He eased her from him, rose, and lifted her, laying her on their bed and covering her with the linen sheets and blanket. She barely stirred, and he smoothed her hair from her face, feeling a tightness within him for the passion they had shared, and a surge of protective tenderness as well. He loved her. He hadn’t told her so yet. There was still something that gnawed painfully at his heart, still the fear. Time would pass. His child would be born. And pray God, there would be more time together, away from the battles of the world.
He dressed quietly, and when he was ready, he came to her again. He kissed her forehead, then her lips, and she slept on, exhausted. And at last, he forced himself to leave.
Adrien first arrived at court just in time to be sent with an army to Wales, to smash a revolt near the border. It wasn’t a happy labor, for he felt a deep kinship with the Welsh. They fought for their identity often, as did the Scots. Edward, however, was making his presence firm; castles, the like of which had never been seen before, had been raised at English strongholds, and more were going up. The building was fascinating to watch, but Adrien was restless. He’d hoped to serve at court and return home. His child was due in late January or February, and he had hoped to be there for the event. As the months passed by, he was anxious as well, for it seemed that—now that he was to become a father—more and more of his friends were ready to tell him some dire story of misadventure, tales of infants born to die too soon, and stories of beautiful wives lost to childbirth.
When he finished fighting in Wales, there were more prisoners to be brought to the tower in London. Christmas passed as he returned to Edward’s court, and he chafed at not being home. Every minute away from his wife became torment, despite the fact that life around Edward was anything but mundane. Each night, the nobles at court attended great banquets to which the English king brought David Bruce, King of Scotland, Jean, King of France, nobles from Scotland, France, and Wales, and his own courtiers. David and Jean were both young rulers and interesting men, and despite the fact that they were prisoners, the occasions were intriguing and pleasant. Adrien was customarily seated near David, by virtue of them both being Scotsmen. They talked passionately about Scottish history, religion, the people, highlanders and lowlanders.
Along with the royal guests, though, came others. Simon, Danielle’s would-be lover, was among the French nobles often brought to banquets, as well as Paul de Valois, kin to Jean—and his wife. King Jean did not irk Adrien, nor, surprisingly, did Paul de Valois. However, Simon de Valois, Comte Montjoie, perhaps by virtue of the fact that Danielle might have thought herself in love with him once, irritated his temper beyond measure.
Simon was popular among his English captors, charming to the ladies of the English court who were not aware—nor did Simon admit—that he had been aligned with Count Armagnac, who had raped and pillaged without remorse. Simon was simply a prisoner of circumstance, in the English tower because he had fallen in love with the betrothed of another man. When he and Adrien met, they were cordial, as their positions and the court demanded. Adrien knew that Simon hated him with a vengeance. He felt the same.
It was rumored that Simon was having an affair with the young wife of an old noble, a situation which occurred frequently enough when girls were married to grandfathers.
The poor young woman was in love with him, a sad situation apparent every time she sat at her place down the long banqueting hall. She was the daughter of an old friend who had been killed years ago fighting the French, and it hurt Adrien to see her in such pain. At such times, he was glad that Danielle wasn’t with him. He wanted her nowhere near Simon, who seemed to watch him frequently as if he calculated some plot. Simon was an eloquent speaker. God only knew in what ways he might twist his situation if he were to speak with Danielle.
Simon lived in tower rooms separate from those of the King of France; King Edward didn’t mind being a charming host to his prisoner, but he’d be damned if he’d have them plotting together while beneath his wing. As to the situation, King Edward was in exceptional humor, being ‘host’ to his two most troublesome enemies. He was as gleeful as a boy. Adrien wanted to go home. Edward promised him he might do so if the Welsh could behave throughout the month.
Mid-February, as they banqueted at court, a messenger arrived, speaking to the king. Adrien, several chairs to the left of the king—on the ‘Scottish’ side of the table—saw the king’s expression change, his head lower. Edward indicated that the man should come to Adrien. For some reason, as he watched the messenger, Adrien felt his heart begin to pound, seeming to fly to his throat. News had come from the north. He was afraid it was going to be bad.
Yet, as the man neared him, he saw that the messenger smiled. “I have come from the north, sir—”
“Danielle?” Adrien interrupted anxiously.
“Does exceptionally well, Laird MacLachlan. As does your son, christened Adrien Robert last Saturday.”
Adrien didn’t know he’d been standing until he sank back into his chair. Apparently the messenger had spoken loudly enough for many to hear, and a cheer went up around the table. Knights, nobles, ladies—and even royalty—raised their glasses to him.
His son. She’d meant to have a girl, to spite him. But he wouldn’t have cared. He’d never known such a strange sense of panic, simply praying that Danielle would be all right, with nothing else mattering.
Later that night, he went to the king, and was granted an audience. “Sire, the Welsh may remain subdued for months, or flare into battle any day. I’ve served long and hard, and I’m anxious to see my son—”
“Do you think, Laird MacLachlan, that I’ve seen all my offspring the moment they are swaddled. Nay, young man, I can tell you that I have not!”
“But—”
“Send for your wife, and your child. I am anxious to see them myself.”
Adrien stared at Edward warily. “Sire, King Jean of France remains your prisoner here, and there are others—”
“Good God! We are in our tower, in our city.” He was quiet for a moment. “I would like to see your wife, my ward, and the child.”
“So you are commanding me to send for Danielle?”
“I am asking you to do so.”
It was one and the same. “I’ll send the messenger back immediately,” Adrien said, and left him.
He left the king, and nodding to the attendants who lingered outside in the hallway, he started down the long corridor to his quarters. As he started to turn a corner, he noticed a sudden billowing of one of the curtains that enclosed an alcove. He paused, thinking that a pair of lovers met for a quick tryst, and he hesitated, thinking of a different way to go. He saw that a number of armed guards lined the hallway, and when he glanced back to the alcove, he could see a booted foot that extended beyond the curtain. Before he could turn around, he heard a female voice, whispering in French.
He knew the voice; it was the girl Terese, who had chosen to follow Prince Edward’s army across the Channel. Curious little vixen. She continued to cast invitations his way upon occasion, so he wondered just how deeply she could be in love with the man behind the curtain.
The man spoke, and he felt himself tensing.
Simon. Simon de Valois, Comte Montejoie. Apparently, King Edward allowed his noble guests what entertainment they desired, because the guards would not have allowed the comte a tryst in the hallway without the king’s permission.
Adrien walked on. He should be glad. The two were welcome to one another. Still …
Something about the meeting unnerved him.
Later, alone at night, awake and staring into the darkness, he missed his wife, and yearned to see his son—and was still strangely unhappy that they were to come to him, rather than that he should return to them.
In the midst of his ponderings, he heard a soft tapping on his door. Then a woman’s whispered voice. “Laird MacLachlan!”
He rose, slipped a robe around his shoulders, and drew open the door. He arched a brow in surprise as he s
aw Terese standing there. “Aye, lass?”
She smiled tremulously. “May I come in?”
He arched his brow higher.
“I can’t stand here in the hallway, Laird MacLachlan.”
He stepped aside, and she entered. When he closed the door, she leaned against it, breathing heavily, staring at him. “Your wife is coming soon at the king’s command.”
“Aye?”
She smiled prettily, lifting her hands.
“These nights to come … they’re perhaps the last chance that we’ll have to …”
“To?” he inquired, stepping back.
She lowered her lashes over her eyes. “I cannot forget that you saved my life, Laird MacLachlan. I would serve you in any way. I would die for one night with you. Your wife is far away. I’ve heard that she is your enemy, and betrays you at every turn.”
“And where do you hear this?”
“There was a man plotting against Edward and masquerading as a priest—that’s why you brought her to Castle de Renoncourt. Everyone knew it. She hurts you. I would ease the pain. I would give you a night of pure bliss, I would love you simply, and without complications, ease your spirit, your soul, your body.”
A pretty speech. “Really?” he murmured.
“Your wife is a wicked vixen, my lord!”
He reached for her, taking her arms, setting her from the door. “You’re lovely, Terese, and that was a fine speech, but there is a problem.”
“Nay, my lord, I’ve no problem—” she broke off, flushing. “All I want is a brief time together. Just to please you.”
“I wonder if there isn’t more,” he murmured.
“Laird Adrien, you saved my life—”
“So live it well. Be careful of the friends you make. But the fact remains that there’s a problem—”
“None that I cannot solve—”
“Nay, I’ve the problem. You see, I love my wife. Goodnight now, Terese, and be careful of wolves in the hallway.”
He spun her, around and prodded her gently back out into the hallway, then closed the door.
In the hallway, Terese stared at the door and fumed, feeling a spiraling jealousy of the Countess Danielle. The woman had property, titles, and she was adored and admired by the French and English. And Simon had loved her and …
Terese, with all her wiles, could not sway Adrien MacLachlan from her.
As she stared at the door in frustration, another man came along the hallway. It was MacLachlan’s squire, Luke, the handsome young man she’d met first at the Castle de Renoncourt.
He laughed when he saw her.
“Oh, how dare you!” she breathed angrily.
He leaned against the wall, watching her. “You keep throwing yourself at him. When will you realize he is married to an angel, and he loves her.”
“She is a witch, and in time, he’ll despise her.”
Luke shook his head. “No, she is a beauty. There is something deep and real between them, and you can’t change that.”
She lowered her head, unnerved by this young man. She thought of the others she had met, the rich men, the great men, the nobles, all who flattered her—but wanted something from her. He didn’t flatter her; he just stared at her with steady eyes.
“You will not have the earl, Laird MacLachlan,” he told her steadily. “You cannot have such a great man.”
“Can’t I?” she demanded impertinently.
He smiled, setting his bundle on the floor before MacLachlan’s door, and reaching for her. “You can have me.”
She was about to slap him. How dare he? But his hold was firm and real. His eyes lit into hers with a real hunger, and his words, though blunt, were honest.
“Let go.”
“You’ve lusted after him, I’ve lusted after you. But there is something I can offer,” he said softly.
“What is that?” she queried, surprised to find herself breathless.
He was MacLachlan’s squire. Young, unseasoned, untried. But with such a lord as his sponsor, he would become a knight. He could go to battle …
Return with great riches.
And he wanted her.
“I can marry you!” he said.
“Oh!” she cried softly, and she slipped into his arms.
Later, in his small, cramped apartment, she stared up at the ceiling and wondered if she should or shouldn’t carry through with the promises she had made to another man. She rolled over, looking at the gold ring she’d been given earlier. Payment. Payment …
And now, she was to do her part.
No … She could not. Would not …
Yet she was afraid. Very afraid.
Chapter 23
DANIELLE HAD NEVER KNOWN anything so cold as winter on the borderlands, though many of the household assured her that it could be far colder in the highlands.
Such a winter was a ridiculous time to have a baby, but as Maeve, the midwife, told her, bairns come when bairns choose, and that is the way of it.
She had missed Adrien more than she had even begun to imagine. He wrote to her about his campaign to Wales, and she wrote back, wishing him Godspeed, and telling him about the birth of kittens in the barn, how Star was growing far longer hair, and that she was certain that Daylin—who had remained with her—intended to ask his blessing to marry Monteine.
On the day that Adrien Robert MacLachlan was born, Monteine was with her. And though she had missed Adrien, by the time her pains began to come one upon the other, she wanted to strangle him for having put her in such a wretched position. Her labor lasted day and night; little Adrien did not appear until dawn. Until that time, she alternately spoke rationally with Monteine and Maeve, or came up with new and imaginative ways to torture Adrien. It was during those moments when Monteine told her that she blamed Adrien for far too much.
“It was I, Danielle, who caused the difficulty over the priest. Of course, he wasn’t a priest, but—”
“What are you talking about?” Dripping with sweat despite the winter’s cold, breathless and in agony, Danielle stared at Monteine.
“I went to Daylin about the priest. I was worried. Daylin went to Adrien. So you see—”
She stared at Monteine, her eyes narrowed. “First you rig his saddle so that I take a beating!”
“Danielle!” Monteine protested indignantly. “That was years and years ago! I was afraid—”
“Then you become his friend, his doting servant! Oh, you should hang in a gibbet with him! Ohh …”
“Aye, lady, good now, up and push and the wee bairn will be ’ere at last!”
And so it was; she was angry and she sat up with a hard push, and his little head popped into the world. She demanded to know what it was and Maeve calmly told her, “Scottish, lass, for his father, that I ken tell ye, but not until the wee bottom is oot ken I tell what sort of Scot! Now, once again …”
“A boy, me lady, a big, fine boy!”
She was suddenly crying, and Monteine rushed out to tell Daylin. Maeve cleaned the babe, cut his cord, and forced Danielle to push again to rid herself of the afterbirth. Danielle obeyed but barely noticed. She was awed by the babe in her arms, fascinated as he first began to nurse, amazed to find that he had ten fingers and ten toes, a cap of his father’s blond hair, and eyes so blue they were like a summer’s sky. Eyes changed, she reminded herself. Everyone said so, and since his thatch of wheat hair seemed to be his father’s, it was possible still that his eyes would change to the color of a MacLachlan’s as well. Perhaps not—perhaps they would have a green cast to them, who could tell? He was perfect in every way, and he could scream with an amazingly lusty cry …
Doubts and fears plagued her in the days to come; she loved him so much, she was terrified of losing him. She wouldn’t allow Daylin to bring a messenger from the field to go to London with the news until the babe was christened, Monteine and Daylin standing as godparents.
Then she began to wait, praying that Adrien would at long last come home, and that the
y could be proud and pleased together. She loved her home here—she was comfortable and she enjoyed the people, settling disputes regarding sheep, cattle, and even the weaving of cloth. They made delicious ale, and she learned from Aran, who worked with the kegs, and in turn, she did her best to teach them about storing fine French wines. Katherine Mary, a stern matriarch, ruled the maids, while Joshua acted as head of the household and Taylor as overall steward. She drank with them to the baby’s birth, and all hailed the new heir. Life was full and rich, except that …
It was unbearable without Adrien. Thinking about him constantly, seeing him in little things the baby did. Wanting him. Worrying, wondering.
The days passed, the winter eased, and as March came, though some days were both blustery and cold, spring weather began to break through as well. At the beginning of April, she lay on a blanket on the rich, thick grass by the loch with Monteine and Daylin nearby. She dozed with the baby by her side and awakened to see Monteine scampering away in the grass, laughing, cheeks rosy, with Daylin after her. The two fell in the grass together and arose kissing. Monteine broke away from him, saw that Danielle had awakened, flushed furiously, and hurried back to her and the baby, apologizing.
“Must you be so happy in front of me all the time?” Danielle demanded. Monteine at first appeared dismayed, then realized that Danielle was smiling.
“You must be happy as a lark, with this precious one!” Monteine said, touching the baby.
“I am!” Danielle whispered. “Except that—”
“Someone’s coming!” Daylin said. He moved toward the blanket, always the defender, his hand going for the hilt of his sword. But even as he stood by her and men from the fields grouped around him, having heard the riders, Daylin relaxed, for the riders coming carried King Edward’s banner, and Danielle quickly recognized Sir George. She rose, the babe, whom she called Robin rather than confuse him with his father, in her arms.
“Sir George!” she cried with pleasure. He was quickly off his horse, anxious to reach her, going to a knee and taking her hand, then reaching for the baby. “Ah, what a fine lad, a fine lad! What hair! The king himself would be jealous of such a golden mop!”
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