The Scot

by Mecca, Cecelia

  “Aye.”

  “He always had an excuse not to visit the land. First it was an illness. Then his presence was needed at court. All knew he simply had no patience to grant the people an audience or support them in any way, but it mattered naught. The lordship remained Longespée’s, through Henry, and although he didn’t care to visit the tenants, he had no problem levying scutage from them.”

  “My father never did care for him. The king, I mean. Or his protégé.”

  Perhaps both daughters agreed. The fact warmed him toward her, if just slightly.

  “It was a difficult time for everyone, not only my family, but also the people of Dromsley. When my grandfather finally did wrestle control of the earldom back, an unusual ruling against the king himself, he worried Longespée, or even Henry, might resort to other methods to regain control, even if it was in defiance of the courts.”

  “And so he built that passageway as an escape.”

  “For my grandmother. Aye. My mother enjoyed using it for play, as did my siblings and I later on. But its purpose was not for two generations of children’s enjoyment.”

  He waited for her to make the connection.

  “You think John is delaying.”

  Terric wished he knew for certain. And though he knew Idalia had told Roysa everything, ’twas odd, still. Speaking so openly with a stranger.

  A stranger that made him oddly comfortable to speak freely.

  “’Tis likely. His father favored the tactic.”

  Roysa shook her head, although not in disagreement, and covered her face with her hands. He had been preparing for this, for the possibility John’s promised meeting did not happen—that he had, indeed, been assembling men to attack them.

  “He is a bastard, with bastard blood.” It may have been the father and his men who’d personally wronged their family, but the son was no better.

  “Is that why your father came here so rarely?”

  Terric was sure of it. “I believe so. He always thought my mother safer with his people than hers.”

  “My sister is in danger here as well.”

  He hated that it was so. And noticed she did not account for herself, thinking of Idalia instead. “Safer here than at Stanton or Tuleen.”

  Realizing he’d already said too much, Terric stood, taking off both gloves and rubbing his hands together. He needed a fire.

  “The day you arrived—”

  “My husband died. Was killed by a man I know is despicable. I believe I was lucky to leave Stokesay alive.”

  “’Tis a mark of your bravery and ingenuity that you did so.”

  Maybe not so much like Isobel, as neither quality could be associated with the only woman he’d ever loved. And who had confessed to caring more for his brother. Unfortunately for Rory, he’d been born minutes after him. Both their Scottish and English inheritance forfeited to his older brother.

  They should not be alone here. The look she gave him now could get both of them into trouble. They left the building, both somber.

  But there was no help for it. A fight was coming to them, Terric was certain of it.

  Unfortunately, he was less certain they were ready. Not for the fight that may be coming. Nor for the woman with whom he’d shared more than intended.

  Chapter 9

  Roysa had always hated chess.

  She’d become fairly good at the game after learning it from her father, but she had one serious downfall—her mind tended to wander. As it was doing now.

  After stumbling into the earl, Idalia had given her a tour of the castle. It was easy enough to navigate, the concentric design had taken them in what was essentially a large circle. From the Northeast Tower, above which the great hall was located, to the North Gatehouse, which led out to the training yard, all the way around to the South Gatehouse, where she’d arrived the day before.

  She’d been awful, really, and should have apologized to the chief earlier. Anyone with a heart would understand—it had happened after a long journey made necessary by the fact that her brother-in-law possibly meant her harm. All of this after learning her husband was dead. She’d tried to explain but should have said those two simple words. I’m sorry.

  That he was even more handsome, more virile, than her husband was certainly not the man’s fault.

  “You’re not making a move.”

  Roysa sat back in her chair before the hearth. The hall was mostly empty now with the exception of a few servants. Most of the men were out training with Lance and Terric, who had apparently left her to join them once again.

  “Do they train all winter?” she asked, shivering at the mere thought of standing outside all day in the cold.

  “They do now.” Idalia pushed away from the board, sitting back in her own wooden high-backed chair. “With all that is happening around us.”

  Roysa lowered her voice “Do you think John will order an attack?”

  She did not make mention that the earl seemed to think ’twas likely.

  Idalia appeared thoughtful. “’Tis possible,” she said after a moment. “There are many rumors that he plans to deal with the rebels by taking away their land and titles.”

  “Which is tantamount to an attack.”

  “Aye,” Idalia admitted. “Though a contingent of Terric’s clansmen are coming soon. The weather is not on our side, but with any luck, they will arrive before it is too late. Though Dromsley is heavily fortified, it is lightly garrisoned. Terric usually spends most of his time in Bradon Moor. In his absence, his second, his brother Rory, fulfills that role.”

  “How did a Scot become earl here at Dromsley?” Roysa asked despite knowing the answer. But saying so would force her to admit she’d become too curious about him.

  “His mother’s inheritance. His father, the former chief of Clan Kennaugh, married her after they met at the Tournament of the North. When he died, Terric was made both chief and English earl. Though he wishes to offer one of those roles to his brother when he shows signs of having matured, as Terric said. But for now, he fills both roles well.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  It was easier to pretend to hate him than to admit she’d allowed herself to be charmed so easily. Again.

  Idalia eyed her suspiciously. “You do not like him.”

  “Nay,” she said. “I’m surprised you do.”

  Idalia cocked her head to the side. “I’m surprised you do not.”

  They were at a standstill, disagreeing about their host as they did on many things. Somehow they’d always managed to remain close despite their differences—or maybe because of them. But as Roysa looked at the chessboard, one thing became very clear. She leaned forward over the board, moving one of the game pieces. “Checkmate.”

  “How?” Idalia inspected the move and frowned. “Every time. How do you manage it?”

  Roysa did not answer. But the women knew it was the time she’d spent with their father that had given her such an edge. “They are well?”

  She did not have to specify who she meant. Idalia knew she would have returned home had she been able.

  “Aye. Aside from this rebellion, all is back to normal at Stanton.”

  “That is some kind of an aside. Idalia, I wish you were not embroiled in this.”

  Idalia did not appear concerned. “’Tis the right thing to do.”

  A serving maid walked by, and her sister asked for wine. The normalcy of the request almost made Roysa laugh. They were discussing rebellion while they played chess and sipped wine. Even so, Roysa was glad for it when it arrived. It was of excellent quality, and she said so.

  “For its remoteness, Dromsley has done well,” she continued.

  “I graciously accept the compliment.”

  The voice belonged to her host. She would have known he was coming had Idalia reacted in any way to his approach, but her sister had not. No doubt she’d controlled her expression, knowing Roysa was likely to make her excuses rather than speak with the chief.

  She w
ould not know Roysa may have softened toward him. Acknowledging he made her breath quicken did not mean she would be forced to consider him as anyone other than the dear friend of her brother-in-law.

  Without turning, she mumbled, “Chief.”

  “You may call me by my given name,” he said, not for the first time.

  “Very well, my lord.”

  Why did she continue to goad him?

  He pulled up a wooden chair between them as if they were old friends. He did not sit in it, however, but stood behind it, laying his arms across the back.

  “Is she always as such?” he asked Idalia.

  He knew well she was not. Roysa had been extremely courteous when he’d shared his story earlier that day.

  Her sister looked back and forth between the two of them. “Nay. I do not know what’s come over her.”

  “The object of your conjecture is sitting betwixt you,” she reminded them.

  It struck her that the chief was freshly dressed. She noticed other things as well but did not wish to dwell on them.

  “Has your afternoon training session ended so soon?” Idalia asked.

  This time, the voice from behind her was a welcome one. “Terric finally relented for the day when the snow began to fall in earnest,” Lance said.

  When he came into view, he leaned down to capture Idalia’s hand, which rested on the carved handle of her chair. The little signs of affection between them were still sweet to behold, but Roysa worried for her sister. Part of her wished she’d fallen in love with a less dangerous man. Or that they were both spinsters back in Stanton.

  “You’ve finished with your game?” Lance looked at the board. “Well done, Roysa.”

  She smiled at her brother-in-law. “Thank you. Do you play?”

  “I do and will challenge you to a match, perhaps this evening.” He gently lifted Idalia’s hand from the arm of the chair. “At the moment I plan to abscond with my wife.” He stopped short of saying where they would abscond to, but Roysa had a feeling she already knew.

  Idalia grinned, making Roysa suddenly feel like the younger sister. So she truly found pleasure in the act? For there was no mistaking Lance’s intent.

  “If you will pardon us?”

  Roysa stared after them, unable to become accustomed to the idea. Her sister . . . her younger sister . . . was a wife in truth.

  Startled from her reverie by the sound of the chief’s chair scraping against the floor despite a layer of rushes, she asked, “I don’t believe I invited you to sit, chief.”

  That she continued to push him away was no longer out of desire to do so, but necessity.

  “I don’t believe I need permission to sit in my own hall. And here, in England, it is lord.” He grinned. “Or Terric, if it pleases you.”

  Roysa’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you being so polite?”

  “I am always polite.” He waved his hand to summon the maid. “To women.”

  So he was one of those men. Very much like Walter, as she suspected. Her husband’s roving eye manifested very shortly after their exchange of vows.

  This man’s looks and status would likely have ladies similarly scrambling to make a match with him. It was surprising he wasn’t already married.

  “How very courteous of you.”

  “A flagon of wine, if you please,” he said to the maid. She was young, no more than five and ten. Curtseying, the young girl scrambled off.

  Roysa caught him staring at her—the kind of penetrating look that made her feel as if she’d peeled off her gown little by little. Ugh. Definitely that kind of man.

  “I’ve been somewhat relentless with the men. We’ve agreed to give them an afternoon of rest”—he nodded toward her goblet—“so I may as well do so in truth.”

  Their eyes caught.

  And much as she wanted to deny it, Roysa’s pulsed quickened.

  “Your wine, my lord.”

  “Many thanks,” he said as the maid placed both the flagon and an additional goblet on the chess table between them.

  So he was courteous to his servants. Walter had been very much the opposite.

  “A fine gown,” he said, pouring wine for both of them.

  Roysa looked down, her fingertips tracing over the bodice of her kirtle, the lovely cream fabric shot through with gold. She knew what he thought of her. This man considered her fanciful. Vain.

  “Stanton is a market town,” Roysa said softly. “The first time I accompanied my parents to market, I had not yet seen ten summers. In my rush to see the very first stall as I dismounted, I fell headfirst into the mud.” She took a sip of wine, remembering the yellow gown that she had completely ruined. “A fabric merchant took pity on me and handed my mother the most beautiful yellow damask. My first market day had ended promptly, my father escorting me back to the castle.”

  Roysa sighed. “He can be a difficult man, my father. But I’ve always understood him. He feels the weight of all the people who rely on him for their livelihood. You may be surprised to hear that’s one of my favorite memories from childhood. I will never forget riding back to the castle with the man I so idolized, the beautiful fabric tied to the back of his mount. A powerful border baron, reduced to escorting his daughter in her muddy gown.” She shrugged. “He always seemed more . . . human after that. We turned that damask into my first May Day gown, and I’ve had a weakness for fine gowns ever since.”

  Something in his expression had changed. It struck her that he might be thinking of his own father, the one whose roles he now occupied. She knew little about him from Idalia, only that they had been quite close.

  “I am sorry about your father,” she said.

  “As am I. He was a fine man and chief. Beloved by all.”

  “It must be difficult to fill such a role. Or roles. Chief. Earl. How do you do it?”

  Refilling his goblet with wine, the chief—and earl—swirled the deep red liquid in his cup.

  “It is my life now.”

  Roysa turned to the fire crackling beside them. The hall was completely abandoned now—the midday meal had long since ended, but supper was still a ways off. Though the common space was not as large as one would expect in a castle of this size, it was nevertheless comfortable, clean and well maintained with tapestries on every wall. The steward was obviously a capable man.

  At Stokesay, the steward, like most of the servants, had been afraid of Walter courtesy of his poor treatment of them. Their work, not surprisingly, had reflected as much.

  “And the rebellion.”

  Roysa looked up. There it was again, that look of interest. Of possibility. It had been a long while since Roysa had been noticed and admired as a woman. That look forced her to remind herself she was newly widowed.

  And that the man sitting across from her was even more handsome than Walter had been. Her reaction, stronger.

  “They are one and the same.”

  His voice was so deep, so full of resolve. The tone suggested the words were significant to him, although she did not understand how or why.

  “How do you mean?” she blurted out.

  She almost wished she hadn’t asked. Pain had flickered in his eyes, there and then gone.

  “A long story.”

  Roysa waved her arms around the hall. “It seems we’ve naught but time today.”

  “One you don’t wish to hear.” Lifting his goblet, he offered a toast. “To not murdering each other, Lady Roysa.”

  She hesitated then relented. Langham was enough of an enemy—she did not require more. She’d be staying here for a fortnight, at least. Best to make peace when it was offered.

  “Roysa,” she replied.

  And then he smiled. A slow, lazy, sensual smile that made Roysa wonder if her sister had been right about him all along. Perhaps her view of him had been too narrow. Her father was a difficult man at times too, was he not? She understood his sharp edges had been rendered so by his responsibilities. Could that not be true of Terric as well? And he had two pro
perties to guide and manage, not just one. Besides, she had been a bit awful on that first night.

  He continued to smile. Not a complaisant or polite smile, but one that sent a flutter from her stomach to her very core.

  “To new beginnings, my lord.”

  They both finished their wine, placing the goblets on the table at the same time.

  “Terric. My name is Terric.”

  Chapter 10

  It was only when the hall began to fill again that Terric realized how much time had passed.

  He rarely, if ever, spent a day away from training, but Lance had convinced him to boost the men’s morale by giving them a rest. To be fair, the snow was falling in earnest.

  When he’d first spied Lady Roysa at the chess table, Terric had very nearly turned away. He’d much prefer to swing a sword, even in the snow, than to converse with his guest’s sister. Even if she had been nothing but pleasant earlier. But Lance had pushed him forward, urging him to let bygones be bygones, and he’d agreed to at least put forward a civil greeting.

  Then something had compelled him to sit with her.

  Maybe it was the way she looked at Idalia, so unlike how she looked at him. No one could question the love and warmth in her eyes. It suggested there was more to her than he’d thought. It suggested—nay, it confirmed—he’d been harsh in his judgment of her. His mother and sister both would have words for his rudeness. His prejudice had sprung from his dealings with Isobel—a woman who had captivated him despite her finery and pretty manners. Her excesses had made him think of Isobel’s taste for finery. For her desire to nab the clan chief for her very own. Even still, he had fallen for her.

  The price of her treachery etched onto his very soul.

  But there was more to Lady Roysa than her taste for pretty gowns, more too than the occasional sharp tongue she’d wielded against him. Watching her with her sister, the two of them regarding each other with such love and mutual affection, had stirred something in him.

  Nay, not something.

  He’d actually grown hard in the middle of the damned hall as he watched Roysa’s full lips part, as he watched her smile and laugh. He could admit now, some time later, that sitting down with her had been the only good decision he’d made of late.