The Knight

by Monica McCarty

  “You know better than to listen to the English, Thommy. James is not the black devil they would make him out to be.” But even as she defended him, Joanna acknowledged a growing unease about James’s reputation. The fearsome man who’d struck terror in the heart of the English was not the James she knew. It was hard to mesh the gallant knight she loved with the ruthless “Black Douglas” who cut a swathe of destruction across the Marches.

  And she knew better than anyone that not all the stories were false. The infamous “Douglas Larder” had happened three Easters past in the very castle she could see across the river. Her own grandfather had died at James’s side when James and his men had surprised the English garrison while they attended services on Palm Sunday. After looting the castle stores, they’d beheaded the prisoners and tossed their bodies on a pile of the remaining stores before setting the whole lot on fire.

  Fight fear with fear, James had told her. And it had worked. The danger in holding Douglas Castle had earned it the moniker “Castle Dangerous” from the English. But she didn’t like to think of the man who’d held her heart for as long as she could remember as being so… merciless.

  Stop! she told herself. James loves you.

  She trusted him. But unconsciously, her hand covered her stomach.

  Thom gave her a sad smile, obviously sensing the direction of her thoughts. “He might love you, but he’ll marry to increase the wealth and prestige of Douglas.”

  “You’re wrong.” But her soft voice lacked the conviction it had held before.

  Suddenly, Thom’s expression changed. His gaze flickered to the hand that was spread out over her belly, first in disbelief, and then in horrified anger. “Oh, God, Jo, what have you done?”

  She blushed. From what she’d heard from some of the village lasses, Thommy knew exactly what she’d done.

  “Tell me you aren’t with child?” He breathed tightly.

  She couldn’t do that. She lowered her eyes, not daring to meet his gaze. It wasn’t condemnation she feared but something far worse: pity.

  “The bloody bastard, I’ll kill him!”

  Joanna latched on to his arm, preventing him from moving away. James would not be the one killed—they both knew that. Despite their similarity in size and physical strength—Thom had the heavy muscles of a smith—he had never been trained to fight. James was “the Black Douglas,” a battle-hardened warrior who’d held a sword in his hand since he was a lad. It would be no contest.

  “No, Thom. I neither need nor want your outrage. It isn’t warranted. I knew the risk I took. I wanted…” She bit her lip, embarrassed. “I wanted to lie with him. He did not force me.”

  But her words did little to dampen his anger. “He took advantage of your love for him as he’s always done, damn it. I should have put a stop to it the day I caught him kissing you—doing more than kissing you—up here, but I never thought he would dishonor you like this.”

  “He didn’t dishonor me.”

  “Make no mistake, Jo. No matter what Douglas might have let you believe, he might make you his leman, but he won’t make you his wife. Babe or nay.” The distraught rage on his face cut her to the quick. Her chest squeezed. “Damn him to hell. Your innocence belonged to your husband. You don’t have to be a bloody knight to know that.”

  Joanna had never seen him so angry. And in spite of her faith in James, it was hard not to be affected by Thommy’s reaction. Her heart started to flutter with panic, and tears burned her eyes. “Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to ruin this for me? I know you’re upset about Beth, but this is different. James and I have been in love for years. You know that. He intends to marry me; I know he does. Can’t you be happy for me?”

  He sighed, raking his dark hair back with his fingers. Some of his anger seemed to dissipate. “I’m sorry, Jo. I don’t want to upset you. But I care about you, and don’t want to see you hurt. Your heart is too big. You are worth far more than land and gold. It is Douglas who doesn’t deserve you.”

  She bowed her head and said quietly with all the conviction in her heart, “You’re wrong about him, Thommy.”

  “I hope so. For your sake, I hope so. If I had a woman who had half as much faith in me as you, I would never let her go. But promise me something.” He paused until she looked up. “If he doesn’t live up to that faith, you’ll send for me. If he won’t give your child a name, I will.”

  She stared at him in shock. “But you don’t love me.”

  He laughed. “Perhaps not in the way you mean, but we’re friends, which is more than most husbands and wives can say.”

  The generosity of his offer moved her, but it was an offer she could never accept. For his sake as well as her own. “What of Beth?” she asked softly.

  His mouth hardened. “I could become the greatest knight in Christendom, and it would not change my birth or how she looks upon me. I do not delude myself. Lady Elizabeth Douglas will never be for me. She might as well be the bloody Queen.”

  The way he said it…

  Was Joanna deluding herself?

  No. James wouldn’t do that to her. She trusted him with every fiber of her being—body and soul.

  It was well after midday by the time James clambered up the hill. There was a lightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Since the last time he’d been with Jo, in fact.

  God, it had been too long.

  As he neared the crest of the hill, he saw her. Waiting for him beneath the old Sessile Oak tree, as she always did. She turned, and the broad smile that spread across her face made his breath catch hard in his chest like the pounding of a fist.

  The memories that held him over the long months of their separation never did her justice. It was impossible to remember just how lovely she was in the flesh. He could never quite get the exact shade of golden blond of her hair, the vivid peacock-blue of her eyes, the flawlessness of her freshly-churned-cream skin, the brilliance of her smile, or the curvy—very curvy—lushness of her figure.

  Hers was not the refined beauty of the noblewomen at court, but a wholesome goodness drawn from the verdant beauty of the countryside around them. His Viking dairymaid, he thought of her. His lusty Viking dairymaid, he amended. He’d known she would be responsive, but never could he have imagined such innate sensuality.

  Anticipation coursed through his blood, the memories of what had happened last time hastening his steps. He hadn’t meant to let it go so far, but it had seemed inevitable from the first kiss they’d shared in the barn so long ago. Even at fifteen, he’d known she belonged to him.

  And she knew it, too. She was already flying into his arms. “James!”

  Just the sound of her husky voice was like ambrosia to his war-trodden soul. His arms slid around her, and he savored the simple pleasure of her soft, welcoming body melting into his.

  He’d missed her, he realized. More than he’d ever dreamed possible. When had she become so important to him? So vital? Like the air he breathed and the food he ate, Joanna nourished his soul.

  “You came,” she said, looking up at him with such an expression of joy on her face, it felt like his lungs had turned to steel.

  Because her mouth was only inches from his, because he could practically taste its sweetness, and simply because it had been too damned long, he kissed her.

  His mouth covered hers, swallowing her gasp of surprise, and then the low moan of pleasure that went straight to his bollocks with a hard tug.

  So soft. So warm. So much sweeter than he’d remembered. Heat coursed through his blood and tired limbs.

  He groaned, feeling her soften. Her mouth opened under his, and he had to taste her more deeply. His tongue delved into her mouth, stroking and consuming in long, slow pulls.

  Oh God, it was incredible. Over and over, he drew her in.

  The first tentative flicker of her response nearly brought him to his knees. Passion was new for her, but instinct and enthusiasm more than made up for lack of experience. Her body was m
ade for this and seemed to know it.

  He tightened his hold around her waist, bending her into him, increasing the pressure against his already rock-hard cock.

  She felt so good. He couldn’t wait to be inside her again. To feel all the tight, warm flesh gripping him. To hear her cries of pleasure as he made her shatter.

  His heart pounded. His blood surged. He felt his control slipping.

  He pulled away with an oath. He couldn’t do this now. He didn’t have time. He shouldn’t even be here, but he had to see her. Robbie Boyd and Alex Seton were probably already looking for him. The two members of Bruce’s secret Highland Guard wouldn’t be happy he’d snuck away only hours before they were to put their plan into motion.

  But gazing down into her hazy, passion-filled eyes, he almost reconsidered. Three months was a long time to abstain. He felt more like a monk at lent, than a young, virile, and lusty man of not yet five and twenty. But since the day she’d given herself to him, James had lost his appetite for other women—an appetite that had been rather voracious up to that point. He’d been trying to ease his hunger with trifles, only finding satisfaction with Joanna.

  When his breath returned, he said, “Of course, I came. You know I can’t stay away from you.”

  The pink bloom of her cheeks rose with delight, his words obviously pleasing her. “But it’s dangerous. The English are looking for you. If they see you—”

  “They won’t see me,” he said flatly, and then smiled. “Not until I want them to.”

  Though his voice brokered no argument, he knew he had not completely allayed her fears when her fist came up to her mouth. For as long as he could remember, she’d nibbled on her thumbnail when she was worried. But since she hated the “vile habit,” he took care not to point it out.

  She gazed up at him, her big blue eyes wide with worry. “Are you planning something, James?”

  He cocked a brow. She knew very well that he was. “As long as Clifford keeps filling my hall with Englishmen, I’ll keep emptying it.”

  Joanna knew better than to dispute his claim of ownership of Douglas Castle. All the hatred he’d once borne the English king who’d killed his father had been transferred to the man Edward had given his father’s land to: Sir Robert Clifford, the English baron and trusted military commander of both the dead King Edward and his son, Edward II. Twice James had destroyed Clifford’s garrison, and twice Clifford had replenished it with more men. The last time Clifford had come to the castle himself to see to its fortification.

  This time James intended to take back Douglas Castle for good. He’d rather see his family stronghold razed to the ground than have it occupied by thirty English whoresons. Too bad Clifford wasn’t here now. James would see the English devil straight to hell. If Boyd didn’t do it for him first. If there was anyone who hated the Lord of Clifford more than James, it was Robbie Boyd.

  She eyed him warily. “What are you going to do?”

  What he’d done twice before: use guile and cunning to trick the enemy and then destroy them. “Empty the larder,” he said with a hard smile.

  She paled and her eyes flew to his. “You swore nothing like that would ever happen again. You said—”

  “I know what I said,” he snapped. It wasn’t her place to draw lines in the sand about what was acceptable or unacceptable in warfare. Hell, Wallace was said to have made a belt out of the skin of Sir Hugh de Cressingham, the hated English commander whom he’d defeated at Stirling Bridge. But the horrified way she’d looked at him after that “Douglas Larder” episode, as if she didn’t know him…

  It had pricked his conscience, damn it. He would have promised her anything not to have her look at him like that, and that scared him. He couldn’t let anyone—even Joanna—interfere with his plans. He would take back his father’s lands from the English, restore his patrimony, and see the house of Douglas raised to dizzying heights. He didn’t care how much English blood needed to be spilled to do so. “I will show your Englishmen mercy, unless they give me cause otherwise.”

  She heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m glad. They fear you enough.”

  It wouldn’t be enough until every English soldier fled Scotland in terror. His eyes narrowed, the spark of something dangerous taking hold. “Why do you care so much about them, anyway?”

  She gazed up at him quizzically. “It’s not the English I care about, it’s you.”

  “So there is no truth to the rumor I heard that the captain of the guard has been finding excuses to stop by Hazelside?”

  The heat that flooded her cheeks made him see red.

  “I was ill one morning,” she explained. “Sir John witnessed it; he was only being kind.”

  James looked down at the beautiful face tilted toward his and felt a flash of anger so intense and irrational it stole his breath. Jo was his, damn it. His. If “Sir John” de Wilton—the commander of the English garrison—were standing before him right now, he would be a dead man. “Don’t be naive, Jo. The Englishman wants you. What man could look at you and not want you?”

  She was beautiful. The face of a cherub with a lush body built for sin. But it was so much more than her physical appearance. Joanna Dicson was sweet and good and kind. She was his heart and the keeper of his soul. Without her, he would…

  He couldn’t even contemplate it. Joanna had been at his side for as long as he could remember. She was a part of him—the very best part of him. And God willing, she would be by his side for the rest of his life.

  Any prick of conscience he might feel about what he’d done had been eased by that thought. He would take care of her. Forever.

  She reached up and cupped his stubbled jaw in her hand and gave him a tender smile. “You’ve no cause for jealousy, James. Sir John has a sweetheart back in England. And even if he didn’t, the only man I want is you. I love you.”

  The warmth of her words spread over him, soothing the red haze and allowing joy to blossom in its place. Love. Aye, she loved him. And he loved her. How could he not?

  Good intentions forgotten, James drew her into his arms once again and kissed her. He groaned at the contact—at the flood of sensation. Her lips were warm and soft, and so incredibly sweet. No honey had ever tasted sweeter.

  He knew he didn’t have time for this, but he just couldn’t seem to stop. That was how it had always been between them, hot and out of control—as impossible to harness as wildfire. Now that it had been unleashed, he wondered that they’d been able to keep it contained for so long. The raw power, the intensity, the sheer devastation of it, surprised even him. He’d never felt anything like it before and knew he never would again. This kind of passion was once in a lifetime.

  His lips moved over hers hungrily—ravenously—drinking her in with each wicked stroke of his tongue. He wanted to devour every last inch of her, leaving no part of her unpossessed, unclaimed.

  She was his.

  And she knew it. She surrendered to the passion without hesitation. Nay, surrendered wasn’t the right word. Welcomed. She opened her heart to him, and he reveled in it, savored it. She took him in, as if she would never let him go.

  He prayed she never would. He needed her, and he was only beginning to realize how much.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was happening again. Joanna felt the strange sensations flooding her and knew she would be helpless to resist. Not that she wanted to. That had been the problem from the first. When James was holding her, touching her, and kissing her like this, she never wanted it to end. She liked it. Liked not just the way he made her body feel—all hot and prickly and sensitive—but also the way it made her feel in her heart: protected, cherished, and… loved.

  Most of all loved. James loved her. How could she have let Thom make her doubt him for an instant? She put all of her guilt into her response, opening her mouth and kissing him back with every bit of the fervor and passion that he was giving her.

  Though Joanna was tall for a woman, James still towered over her by nearly a foot,
and she had to stretch on her tiptoes just to slide her hands around his neck to hold on. And hold on she did. It seemed the moment his mouth touched hers, the bones in her legs dissolved. Actually all of her bones dissolved. She turned into a melty puddle of heat and sensation.

  Her skin flushed. Her body tingled from the sensitive tips of her breasts to the intimate place between her legs. The fleeting memory of another sensation—one that had left her shattered and weak—teased the fringes of her consciousness.

  A low moan of anticipation escaped from deep in her throat. She increased the pressure of their bodies, melding her curves into the hard contours of his chest and thighs.

  The last few years of warfare had wrought many changes in James, but by far the most noticeable were those to his body. The lean, lanky build of his youth had transformed into rock-hard muscle and granite planes. He was still lean, but all vestiges of youth were gone. He was a man, with the solid, muscular build of the fierce warrior who’d struck terror across the Marches. She shuddered a little, remembering how it had felt to squeeze those muscles beneath her palms.

  Even his face had changed, though not from any scars. Unusually, James’s face bore no marks of the warfare that had consumed all of their lives. Rather, the boyish good looks had hardened. Become sharper. More dangerous and ruthless. He was handsome, but that wasn’t the word that came to mind when you looked at him. He was imposing. Fierce. Determined. From his size, to the piercing dark eyes, to the set of his square jaw—that was what she saw. But somehow it only added to his appeal.

  Indeed, he looked more like a ruffian than a lord or knight. He wore no fine wool surcoat or tabard emblazoned with the arms of Douglas over his mail. Actually he hardly wore any mail at all, only a coif under his helm to protect his neck. Otherwise his armor consisted of a basic black leather cotun and chausses dotted with bits of steel, more suited to a Highland warrior than an important lieutenant in Bruce’s personal retinue. But heavy armor did not lend itself to the agility and speed required for the quick style of attack that James was becoming famous for—modeled on the Norsemen who had terrorized Scotland’s shores years ago.