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “This alliance is a matter of politics.”

  “What has Davina to do with politics?” Domnall demanded.

  “Davina is tied to Crailing, and Crailing has everything to do with politics,” the prince answered.

  “I dinna understand,” Davina said.

  The prince rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. “The war in the south has turned once more in the Empress Matilda’s favor, due to the support of Ranulf De Gernon… but his support comes with a price. He wants the return of all of his former Cumbrian lands. The king objects, but he is being pressured by the empress. In this letter, the king demands that Fitz Duncan and I both make a token sacrifice to appease De Gernon. Of course, I cannot like it but I must concede some of the smaller estates under my control.”

  “And my father will do the same?” Domnall asked.

  The prince responded with a scowl. “Fitz Duncan has yet refused to concede anything, which places the burden squarely on my shoulders to keep the peace in the Borderlands.”

  “And ye mean to use Crailing for this?” Davina asked.

  “I am willing to sacrifice it in order to retain the more valuable lands around Carlisle, especially the silver mines at Alston,” the prince answered.

  “So I am to be traded in this bargain?” Davina asked.

  The prince shrugged. “I must ensure peace on the border, Crailing must be settled upon someone, and you must eventually be wed. If De Gernon accepts the proposal, all that remains is to present the bride to his chosen groom.”

  “When?” Davina asked.

  “Soon,” the prince replied. “The king commands you to go to Carlisle. No doubt, ’twill all be settled there and then. There is little ceremony to these things, usually a blessing by a pries
t, followed by witness signatures on a parchment.”

  “And that is it?” Davina choked. “My life is given away so easily?”

  She looked at Domnall, silently begging him to save her, but what could he do? He was as helpless as she. With no money or property, Domnall was in no position to petition for her hand, not that it would have mattered anyway. The prince offered Davina and Crailing for purely political reasons.

  “I have already penned my reply to the king.” Prince Henry extended the sealed parchment to Domnall. “You will carry it back to Carlisle with all dispatch.”

  “But he only arrived here two hours ago,” Davina protested. Would he be sent away so soon?

  The prince’s lips compressed as he looked from Domnall to Davina and back again. “I perceive no good reason for Domnall to tarry any longer at Haddington.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Carlisle, Southern Scotland

  Domnall had left Davina at Haddington with his heart laden with lead. The desolation in her eyes pierced his heart like a knife, but he was helpless to do anything to stop this. It was a particularly painful irony that not only had he been the messenger to carry the ill-tidings of her betrothal, but he’d also been forced to seal her fate by delivering the prince’s answer to the king. Now, as sure as he breathed, the lass that he loved was about to become another man’s wife—unless he could find some way to prevent it.

  He could not give her up without a fight! Yet, shy of bodily carrying her off, it seemed there was naught he could do to prevent this thing from happening—unless Fitz Duncan could be persuaded to change his mind. Ranulf De Gernon wanted lands that both Prince Henry and Fitz Duncan held, lands that Fitz Duncan refused to concede.

  It seemed the answer lay wholly in Fitz Duncan’s hands. Could his sire be persuaded? His holdings were vast. William Fitz Duncan was one of the most powerful men in the country with expansive estates in both England and Scotland. Surely there was a small estate that could be bartered. But time was desperately short. The negotiations were already in the works, delivered by his own hand.

  His mind raced as Domnall once more saddled his weary horse. He’d had little contact with his father since Domnall had entered the king’s patrol. Given the vulnerability of his Cumbrian lands, Fitz Duncan rarely strayed far from Skipton Castle, his largest estate and primary domicile. Although the chances were slim that he could change Fitz Duncan’s mind, Domnall was desperate and had naught to lose. Knowing what he needed to do, he turned his mount southward and spurred him into a gallop.

  *

  “I will cede nothing!” Fitz Duncan slammed his fist on the table. “These lands are now mine by right of marriage. If Henry thought you could persuade me, he was gravely mistaken.”

  “Prince Henry didna send me here,” Domnall insisted. “I came for my own reasons.”

  “And what are your reasons?” Fitz Duncan demanded.

  “I desire to wed Davina of Crailing.”

  “What has this to do with me?” his sire asked.

  “Prince Henry has offered Davina and her lands as an appeasement to De Gernon.”

  “Then let him be appeased!” Fitz Duncan declared. “You are far too young to wed and there are many other heiresses besides. Serve the king well and you will be well-rewarded—in due time.”

  “There is nae time!” Domnall insisted. “I love Davina!”

  “Love?” His father threw his head back with a long, scoffing laugh. “You are naught but a besotted fool! Go you and swive some more women. You will soon get over it.”

  His father’s mockery heated his blood. Were he any other man, Domnall surely would have drawn his sword. Swallowing his anger, Domnall carefully considered his next move. He’d come to Fitz Duncan believing he had nothing to bargain with, but perhaps he was wrong.

  Fitz Duncan was fiercely protective of his estates, but his years were numbered, and his heir, Domnall’s half-brother, William, was still a very young child. Fitz Duncan was nearing sixty, it was doubtful that he would live to see William come of age. Should he die before this event, all of his English estates would be vulnerable to grasping men like De Gernon—unless young William had protection. Domnall had proven himself numerous times with his sword. How might Fitz Duncan receive a pledge to defend his half-brother?

  “Have ye nae care to yer legacy?” Domnall asked.

  “My legacy?” Before he could even blink, Fitz Duncan had a dagger at Domnall’s throat. “I don’t suffer threats from any man. Do not think I would hesitate to kill you because you are of my blood.”

  “I make nae threat,” Domnall replied hoarsely. It was an effort to speak with the cold, hard steel pressed against the pulsing arteries in his neck. “I offer my protection. Did ye nae make a similar bargain with King David years ago?”

  “Aye.” Fitz Duncan slowly withdrew the blade. “I swore to serve him… in exchange for certain things.”

  “I would offer a similar bargain,” Domnall said. “Will ye nae hear me out?” Although Domnall had sworn never to give up his claim to Moray, he cared nothing for the Cumbrian lands. He was more than willing to relinquish any future claim to those in exchange for Davina.

  Fitz Duncan stepped back and eyed Domnall with renewed scrutiny. “Aye, I will hear you.”

  *

  Carlisle Castle, Southern Scotland

  Davina’s arrival at Carlisle had been received with minimal ceremony. The journey had been particularly joyless, and though the prince had accompanied her with his honor guard, she felt far more akin to a hostage than a bride. She tried to console herself that Crailing would be hers again but even that was a falsehood. The Crailing she knew was long gone. In its place was a cold, dark fortress. Once the marriage documents were signed, complete command of Crailing would fall to her husband. It would indeed become a prison to her, rather than a home. Yet, her present unhappiness had far more to do with losing control of her future than losing control of her home.

  Davina found herself in the same tiny bedchamber she’d occupied all those years ago, though a new maid attended her. Wearing a gown of finely spun silk adorned by a bejeweled girdle, Davina stared into the mirror of polished silver as if looking at a stranger.

  “You look lovely, mademoiselle,” Janine remarked upon crowning Davina’s hair with a golden filet—a bridal gift send from the groom who was still nameless to her.

  Davina knew she had never appeared more beautiful, but the vision of herself brought her no satisfaction. Her heart was hollow.

  “They will be expecting you soon in the great hall,” Janine gently reminded her of the passing hour.

  Still, Davina tarried. In truth, she’d never felt more helpless, or hopeless, than she did on this eve of her own wedding. Weeks had passed since Domnall had come to Davina at Haddington. Weeks of waiting. Weeks of sorrow. With no word. Davina rarely indulged in self-pity, but she could hardly help herself. Why had Domnall come to see her? Why had he uttered pointless words of love to her that he surely knew would lead nowhere? Had he not done so, she might have been able to bear it better. But now she could only wallow in misery. Though she’d prayed for escape from this unwanted marriage, all of her prayers had been denied.

  In need of strength, Davina knelt to murmur a brief supplication to the Virgin. She then rose and descended to the great hall to join the feast the king hosted in honor of her future husband.

  *

  Davina paused on the threshold of the great hall, scanning the many faces, but recognizing few. Her heart sank when she realized the one person she wished to see, the one who might have helped to sustain her this night, was not here. She felt abandoned by Domnall’s absence. Had he intentionally stayed away? If so, it was a selfish act that only magnified her suffering.

  One of the king’s servants came to her side. “This way, mademoiselle. You are to be seated at the high table this night,” he declared as if it were the greatest honor.

  Perhaps it would have been had she not felt akin to a lamb going to s
laughter. Although her gaze was directed to the floor, Davina felt a hundred pairs of eyes following her as she moved woodenly to her place at the high table.

  “Ah!” the king declared, “here she is at last.”

  With eyes still downcast, Davina made her obeisance, first to the king, and then to Prince Henry.

  “Davina of Crailing,” the prince spoke, “I present to you your betrothed, Sir Ioan Fitz Ranulf, son of Lord Ranulf De Gernon, the Earl of Chester.”

  Davina looked up into a pair of black eyes and her breath seized. The voices in the great hall became a deafening roar and her body began to quake with uncontrollable tremors. “Nae,” she whispered. “This canna be!”

  But there was no mistake.

  The black eyes that met hers were those of the very same man who’d haunted her dreams for over seven years. Ioan Fitz Ranulf, the man she was now betrothed to wed, was the very same man who’d murdered her family and tried to burn her alive.

  Chapter Twelve

  Domnall arrived at Carlisle to the disturbing news that the king was holding a betrothal feast. His chest pounding with apprehension, Domnall entered the great hall where the king’s guests were gathered. He’d secured a bargain, of a sort, with Fitz Duncan, but was he too late?

  He circled the periphery of the chamber where the servants hovered with serving trays and pitchers of drink while his gaze tracked the room. As an intruder, he tried to remain inconspicuous, but couldn’t help attracting disdainful stares. Travel-stained and disheveled, he was very much out of place amongst the richly-dressed nobles.

  The tables were heavily-laden with succulent meats—capon, wild boar, venison, and hare seasoned with spices—accompanied by freely flowing casks of mead and French wine. Having not eaten since the day before, his neglected stomach sounded a loud protest.

  He finally saw Davina standing before the high table making a curtsy, first to the king, and then to Prince Henry, before her attention was directed to the man at the king’s right hand. Was this her betrothed? Domnall regarded him with instant antipathy. He was swarthy with black hair and black eyes, and angular features that reminded Domnall of a raven—a scavenger seeking an heiress.