by Emma Prince
When she’d met William de Soules’s eyes over Jerome’s shoulder, she knew she needed to lie—and well enough to fool them all until she could speak with Jerome in private. But what reason could she give to convince these men that she’d followed them all the way from Scotland alone?
It struck her like a blinding flash of lightning. All her life, she’d hated being thought of as a silly girl, interested only in ribbons and flower chains and other such frippery. At last, the assumptions about her would prove useful.
But it meant casting her pride aside—and trampling it into the ground.
“I’m in love with you,” she repeated for good measure.
Jerome went stock-still. His lips, which were normally set in a hard line, parted, and a breath slipped past them.
“What?”
She had done it now. She might as well make a complete fool of herself to seal the lie.
“I-I’ve loved you from the first,” she said, letting the words pour from her. “I didn’t let myself hope, but then when you kissed me the night before you departed, I knew I could not live without you.”
A low whistle sounded behind Jerome, likely from Kieran. She tumbled onward, though.
“I had to find you, to tell you that you have my heart and always will.” Embarrassed tears rose in her eyes, but she didn’t blink them away, hoping they would be mistaken for the lovesick blubbering of a foolish girl.
The only problem was, the words caused a painful tightness in her chest that wasn’t solely attributable to the humiliation swamping her. She didn’t have time to consider that, however, for she heard Captain MacDougal chuckle lowly behind her on the gangplank.
“Och, I kenned it must have been some heart-thievin’ laddie,” he said with another cackle. “What else could drive a bonny lassie to such lengths?”
Jerome at last ripped his stunned gaze from her and fixed MacDougal with a glare. “Ye’ll take her back to Scotland immediately.”
To Elaine’s shock, hurt at his brusque dismissal sank like a rock in her stomach. But why should it? She wasn’t truly in love with him—it was all just a ruse.
The captain grunted, and she turned to find him shooting daggers at Jerome with his one good eye. “Dinnae be a fool, laddie,” he said. “When a lassie as rare as this’n gives ye her heart, ye dinnae toss it aside so quickly.”
Her chest warmed at MacDougal’s defense of her. Though she’d been terrified of him at first, he reminded her of her father in some ways—or mayhap a disgruntled, one-eyed uncle. Still, his protectiveness was only making matters worse at the moment.
Jerome continued to glare at MacDougal. “I ken she’s a treasure, man, but she doesnae belong here.”
“Och, what is the holdup, Munro?” Kieran barked.
Jerome shot him a look over his shoulder before facing the captain again. “I’ll pay ye double whatever she gave ye to see her safely back to Scotland—now.”
Captain MacDougal shrugged. “My crew will be unloadin’ my cargo for at least an hour, and loadin’ ’er back up again for another’n. I suppose ye can wait and give the lassie a wee bit o’ gratitude for all she’s done for ye—” at that he shot Elaine a wink “—or send the poor thing off on one o’ these other ships.” He waved at the harbor. “But then again, those other captains may no’ be quite so kindly as Captain MacDougal.”
Jerome muttered a string of curses under his breath that rivaled anything Elaine had heard aboard the Bonny Berta. He met her gaze, but his dark eyes were shuttered and hard.
“Ye can stay only until MacDougal’s ship sets sail again,” he said. “Then ye’ll go back to Scotland.”
“Jerome,” she said, dropping her voice. She held his gaze, silently willing him to understand—or at least give her a chance to explain in private.
Just then, a faint noise drifted from the gentle green hills above the harbor.
“Bloody hell,” Kieran muttered.
The noise came again—it was tinny and high, like a horn.
“That would be King Philip’s bugler announcing his approach,” de Soules said, his brown eyes fixing on Jerome.
“Shite.”
Chapter Fifteen
Jerome clamped his teeth down on another string of oaths. He moved in front of Elaine as if he were defending her, which was idiotic, for King Philip wasn’t attacking. Yet he couldn’t order his thoughts enough to do aught but act on instinct to protect her.
“What is the King of France doing here?” she hissed behind him.
“He is to escort us to his palace in Paris.”
He heard her pull in a breath. Aye, it had been a surprise to him as well—but not as great a surprise as seeing Elaine step foot on French soil.
Or proclaim that she loved him.
For one breathtaking moment, his heart had soared out of his chest and toward the blazing sun.
Curse him for a fool. If she truly did love him, it wouldn’t change aught. His mission awaited, and he couldn’t let anything—or anyone—get in the way of that.
Yet something in her eyes had given him pause. The shadow crossing their vivid blue depths had sent the hairs on his neck lifting. Could she be lying? If that was the case, then what the bloody hell was she doing here?
“We need to talk,” she murmured as if reading his thoughts.
“Aye—later.”
Just then, the blue and gold banners for King Philip peeked above the top of the grassy hillside. They flapped in the mild breeze blowing in from the harbor as they drew nearer.
The ground rumbled with the approaching procession, which must have been as big as an army.
A dozen mounted, armored guards crested the rise, then began streaming down toward the docks, more falling in behind them. One of the guards in the front eyed them and approached.
De Soules gave a bow. “We come in the name of King Robert the Bruce of Scotland bearing a message for the Pope.”
“Ah, you are the ones,” the guard replied in accented English, his gaze flicking over each of them.
“We are honored that His Majesty King Philip V has so graciously agreed to allow us safe passage across his fair lands,” de Soules continued in a loud, formal voice. “And we are further humbled by the privilege of his escort to ensure that—”
“Are they here?” someone asked from the top of the rise, cutting de Soules off. “Have they arrived already?”
“Oui, Majesté,” the guard replied.
Just then, a horse and rider so bedecked with gold and jewels that Jerome had to squint to make them out in the bright sun crested the hilltop and rode toward them. The horse’s saddle and bridle were encrusted with sapphires and gold filigree. The man himself wore an ermine-trimmed blue velvet cloak and a gold crown atop his head.
The dozens of guards shifted around the rider like a cloud, staying close but moving amorphously to accommodate his advance.
Instinctively, Jerome dropped into a low bow. This could be none other than the King himself. Elaine, too, dipped into a deep curtsy.
“Welcome to France, mes amis,” the King said. “Arise and let me look each of you in the eyes.”
De Soules was the first to respond. He straightened halfway, keeping his head tilted in respect. “Majesty, I am Sir William de Soules, at yer service.”
“Ah, oui, you are the one with lands here in the north, is that correct?”
“Aye, Majesty. And these men are my companions, each hand-selected by King Robert the Bruce for this most significant task. Bishop Kininmund.” De Soules motioned to the bishop, who inclined his head to the King. “Kieran MacAdams.” Typical of the Highlander, Kieran nodded in respect but didn’t genuflect as deeply as he would have for the Bruce. “And Jerome Munro.”
Jerome, too, nodded, though it was closer to a bow that Kieran’s had been.
He looked up to find King Philip’s curious, intelligent brown eyes fixed on him—or rather, fixed on Elaine, who was still lowered in her curtsy.
“And who is this lovely
mademoiselle?”
“This,” de Soules replied, his voice tightening. “Is Lady Elaine Beaumore.”
The King’s light brown eyebrows winged in surprise. “And she is part of your King’s envoy as well?”
“Nay, Majesty, she only just arrived.”
King Philip’s penetrating gaze shifted to Elaine again. “Oh? And what business does she have in France?”
Just as Jerome opened his mouth to fumble for an answer, Captain MacDougal interrupted from the gangplank. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Majesty, but I just delivered yon lassie from Scotland. She came all this way for that Munro laddie. Stole her heart, he has.”
Before Jerome could refute the meddling captain’s words, the King’s eyes lit up.
“Truly? That is most bold of you, mademoiselle.”
“A-aye, Majesty,” Elaine nigh croaked behind him.
“Rise, Lady Elaine.”
Elaine obeyed, stepping to Jerome’s side.
“Munro, what response have you made to the lovely lady?”
Jerome cleared his throat, but the blasted captain spoke first again.
“He’s sendin’ her back, Majesty! Wants me to take her away as soon as possible.”
“Oh, mais non, Munro,” the King chided, his eyes dancing with amusement. “The lady must come with us to Paris.”
Propriety be damned. “Nay, Majesty,” Jerome cut in. “She cannae—”
The King continued as if Jerome hadn’t spoken.
“She shall be my personal guest. I intend to dazzle you with the beauty of the French countryside, Lady Elaine. And when we reach the palace, my darling wife and her ladies-in-waiting will undoubtedly fawn over that lovely hair and comely form. No doubt they will polish you up and parade you about court until Munro here is sick with jealousy.”
He waggled his eyebrows at her, and out of the corner of his eye, Jerome saw a blush climbing into her face.
“Thank you, Majesty,” she replied.
“Yer Majesty, I must insist that—”
The King waved him away as if he were naught more than a fly. “You Scotsmen are far too dour,” he commented. “You are in France now. As my honored guests, I insist that you enjoy your time here.”
The matter settled to his liking, the King reined his horse around. “Let us be off, then. If it were just us, it would take three days to reach Paris, but with the caravan of wagons we are sure to move slower.”
Caravan of wagons? Jerome nearly cursed but managed to bite it back. He turned to Captain MacDougal and leveled the gnarled old bear with a hard look.
“Though ye have already been most obliging with yer…help,” he said tightly, “I would request one last favor.” Jerome withdrew a scrap of parchment and a stub of charcoal from the pouch on his belt. He scrawled a quick note that Elaine was safe in France and under his protection.
“See that when ye return to Scone this is delivered to Finn Sutherland and no other,” he said, folding the note and placing a coin on top of it. He extended it to MacDougal. “Understood?”
“Aye,” the captain replied, giving Jerome a wide smile that revealed more than a few missing teeth. He was loath to trust the man with such an important task, but then again, MacDougal had seen Elaine safely across the North Sea. Besides, Jerome had no other choice.
Jerome turned to find King Philip and his guards ascending the hill over Calais once more. The other three members of the Bruce’s envoy were mounting their horses reluctantly and casting glances at Elaine. The bishop, in particular, wore a sour look, as he had for much of the sea crossing.
Jerome took Elaine’s arm and guided her to his horse. Once he’d swung into the saddle, he pulled her up in front of him, settling her across his lap. Despite his anger and confusion, aching heat jumped in his veins to have her so near.
“I can explain,” she murmured as he spurred his horse after the others.
“Oh aye,” he ground out. “Ye will.”
Chapter Sixteen
As they crested the ridge, Elaine sucked in a breath. She’d thought their retinue large with nearly two score of the King of France’s guards encircling their little party. But now she saw that their traveling caravan was far larger.
On the other side of the hill sat at least a dozen wagons along with another score of armored guards.
Now that she thought of it, the enormous retinue made sense. If a King were to travel—especially a King like Philip, who clearly favored luxuries fit for his station—he would need tents, furniture, food, clothes, and servants in tow.
“You said the King wished to provide a personal escort to Paris,” she murmured, tilting her head up to Jerome’s. “Why?”
He glanced down at her, a muscle ticking in his bristle-covered jaw. Slowly, he let a breath go. “I gather he wishes to make a show of his support for the Bruce’s message to the Pope. Things have gone sour between him and England’s King Edward. So he’s decided that the enemy of his enemy is his friend—the Bruce, in this case.”
She shifted her gaze to the wagons. “Aye, he certainly isn’t making a secret of this.”
“I believe he wishes to make it understood far and wide that we Scots are traveling across his lands with his express permission to Avignon.”
All the King’s fanfare and spectacle might make it difficult for her to steal a moment alone with Jerome to tell him what she’d learned in Scone. Still, she should be grateful that the King had arrived when he had, for she might have found herself on the Bonny Berta bound for Scotland once more.
“I cannae deny that I am glad to see ye again,” Jerome murmured, cutting into her thoughts. “But ye dinnae belong here, Elaine. Though King Philip may try to make this seem like a merry picnic, this mission is actually dangerous. We are safe among his guards, but after we reach the palace, they willnae continue to escort us to Avignon. And though France is considered a friend of Scotland, the Bruce has enemies everywhere.”
Elaine had to bite her tongue to prevent blurting just how well she understood that now. Apparently the Bruce had enemies in his own palace, for gracious’ sake.
Instead, all she said was, “I know,” keeping her voice barely above a whisper. She sensed his sharp, dark eyes on her and glanced up to find him searching her features.
“Something is wrong. I sensed it before by the docks, but now I’m sure. What is it, Elaine?”
Her gaze darted to de Soules, who rode ahead with the other men. “I can’t say—not yet, anyway.”
Jerome’s arm, which was looped around her back to allow him to hold the reins, stiffened.
“At least tell me this,” he said, his voice so low and deep that it reverberated through her where her shoulder pressed into his chest. “Are ye in danger?”
Something fluttered deep in her belly at his protectiveness, but she set it aside. There were far more serious matters to focus on for now.
“Mayhap,” she said carefully. “But it isn’t me you should worry about.”
He worked his jaw for a long moment, his brows lowered and his eyes burning with frustration—and concern. He opened his mouth to speak, but just then the King called for the wagons to be mobilized and set his horse at a brisk walk toward the rolling hills to the south.
“Later,” he murmured close to her ear.
* * * *
They traveled slowly across the verdant landscape, so much more lush and fecund than anything Elaine had seen in Northern England or Scotland. The day was warm and sunny, and soon she shed her cloak, which Jerome tucked away in his saddlebags.
Without the thick layer of wool between them, she was all the more aware of his solid strength behind her—and the fact that he still radiated taut frustration. She could only hope that once he learned the truth, he would forgive her for appearing so unexpectedly—and lying about her feelings for him.
They crossed vast farmlands and skirted villages of varying sizes. Occasionally, they drew near enough to one of the little towns to draw a crown of curious onlookers. With the
King riding proudly at the front of their procession, glittering in the sunlight like a jewel, the French townspeople were understandably awed and thrilled at their passing.
When at last the sun dipped toward the horizon, the King called for a halt so that their camp could be erected. As Jerome helped Elaine dismount, servants jumped down from the wagons and began unloading their supplies. They made surprisingly fast work setting up an enormous circular tent made of blue- and yellow-dyed canvas for the King. Several other, much smaller tents were assembled for the Bruce’s men, the guards, and the servants themselves.
It was dusky twilight by the time the camp was arranged. As one of the servants lit a fire, the King approached the Bruce’s men, who’d been standing aside to allow the servants to work.
“I hope you will forgive me, mes amis,” he said, adjusting his ermine-trimmed cloak around his shoulders. “I find I am weary after the day’s travels and wish to retire to my tent. I hope you will not judge French hospitality too harshly just yet, for I plan to show you all of France’s luxuries when we exchange these rustic conditions for the palace.”
Elaine hid her tired smile by dipping into a curtsy of acknowledgement. King Philip’s tent hardly seemed rustic, but he was royalty after all, and had been born into extravagance. Still, she was surprised to see him up close and out of his saddle, for he was far younger and more physically commanding on his own two feet that she would have expected the French King to be.
He looked of an age with Jerome, and of a height with him as well. She’d heard him called Philip the Tall by her father before, and the epithet proved true. Though he still wore his crown, rich cloak, and a ceremonial jewel-encrusted sword belted to his waist, he didn’t appear foppish or arrogant for all the opulence. Instead, his keen, dancing brown eyes spoke of intelligence and good humor.
“Of course, Majesty,” de Soules answered with a bow. “We are most honored.”
