Captive of the Border Lord

by Blythe Gifford

  She furrowed her brow, searching for another way out. ‘The Dowager Queen was allowed to put aside her husband. If I am forced, I could do the same.’

  Impossible, he knew. ‘Only if the Pope takes a personal interest.’

  ‘Couldn’t I just say no?’ Her question was so wistful. The woman who had done her duty at all costs had finally come to a step too steep to climb.

  He sighed. ‘Saying no, my lass, is what got the Brunsons in trouble in the first place.’

  But as he looked at this woman, he could not allow her to be held hostage in a loveless marriage to a bastard like Oliver Sinclair.

  He had been in such a marriage. Bessie deserved better.

  ‘But if the marriage is not consummated...’ Those were tears in her eyes. Frustration? Fear? ‘If I refused him...’

  He took her into his arms, rocking her, wishing he could protect her as easily this time as he had with the joust. The thought of her in bed with Sinclair outraged him. The knowledge of what the man would do to her if she resisted was worse.

  ‘The King has given me a week to grow accustomed to the idea. Then he’ll make the announcement.’

  That meant a week to work out a way to flout the King’s will without endangering either of them. ‘You will not marry him. I swear it.’

  Yet now, when she needed it most, he had not the least idea how he could fulfil his vow to her brothers.

  Still wrapped in his arms, Bessie was warm against him. The fact that she allowed him to hold her told him more clearly than words that she was afraid.

  God’s bones. This wasn’t about a vow to Rob and Johnnie any more. This was about how he felt about Bessie Brunson.

  I’ll hold you responsible. If he was responsible for Elizabeth Brunson marrying Oliver Sinclair, her brothers wouldn’t be the only ones he’d fear to face.

  He’d never face himself again.

  * * *

  In the next week, Bessie spoke to no one else of the King’s decision, hoping that denial would somehow make it go away. She heard no whispers or rumours. None of the Marys said anything and between them, the Marys knew nearly every piece of court gossip. Yet Wee Mary, usually smiling, looked as glum as Bessie felt.

  As the days passed, she found herself looking for Carwell, or looking to Carwell, as if he really would find the solution she sought, not sure when doubt had turned to trust. Yet he had vowed to her brothers, promised to protect her. He knew the ways of the King. Knew what was possible.

  And what was not.

  She saw him in the King’s company more than once. She even saw the two of them bent over a chessboard. Had he raised the question with the King or simply analysed his strategy of play in order to understand how he might counter it?

  But as the days went by without a word, hope became despair. She was not a courtier, trained to give the King honest advice while staying in his good graces. She was a Brunson. And when the time came, if there was no other solution, she would simply say no. Even if it meant the dungeon.

  Or death.

  * * *

  The week was near gone and Carwell had discovered only one solution to the dilemma. One he could not be sure either the King, or Bessie, would accept.

  He must first persuade the King, for, unless he agreed, Thomas did not want to raise Bessie’s hopes.

  He waited to start the conversation until after the King had won a particularly challenging chess game. This time, unlike on the tournament field, Carwell played skillfuly enough to lose.

  A servant whisked the board away and the King smiled as he picked up his lute.

  ‘Elizabeth Brunson says you’ve suggested she marry.’ It was not as smooth an opening as he had planned. His tongue was becoming as blunt as Bessie’s.

  The King raised his eyes without taking his fingers from the strings. ‘You didn’t think I’d allow her to go back, did you?’

  I didn’t think you were going to marry her to a

  sybarite, either.

  ‘Who do you see as her husband?’ He would lead the King slowly, without revealing all he knew.

  That brought a smile. ‘Someone who thinks it’s the only way to get her into his bed. Oliver Sinclair.’

  ‘Sinclair?’ He throttled his temper, keeping his voice steady. Insulting the King’s favourite would not get him what he wanted. But he could not bear to think of Sinclair with Bessie. He’d been near that boy’s age when he married. And a fool about so many things. ‘Her brothers placed her in my care and charged me with her safety. And her reputation. I won’t see it lost, even to Your Grace’s favourite minion.’

  The King waved his hand. ‘He tried without success. Which is why I think to have him marry her.’

  He swallowed hard against the rush of protests beating their way up his throat. To lose control of himself would be to lose any hope of controlling the King. ‘Perhaps she would be better served with a husband from the Borders.’

  ‘But I would not,’ the King snapped. ‘I need someone who will force the Brunsons to compromise and accept my rule.’ The King raised his brows. A question.

  He let his tongue lay silent, pondering his reply. What he knew, but would not say, was that the Brunsons would never compromise: sooner, later, or after the Second Coming.

  He cleared his throat. ‘It is hard to know what Black Rob will do. He is only four months as the clan’s leader.’

  ‘Black Rob? Is that what they call him?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He can be a man of...moods.’

  ‘His sister seems to have none. She’s the steadiest woman I’ve ever seen.’

  Then you haven’t really seen her, he almost said.

  He had. He had studied her eyes, her lips, the tilt of her chin, her body when it flowed against his and when she tried to fight herself and stumbled. But the King had noticed none of this.

  Thanks be to God.

  ‘She’s a woman of the Borders,’ he said, fighting an unwelcome rush of pride. ‘Not comfortable here at court.’

  A thistle, plucked from the land.

  The King chuckled. ‘Don’t be so sure. She told me she was enjoying court. She certainly seems to be.’

  For a moment, he cursed the skill with which he had taught her to dance.

  ‘No,’ the King said. ‘If these Brunsons can be tamed no other way, they’ll surely behave as long as I hold their sister close.’

  ‘Your Grace, I’m not certain even possession of Elizabeth Brunson will keep them meekly in their tower.’ In fact, it was likely to send them out in full force to storm the castle that held her. Her life would be lived in a velvet prison, under the shadow of a hovering sword. ‘But do you believe Sinclair is the best warrior to face the strongest family in the March?’

  James had turned back to his lute. ‘It was his idea, though I think it was momentary lust.’ He shrugged off a frown. ‘At least he’ll enjoy the bedding.’

  Thomas struggled to subdue his anger. No thought of Bessie. No more care for her than if she were one of the pieces on their chessboard.

  ‘Well, if Sinclair cares not, there might be a better solution.’

  The King looked at him now, eyes narrowed, ready to listen. ‘It must be someone I can trust.’

  ‘Me.’

  One word. A step into quicksand he would never escape.

  ‘You? Solitary Thomas?’

  ‘The Carwells need an heir.’ It was the least of his reasons, but the easiest to explain.

  The King smiled. ‘And this was the lady worth unseating your King to kiss.’

  Did his cheeks look as red as they felt? Thomas hoped not. This was not about desire. In fact, desire made it more difficult. ‘Her brothers made me responsible for her, yes, but this is not about any feeling for the woman,’ he said, ‘it is about accomplishing Your Grace’s aims. With me, she would be close enough to her family that they would constantly be reminded to behave or risk her safety.’

  The family would be reminded to
tear his heart out, but the King did not need to know the Brunsons considered him near as much their enemy as the Storwicks across the border.

  ‘And far enough to be out of my reach.’ The crease in his brow said he was considering the idea. ‘If you have her, can you keep the Brunsons in check?’

  How large a lie could he tell? ‘Any man who tells you he can lies. But they’ve co-operated with me before.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ The youth studied him for a long moment, his fingers plucking the lute strings.

  ‘Sinclair’s experience with the Borders is...limited.’

  The boy narrowed his eyes. ‘I told Ollie he was a fool to marry her in order to bed her.’ His fingers still moved over the strings, though he was silent. Finally, he nodded. ‘Borderers deserve each other. If you’re willing to pick up the yoke, take her, take her to your home, do what you will.’

  Realisation slowly seeped into his bones. He had what he had asked for. A betrothal would at least get her out of Sinclair’s clutches. And later, when they were back on the Borders and the King’s mind was elsewhere, there were ways they could both be freed again. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

  The King, distracted now that it was settled, picked up his lute again. ‘Go tell her.’

  ‘She must take me as well.’

  The King waved a hand, as if that mattered not.

  It did to Thomas.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ he repeated, bowing and backing towards the door.

  And just that quickly, Thomas Carwell had agreed to do what he had spent four years avoiding. He would have in his life the one thing he had vowed never to have again.

  A wife.

  And she would be the woman least suited for the role.

  Just before he reached the door, the King looked up from his lute. ‘And, Thomas, if the Brunsons continue to raid after this, it’s you I’ll hold responsible.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Marry you?’

  Bessie looked at Thomas and blinked.

  He had met her near the Dowager Queen’s quarters, invited her to talk, and now they sat before the warmest fire in the Great Hall, empty at this time of day.

  She looked around her, head swirling, thinking she must be in a waking dream. Once she had entered Stirling’s halls, none of the rules she knew had held true. Did the sun even rise in the east in this land?

  But as she studied him, his eyes held hers, steadfast as she had ever seen them. ‘What good would that do either of us?’

  Yet something in the beat of her heart said yes.

  She ignored it.

  ‘Marry me or Sinclair. Would you prefer him?’

  She shivered. The dungeon would be preferable to Sinclair. ‘Why must it be anyone? Why can’t I just go home?’

  ‘You know why. I warned you before you came.’

  She squirmed. His eyes held less sympathy than she would have liked. It made it easier for her to ignore the memory of his arms, holding her close while she cried. ‘And you promised to protect me.’ Protection she had foolishly said she did not need.

  ‘If we marry, I can.’

  Carwell was full of secrets, yet he was also the only man who had glimpsed something more than the Bessie she had always been. He had taught her to dance. He had believed she could.

  But marriage without her brothers’ consent? Impossible. Marriage to someone who still might be their enemy? Never.

  No. She did not trust him. No. She did not belong in his world. No. She wanted only to go home. A dozen reasons no.

  And only yes.

  She resisted once more. ‘And what’s to make the King keep his word, once he’s married me?’

  ‘He has the same doubts about the Brunsons.’ The grim set of his lips reminded her. This was not about her pleasure. It was about her duty. ‘So much so that when I marry you, he’ll treat me as a Brunson, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I will pay for your family’s behaviour.’

  Wordless, she heard her heart pulse in the silence. Yes, marriage linked families, not only individuals. But this went beyond anything she had ever expected from him. From anyone.

  She felt a smile tickle the edge of her mouth. ‘Well now, Rob and Johnnie will be very interested to hear that you’ll be a brother to them.’

  His smile mirrored hers. A man who knew her brothers, her life, her hills. The only one on this entire rock who did. The only piece of home she had.

  ‘I offer you a way to avoid marriage to Sinclair. Nothing else need change between us.’

  He said the words as if to give her hope, yet there was no hope. Betrothals were seldom broken. They were as binding as marriage itself.

  ‘After that, will I be able to go home?’

  He did not answer right away. ‘Later,’ he said, finally. ‘As long as we are in negotiations with England, I must be with the King.’

  Thomas and Johnnie. Both thinking words on paper could bring peace.

  ‘After that,’ he said, ‘after the treaty is signed, then, we’ll see.’

  Gradually, she understood the truth of it. Home would no longer be the valley where she was born. Home would be an empty castle by the sea she had never seen.

  What was her duty? Yes or no? This man might have already betrayed her family. How could she trust anything he said?

  Because the body did not lie.

  She took a breath and squared her shoulders. ‘Yes. Tell the King I said yes.’

  Yes to her duty. No other reason.

  Or none that she would claim.

  * * *

  A betrothal, not a marriage, she told herself.

  Growing up, she had pictured how it would be. Though the face of the man beside her had always been a mystery, there had been no mystery about the rest. She would be flanked by her brothers, surrounded by the walls that had witnessed her birth.

  Instead, she was adrift in a sea of strangers and her betrothed, a man she knew not at all, was the one she knew best.

  The King had waved off arguments that her family must approve the marriage contract. He had approved their union. Details would be worked out later.

  Surrounded by strangers, betrothed without her brothers’ knowledge or approval, could it be a betrothal in truth?

  Yet the King had decided to celebrate this with a ceremony witnessed by the entire court. So on a snowy December morning, Elizabeth was preparing to stand before the Archbishop in front of the door of the Chapel Royal and exchange promises.

  She looked out of the window. People were gathering in the inner close already.

  ‘Come now,’ Stowte Mary said. ‘The dress is ready.’

  All three Marys had waxed romantic, cooing over her, remembering the tournament and the kiss.

  ‘I said he was a handsome one.’ Wee Mary, smiling again, laced Bessie into a new gown. For her betrothal, the Dowager Queen had given her a cast-off gown and a sewing woman to remake it. There was plenty of cloth left over. ‘Said it from the first. There he was, knocking the King off his horse for the chance to kiss you.’

  ‘I know at least two men who lost a wager,’ Long Mary said. Her hands now rested permanently on her growing stomach.

  ‘Wager?’ Bessie did not know why she asked. She had gone through the entire week as one dead.

  ‘They had bet that Solitary Thomas would never wed again.’

  Why? One more mystery about her future husband. She knew less of him every day.

  Stowte Mary laid a borrowed gold chain around her neck, adjusted it, then patted the red stone carefully into place. ‘You look bonnie. The colours suit you.’

  Bessie had barely noticed the dress. Looking down, she saw what seemed to be a rich russet with an inset of gold in the front of the skirt. Borrowed. No more a part of her than anything that surrounded her.

  Refusing to allow a cloak to cover her finery, they hustled her down the stairs. Each step as irrevocable as the last ones she had taken at Brunson tower. Each raising another doubt sh
e must quash.

  Do not think that he might have betrayed you.

  Do not think that he still loves his dead wife.

  Do not think of his lips on yours.

  Do not think how weak and selfish you may be.

  Think only of family.

  Think only that to wed this man would be to spare them from the King’s wrath.

  She gasped at her first step into the inner close, the winter air cold on her bare throat. She looked over to see him standing at the door to the Chapel Royal, bareheaded, waiting. Just looking at him, she felt the touch of cloaks he had covered her with and the heat his kisses had raised.

  And ceased to think of anything else at all.

  She crossed the broad yard, every step uncertain, until she stood next to Carwell and faced the Archbishop. She had always prided herself on her solid strength. Now, she wondered whether that strength had been not hers, but simply borrowed from the earth and stone around her. Among these people, she was no longer Bessie, but Elizabeth, a woman she knew no better than she knew the man beside her.

  Would she ever know him? Did she even want to?

  As they stood before the priest, not touching, he took her hand and she clung to his. Tossed by the changing tides of this place, the changeability she had disdained now seemed a necessity.

  * * *

  Thomas tangled her fingers in his.

  A betrothal, not a marriage. He reassured himself of that as he said the words.

  I will marry you, not I do marry you.

  That one word—will—left an opportunity. He had not told her because he could not promise, but that left them room to step aside and end the match. Later, after the King’s temper had cooled.

  But in order to do that, the betrothal must not be consummated. If it were, there would be no room at all. It would be a marriage in law, as truly as if the priest had blessed them.

  But he would not have to face that temptation yet. Tonight, no one would be shepherding them to bed, nor looking for bloody sheets in the morning. They would return to their own beds, safely away from each other.

  But today, as he looked down at the beautiful woman at his side, he could draw a breath. He had kept his promise and kept her from a worse fate.