No, he had never cared for her, only for the pleasure she gave him. No pleasure now. Now, she was only a nuisance. A liability. A problem to be resolved.
Blessedly, he blinked, and when he met her eyes again, he, too, had conquered himself.
No. Neither one of them would succumb now. She must wait out the next few weeks, prove his deception, and then she could go home to be Bessie Brunson, the same woman she had always been.
And he, the man she had always suspected.
His gaze hardened. ‘Do what you will inside these walls. Only do not go outside alone. The marsh can be treacherous and the sands deadly.’
A gust of winter wind turned the corner of the castle. The sound of angry waves shoved against the shore did not comfort her as they had last night. No, walking outside did not sound inviting.
But one day soon, it might seem as inviting as a cold stream in November. She kept her demi-smile firmly in place. The castle and the land were his. She, as he had made clear, was not.
If she wanted to walk along the beach, she would.
* * *
Bessie began her campaign the same day. Hew the steward was unaccustomed to bowing to a mistress of the household, but he seemed eager to prove his worth to the woman his master was to wed. Proudly, he took her on a tour of the castle, large and impressive as it looked from beyond the walls.
It was designed for strength and comfort, he explained in minute detail. The double towers of the gatehouse could be used as the ultimate defence in case of attack, in a similar way to her own tower.
‘Even the first English Edward could not take this castle. We can draw up the bridge over the moat,’ he said. ‘Guard chambers on either side house the men. Arrows can be shot from the roof or inside.’ He glanced up the winding stairs. ‘The master’s chamber is on the top floor.’
He did not offer to show it to her.
She followed his gaze. An upper room was designed as the ultimate retreat, the place where a family would make a last stand against the enemy. ‘Not luxurious quarters.’
He shook his head. ‘Yours, and the newer ones in the west corridor, are more comfortable, but he prefers this one.’
This one, where he would be alone and on guard.
Beyond the gatehouse, the castle stretched into a triangle along three sides, larger and older than the Brunson’s tower. She counted at least seven bedrooms, each with a fireplace graced by a Carwell crest, carved into the mantel.
‘Carwells have lived here since the time of the last Alexander,’ he said, voice proud as if he shared the name.
Yet instead of carrying the warmth of generations of the family, the rooms echoed hollow and empty.
Perhaps it was not only Thomas Carwell who was so withdrawn.
‘Tell me about Laird Carwell’s father,’ she said, interrupting Hew’s extended description of the arrow slits in the base of the western tower. ‘Did you know him?’
Hew blinked. ‘I’ve served the Carwells all my life. And my father before me.’
They kept walking and she tried to think of what to say. ‘Was he...is Thomas like him?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘In looks, he favours his mother, I think, although the reach of his sword arm reminds me—’
‘I mean in temperament.’ What could she say that would not insult the man? ‘Was his father so...careful in his speech?’ Nothing like his father, she had guessed. Was she right?
The man shook his head. ‘His father was more plain-spoken, always ready to say what he thought, whether you liked it or not.’
A clue to the mystery that was Thomas Carwell, it seemed. ‘And the Earl of Angus did not like it.’
Hew shook his head. ‘But they share one thing, Thomas and his father. Both of them Wardens before they are Carwells. The day your brother brought the King’s proclamation naming Laird Carwell to the position was the day he had waited for since the moment Angus removed his father from it.’
‘His father died soon after, I understand.’
‘Aye,’ he said, remembered sadness touching his eyes. ‘It killed him, losing the wardenship. That’s what I’ve always said.’
Broken-hearted, Stowte Mary had said. Perhaps she was right.
Footsteps echoing on the stone floor, they turned into a great hall, which ran the length of the base of the triangle. A tapestry hung, isolated, in the middle of the long wall, the image full of carts and horses and women in both red and blue dresses.
It could have used a good beating.
‘“The Triumph of Death over Chastity”,’ the steward said, following her glance. ‘A wedding gift from Lady Annabell’s father.’
The title chilled her more than the fireless hall. What a cheerless message to begin a marriage. ‘How long has it been? Since she died?’ Thomas had never said.
‘Two years before the old laird.’
Four years, then. A long time for a man to mourn.
The steward looked around the neglected hall. ‘This room has seen no banquets for many years,’ he said. An apology.
‘Not since she died?’ She forced the question to help her remember. That was the woman he still loved and mourned. His betrothal to Bessie had been a calculation.
Their bedding a mistake.
The steward shook his head. ‘Even before then. She was not...strong.’
With child when she died. Had the woman done nothing but languish in her bed? No wonder he thought women so delicate.
‘Was she not a Border woman?’
He shook his head. ‘Nearer Edinburgh.’
She felt a pang of sympathy. A woman who had many hills protecting her from the English. Maybe one who had expected to dance in the King’s court, as out of place here as Bessie had been in Stirling.
But at least there, out of place as she was, Bessie had learned to dance.
Hew cleared his throat. ‘Shall we be planning a wedding feast soon?’
He looked so hopeful, she could not bear to tell him the blunt truth. ‘The laird must fulfil the treaty’s terms. Meet with the English Warden, schedule a Truce Day...’
‘After that, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’
But the man looked so downcast she could not leave it there. ‘But now your master is home. That is cause for celebration, is it not?’
They shared a smile. ‘Aye, that it is.’
‘Then celebration we will have.’
And in the process of preparing a feast, she would have an excuse to explore every nook and cranny of the place. And of Thomas’s past.
* * *
Thomas saw little of Bessie for the first few days. It seemed as if she were always just around the corner or down the hall and out of sight.
Better that way.
He had buried himself in preparations and negotiations, and not only for Truce Day, as the rest of them assumed. While he had warned the King that there was little incentive for the English to honour Truce Days under the new treaty’s terms, the first one was specified in the agreement. Lord Acre, the English Warden, would probably comply.
But there was something else he wanted to explore with the man. Something he did not want the King, or anyone else, to know.
The treaty had given Angus the right to leave Scotland and live in England unmolested. But nothing could guarantee the man would live a long and healthy life once he crossed the border. Willie Storwick certainly hadn’t. And though the English King might have a fondness for Angus and his politics, he saw no reason why the English Warden would spare any sympathy for an exiled Scottish lord.
At least, he hoped not.
So messengers rode back and forth from Carwell Castle to Carlisle, carrying agreements written and unwritten. Thomas himself would cross the border soon enough. There, he would sit across from the English Warden, look the man in the eyes and face the questions—Willie Storwick’s escape, the man’s death, the treaty negotiated, the treaty signed—all that had passed from last autumn until now.
Then they each would ha
ve to make a decision. Could the other be trusted this time?
Chapter Seventeen
Late in the day, almost a week after they had returned home, Thomas looked up to see Bessie standing at the door of his private chamber.
He set aside his ledger and steadied his breath, glad he was sitting. His craving for her was easier to ignore when he did not have to see her.
Yet even when he did not see her, he sniffed new, more appetising smells rising from the kitchen. He even heard a woman’s voice, in song, creeping around corners that should have been silent.
‘What do you need?’
‘I suggest we need a celebration,’ she began, her smile soft. ‘A feast to welcome Laird Thomas Carwell home.’
‘I neither need, nor want, a celebration.’ He looked down at the desk so he would not see the temptation of her lips.
‘Perhaps not,’ she said, refusing to be dismissed. ‘But your people do.’
He had kept his people safe. That should be enough.
He raised his eyes, trying to read her face. Maybe safety was not enough for her. Maybe there was something more she wanted. He looked below her waist, wondering whether he could see a new curve there.
Did she want the marriage made real?
No. Neither of them wanted that. ‘I will not celebrate our betrothal before them. It will only make it harder. Later.’
Later. When he found a way to break it.
She shook her head. ‘Not for that. I told Hew there would be no wedding soon.’
Not that, then. Yet he did not feel relief. ‘Then there is no reason for feasting.’
She stepped dangerously close and he blessed the wide table that separated them.
‘Thomas, your pain has become theirs. They creep through the halls afraid of laughter, afraid of life. You escape to the court. You dance, you laugh, and then you come back here, where you neither laugh nor speak.’
He fought the guilt. She had seen what he should have noticed years ago. While he knew he would never marry again, his people lived in limbo, wondering when they would see an heir. Wondering what would become of them.
‘You were away in Stirling, so there were no Christmas celebrations,’ she continued. ‘So let us celebrate the approach of Candlemas and the end of the raiding season.’
He did laugh, then. ‘Reivers read no calendar.’
She shrugged. ‘Nights grow shorter.’
‘Aye.’ Less time for a man to ride under cover of darkness. ‘But as winter wanes, the larder is lean. What’s left to serve at a feast?’
She tilted her head, as if she had not heard him aright. ‘You’ve lived without a woman for a long, long time, Thomas Carwell, if you don’t know we can pluck a meal out of the air.’
Yes, he had. And now he was beginning to understand what kind of wife a real woman might be. ‘If I say yea, you must promise to say nothing of our betrothal before the rest of the Carwells.’
Did his words cause the pain behind her glance?
‘What would you have me say?’ she said, in the calm voice he knew.
‘Nothing you will have to deny later.’
She nodded, her silence his answer.
He wanted to argue against the idea. Bringing in family, creating feast and festivity, could only complicate the current uneasy balance, a situation so precarious it could collapse at any moment.
On the other hand, it would offer him an opportunity to end one uncertainty.
‘Go. Do it.’ Planning and preparation would keep her busy and out of his sight. ‘Hew will know how to reach them, who should attend.’
His cousin would be among them. It was time to name the man his heir and end expectation among his kin, or anyone else, that he might marry again.
Bessie nodded and turned to leave.
‘Wait.’
She paused, lips parted, a flicker of hope in her eyes.
That which he must kill.
He swallowed, struggling against his own desire. ‘There will be no dancing.’
Dancing with her was what had led him to this quagmire.
* * *
Later that week, the weather turned fair and Bessie watched him lead the men down to rebuild a fishing hut that Storwick men had torched last autumn when they had escaped from her brothers.
Rob and John had always suspected the destruction had been merely for show and that Carwell had conspired to prevent the man’s capture. And for all her promises, Bessie had discovered nothing that would prove his guilt.
Anywhere but here, he had said. Well, now that he was beyond the moat, she would have the opportunity to look.
At the door to his office, she stood, assessing the man by looking at his space. She had judged the desk more cluttered than her brother’s, but now that she could study it, she saw that each thing had its own home, tidy as her kitchen.
Perhaps that alone was the reason he wanted no intrusion. She would not welcome him rearranging her cooking pots, either. It did not mean she had something to hide. Perhaps he didn’t, either.
She took a step inside, wondering what to do next. She knew little of reading and writing. Had she the day long to read every document in the room, it would have done her little good. What had she expected to find here? And why had she promised her brothers she would prove the man’s guilt?
So they would let you go with him, memory whispered.
Now, after all the weeks and all the opportunities, she had no proof. Nothing to show. She was at home with plain speaking, not subterfuge, no more a spy than she was a dancer. That, alone, she had proved many times over.
Unless the man confessed, or had conspired with someone who would, she would never know the truth of him.
She looked around again, desperate to grasp something. Every stack looked the same as its fellow. Only one thing stood out. On a table beneath the window in a place of honour he had carefully placed a large, parchment proclamation. King James’s black-wax seal dangled from the bottom. She came closer and, after a few moments, worked out its meaning.
It named Laird Thomas Carwell as Warden of the March.
Warden before Carwell.
Warden before a wedding or even an heir.
Maybe that was the only truth she needed to know.
She turned her back on it all and closed the door behind her. There was one more place she could go. The one other room in the castle she had not seen.
* * *
The wind came up from the west, hurrying the incoming tide. Thomas paused to listen and assess its speed. The charred remains of the fishing hut were at the edge of the beach. They were rebuilding further inland, but still, water would flood the marsh soon enough, as it did twice daily. Moat, sea, marsh. The castle was well defended. A wooden shack was hardly a loss.
All the more reason the Brunsons had been suspicious.
Must all thoughts lead to Bessie Brunson?
He motioned for the workman to put down their hammers and turned to his steward as they packed up for the day. ‘How go the plans for the feast?’
He had asked nothing until now.
The man smiled. ‘I believe,’ Hew said, ‘that you will be pleased.’
No doubt. At least at the arrangements. He had attended the last feast she had planned, not three months ago, the one that celebrated her brother’s marriage. Food, wine and music had surrounded the guests. Even his men, unexpected and unwanted arrivals, had been treated as family.
And, he now recalled, she had done virtually all of it herself. ‘You must be sure,’ he said, as they walked back to the castle on the raised bank of earth that rose above the marsh, ‘that she does not take on too much. She is accustomed to working alone.’
Hew raised an eyebrow. ‘Your betrothed is a woman of strength and skill.’
Unlike his wife. In fact, Bessie Brunson, he had discovered, had virtually nothing in common with his former wife.
But that was not reason enough for him to ignore all the complications in this situation.
&
nbsp; He must set the steward straight on the matter. ‘There was a betrothal, yes, but for pragmatic reasons. Do not expect a marriage to follow.’
Hew pursed his lips, but walked, silent, for a few steps.
‘Do you expect to live for ever, Laird Carwell?’ he said, finally.
A strange question. ‘Of course not.’
‘Then you’ll be needing an heir.’
He frowned. ‘You’ve a blunt tongue today, Hew.’
The words twisted him with longing. Not for an heir, but for the woman who might already be carrying his. In the days since they had arrived, he had stayed as far from her as he could, expecting his craving would fade with distance. Instead, it had sharpened, shaped by desire for more than just her body. He missed her calm steadiness. He missed coaxing her smiles. He missed pulling up the bedclothes to cover her shoulders at night...
He looked back at Hew. Chastised, the steward had said no more, but his eyes told the tale.
Time and more to end this. He had sent a private message with his cousin’s invitation. Yes, they would be celebrating a new Carwell heir at this feast.
* * *
Bessie stepped into his empty bedchamber and held her breath. Impossible, yet his presence seemed embedded in the walls, lingering in the air.
You’re not here to pine over a lost love, Bessie, my girl. You’re here to prove the man guilty of betrayal.
Surely, with proof in her hands, her desire would disappear.
There was less to examine in this room than there had been on his desk, but it was not the stark sleeping chamber of the Brunson clan. Simple, yes, but a tapestry warmed the walls. Unlike the one in the hall, this was not a crowded battle scene. Instead, on a background of uncountable green leaves dotted with flowers, a lord and his lady linked hands and stepped together as if to dance.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the image and the memories. Why had she thought to enter his room? Not because she thought she would find something. No, the truth was that she ached for the sight of him and, even if they shared a roof, this would be the closest she could come.
Turning her back on the tapestry, she opened her eyes again. Now the bed, enticing, loomed before her, swathed in deep-green curtains, thick enough to defend against the night draughts. She stepped towards it and ran her fingers down the draperies, woven of wool as fine as those in Stirling.
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