The Scot

by Mecca, Cecelia

  “You’re still here?” Lance made little attempt to hide his shock.

  Terric gestured for him to sit in the empty chair opposite Roysa. “Join us.”

  If his friend was surprised, he had good reason to be. Terric rarely drank as much as he had this afternoon, and besides, he’d made it abundantly clear what he thought of Idalia’s sister. He could admit his faults, however, and one of them had been assuming the worst of Idalia’s sister.

  “I assume Terric does not typically dally in such a manner?” Roysa asked with some amusement.

  Lance continue to appear bewildered.

  “Nay. Never.”

  She sat forward, as if interested. “Why?”

  Before Lance could answer, Terric asked, “Where is Idalia?”

  They’d known each other for long enough that he did not expressly need to ask his friend to change the topic. Lance understood his meaning. He told them of the conversation they’d had with the cook and his desire to attempt a mutton pie. Idalia had always taken an interest in the foods being served at Stanton, and she was apparently still in the kitchen, where they’d spent much of the afternoon.

  “In the kitchen?” Terric could not resist teasing his friend. This was the same man who’d once hardly known the light of day. So dedicated was he to his craft, he’d all but slept in the smithy before meeting Idalia. Spending the day in the kitchens was not typical behavior for Lance, any more so than Terric spending the day in front of a fire.

  Drinking fine French wine.

  With a beautiful woman.

  Aye, it would seem neither of them were themselves today.

  “This is what the blasted weather is doing to us.”

  “Said like a man who’s spent his life wielding a sword and ordering others about.” Roysa wiggled in her seat. Terric tore his gaze away from the deep vee of her gown.

  “I take it you’ve experience with such men,” he answered dryly.

  “My father despises the winter months. Much like you. Though my husband did not seem to be afflicted with such a distaste for shortened training hours.”

  “I don’t despise them. But this winter has been rather harsh. We’ve much to accomplish before the weather changes.”

  Roysa cocked her head to the side. “’Tis strange. Lord Ulster said nearly that exact same thing. That it has been a particularly harsh winter.”

  Terric froze at the name. Lance did the same.

  “Did I . . . have I said something wrong?”

  Leaning forward, Terric replaced his goblet on the table between them. Blood pounded through his temples.

  “Where did you see Lord Ulster?”

  But he already knew the answer. Given the very weather they’d discussed, it was unlikely Roysa had traveled anywhere but Stokesay in recent months.

  “Just before Walter left for . . .” She swallowed hard. Reminding him that her husband had died very recently. And he sat here staring at her breasts.

  “Just before he left for his brother’s manor.”

  Where he had been killed. Murdered, more like. If the bastard had truly had relations with his brother’s wife, Terric thought he’d gotten exactly what he deserved, although Roysa might not thank him for saying so.

  Had her husband mistreated her?

  He wanted to know.

  But he needed to know about Ulster more.

  “Do you know why he was there?” Lance asked.

  “Nay. He visited for just two days before leaving with Walter.”

  “He went with him to Langham less than two months ago?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure. What is wrong?”

  Ulster was here, in the north. He’d likely met with Langham.

  They needed to move. Now.

  Terric stood abruptly, exchanging a look with Lance. “We can’t talk here.”

  Though they were in the most secluded spot in the hall, it was quickly filling up with servants. They risked being overheard.

  Roysa looked startled. She clearly didn’t understand why they were upset, what her revelation meant to the order. He couldn’t explain to her. Not now. “I’m sure you need to refresh for dinner, my lady?”

  She nodded once and did not repeat her question.

  “Do you need an escort to find your chamber?” Lance said, courteous as always.

  “Nay, but thank you, Lance.”

  Consumed by the need to find and notify his marshal, Gilbert, Terric nodded in parting and began to walk away.

  After taking a few steps, he broke into a run.

  “Roysa?”

  She groaned at the sound of Idalia’s voice, rolling over to bury her face in her pillow.

  “Two mornings, she sleeps through the morning meal. If Mother were here—”

  “If Mother were here, she would chastise you for causing your dear sister such pain.”

  The bed sank beneath Idalia’s weight as her sister sat behind her.

  “Pain?”

  Roysa clutched both sides of her head, turning toward the sound. She opened her eyes, groaning.

  “’Tis as I thought,” Idalia said with a small smile. “Sit up.”

  Though she complied, Roysa could not help but give her sister the look Idalia had always called the Scaring Stare. When they were younger, this very stare would have sent Idalia running for their mother to complain about her cruelty. In truth, Roysa knew she’d been unkind to her younger sisters on occasion, something she hadn’t realized until after she’d left home. She’d missed them so fiercely, it had made her feel empty inside.

  Her admiration for her father had been such that she’d occasionally tried to emulate him as a child—to make her sisters fall into line as if they were her servants. It hadn’t taken long for her to learn that his way was not hers. Although he did quite a good job of terrifying others into submission, she had no wish to do the same.

  “Do not look at me that way. I have something for you. Something that will make you feel better.”

  Idalia handed her a silver cup. She sniffed it and smiled at the familiar smell. Their mother had suffered terrible head pains for years, so she and her family had had occasion to learn the various methods used to relieve such discomfort.

  “I smell willow bark.” She took a sip, savoring it, then asked, “How did you guess?”

  Idalia propped up a pillow behind her head.

  “The first day you met Walter . . .”

  Roysa took another sip, praying reverently the remedy would work.

  “I was so nervous,” she offered, finishing Idalia’s sentence. “Mother did warn me about consuming too much wine, but I didn’t heed her.”

  “And you woke up the next morning feeling much the same as you likely do just now.”

  Her head hurt too much for her to nod. “Aye.”

  “But you did not care, if you’ll remember.”

  “Because I was in love.” She said it softly, almost wistfully.

  How lovely it had all seemed. Now, of course, she understood that a person could not fall in love after one meeting. But Walter had been handsome in a very proper sort of way. He’d been charming too, when it suited him, and she’d let her fancies carry her away. They would have a passionate relationship, she’d told herself, one so much deeper than the quiet, loving companionship shared by her own parents.

  If only she’d known. That kind of companionship would have been a blessing.

  “Or believed it was so,” she clarified.

  Idalia got up to stoke the fire, much as she had the previous morning. It was a strange sort of comfort, having her younger sister care for her instead of the reverse.

  “You’ve told me little about what happened, Roysa,” Idalia said so quietly Roysa barely heard her from across the chamber.

  It was said gently, not a rebuke but an invitation to speak. Idalia wanted to know her story, but she wouldn’t press her. And Roysa did not feel inclined to share her burden. Besides, there was nothing extraordinary to tell. The truth was simple enough
: the charming suitor she and her parents had met did not really exist. Walter had been a man who cared only for his own selfish desires. His own people had barely mattered to him. She’d not been at Stokesay Castle for long before Roysa realized she had more friends there than he did.

  He had not struck her, a fact one of the maids had said she should be grateful for. And she supposed it was true. Still, it seemed such an odd thing, to go from believing you loved your husband to praying he would not visit you at night, all in less than a sennight.

  As the pounding in her head began to abate, if only slightly, her stomach reminded her she’d not eaten since yesterday’s midday meal.

  “I would dearly love to break my fast.”

  Idalia opened the trunk at the foot of her bed. She’d taken little from the castle, for Langham had not allowed them to take a packhorse. “Will this do?”

  “Aye,” she said. The yellow kirtle a simple one, more akin to Idalia’s typical style than hers. “What happened yesterday?”

  She got up from the bed slowly, and Idalia helped her dress. Growing up, they’d often assisted each other in lieu of a maid. A practice heartily frowned upon by their very proper mother.

  “After you found your bedchamber and fell upon your bed, fully clothed?” Idalia asked. Her smile indicated she was holding back laughter.

  “Nay,” she argued, turning for her sister to tie the side of her kirtle. “After I stumbled into my room after being thoroughly dismissed by Terric, I fancied a bit of rest. I only lay down for a moment.”

  She did not elaborate on her feelings about his dismissal.

  Idalia snorted. “A moment. Do you remember me helping you out of your gown?”

  She declined to answer.

  “Much has happened since then, but perhaps you should eat before we discuss it.”

  Roysa did not like her sister’s tone. The humor had all leaked out of her voice. Something was seriously amiss. She spun around as soon as Idalia finished tying the fabric of her gown.

  “Talk about what?”

  Finished, Idalia stood back, averting her eyes. Aye, something was definitely wrong.

  “Battle. Dromsley is preparing for battle.”

  Chapter 11

  Terric was exhausted.

  He’d hardly slept the night before, but he dismissed the thought of his bed waiting in the adjoining chamber. All he could think about was John’s next move. Though he, Gilbert, and Lance had spent the last two days going over the plans for a possible battle or siege, ever since Roysa delivered her alarming news about Ulster, he decided he would look at them again.

  His people depended on his readiness for battle. He would fulfill his obligations to them just as his father had taught him.

  Grabbing the tankard, Terric poured himself an ale and moved toward the fireplace. It was the largest one he’d ever seen, its hearth spanning most of the thick eastern wall. They’d spent little time here growing up, but he still had a clear image of his father standing in this very spot, looking at the flames of the fire. That had been the night he and Rory had asked their mother to accompany Father to the tournament so they all might go. He couldn’t recall his sister Cait being there, but she must have been nearby.

  If she’d said no, how different his life might have been.

  Best not to think of that.

  Or of Roysa.

  A distraction was the one thing he absolutely could not afford. It was part of the reason he’d barely left his solar these last two days, opting instead to take his meals there. This evening, however, he’d found himself wavering. He’d nearly decided to take his dinner in the hall.

  Because he wished to see her.

  Nay, he wished to ravish her.

  It was foolish. Beyond foolish. Too many people depended on him for him to give in to his own desires.

  He barely heard it at first, but the sound was more distinct when it repeated itself. Terric moved toward the door. Aye, it was a knock. Perhaps Lance or Gilbert suffered from the same sleeplessness.

  “I guess I am not the only one . . .”

  He froze as he opened the door.

  Not Lance. Or his marshal.

  A very confused Lady Roysa stood there, eyes wide. And his body immediately responded. She wore a long velvet robe, as fine as one of her fancy gowns. The garment was not exactly revealing, but it was intimate. Given the time of night, he imagined it covered only a shift.

  By the blood of Christ.

  “I was looking for Idalia. I was sure her bedchamber was here, the second door past the stairwell. Is she . . .”

  “Is she inside?” he finished for her. “Nay, my lady. You have the correct door, but the wrong floor.” He pointed below them. “She and Lance are just below us.”

  When she began to move away, he discovered he did not yet wish for her to leave.

  “Did she—” he started and Roysa stopped to look at him, her lips slightly parted.

  Terric continued to stare. Her hair had always been pulled away from her face, but now it hung loose around her shoulders, a shock of darkness against pale cream. The single candle she held gave her an almost ethereal glow. She looked vulnerable almost.

  Those parted lips, not intended as an invitation. But damned if he didn’t want to take it as one.

  So very different than the woman he’d met in the front of the gatehouse that first night.

  “Did Idalia explain?”

  A flash of fiery defiance crossed her gaze. “Aye. Though if you had offered a quick explanation, it would have avoided much confusion. Such as, ‘Ulster? Why, he is one of John’s staunchest supporters, a strategist that should not be this far north. He is likely colluding with Langham to attack.’”

  She was asking for courtesy. But they were at war, or near enough—courtesy did not warrant his attention.

  “I needed to prepare my men.”

  “Understood, my lord. It would have been a waste of your time to spend a moment explaining the circumstances to a mere woman. I apologize for disturbing you.”

  She made to leave again.

  Terric’s hand shot out to stop her. Her wrist was so small, his fingers wrapped around it easily. He forced himself to drop it, but he could not force himself to send her away.

  But neither should she stay.

  Still he heard himself say, “Do not leave.”

  If he were truthful with himself, he’d wanted to see her all day. He’d woken up in the dead of night thinking of her. And now that she was here, he did not want her to go. He nodded inside. “A tankard of ale before you sleep?”

  She hesitated, with good reason. It was hardly proper for her to share a drink with him in his solar in the middle of the night. Unchaperoned.

  But this was not just any woman. She was Idalia’s sister. Lance’s sister-in-law, which almost made her family.

  He nearly laughed at the thought. Roysa was not Idalia, and his cock knew the difference. It would not be fooled so easily.

  She met his gaze, her eyes searching for answers. He knew she wouldn’t find any—for he didn’t understand himself any better than she did.

  “Perhaps just one,” she said.

  Terric knew what desire looked like. He’d seen those hooded eyes, those parted lips on other women, but never had such a look made him react like this. The jolt of lust he felt was too powerful—so much so it nearly made him change his mind. Roysa was not one to trifle with. Idalia would rightly kill him were he to seduce her sister. A woman who’d recently lost her husband. A woman he had no intention of marrying.

  But one did not tryst with a woman such as Roysa. A pity, but a fact as well.

  “You are certain?” he forced himself to ask. His throat nearly closed on itself for the thickness of his voice.

  “Aye. I am sure.”

  No four words had ever held such promise.

  Such damnation, he corrected.

  Chapter 12

  Roysa stepped inside.

  Heart hammering in her chest, s
he listened to the door closing behind her, a barrier that had just been breached. A line that had just been crossed.

  He must have felt it too. Was it possible Roysa was alone in this?

  When Terric came from around her and stepped back into view, she knew the answer.

  Towering over her in nothing more than trewes and an undertunic, the Earl of Dromsley, the chief of Clan Kennaugh, looked at her as a starving man might regard a banquet. No other man had ever given her such a look. She discounted the suitors who’d visited throughout the years. And did not even consider the man she had married. She’d learned, very quickly, Walter had only ever seen her as Lord Stanton’s eldest daughter. A prize to be won. If she had convinced herself otherwise in the beginning, it was only because that’s what she had so desperately wanted.

  Just as she desperately wanted Terric to kiss her.

  In truth, despite her ire with him, despite the danger they were all in, she’d thought of nothing else these past days.

  “Ale,” he said, more a comment than a question.

  She nodded, not sure what else to do.

  When he turned from her, Roysa let out a breath. Was she really standing here, in nothing but her shift and a robe, in Terric’s solar chamber?

  She watched as he filled a second tankard from the carafe on the table.

  Like her father’s solar, this one had been prepared to receive visitors. The lord’s solar was a common meeting place, especially in the winter. It was nearly always the warmest chamber in the castle, its walls so covered in tapestries one could barely see the stone behind them.

  This one was no exception.

  The fireplace was overly large, almost ominous.

  Much like the man standing before it.

  He wordlessly handed her the tankard. What could either of them say? This was wildly inappropriate. They’d only just made up. She’d been recently widowed. He had a battle or siege to prepare for.

  “I thought, at first, you resembled your sister. But there is something very different about you as well.”