The Scot

by Mecca, Cecelia

  Where I’m from. For a moment, she’d forgotten he was, in fact, a Scot. Because his family lived just over the border, his dress was not so different, his accent barely detectable. But Terric was not an Englishman.

  “Do you miss your home?”

  Terric didn’t answer at first. Instead, he smiled at the maid as she placed a bowl of soup in front of him. The look the young girl gave him, which could only be described as besotted, made Roysa realize why the girl had seemed so upset with her. She liked Terric. As did everyone, it seemed.

  “Aye. Being away from Bradon Moor for this long is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done,” he said when the maid finally walked away. “Though my brother has taken my place, we don’t always agree on matters. And the people here hardly know me, even though I’ve been visiting since I was a boy. But someday, this may well be my home in truth.”

  “When your brother is ready to take your place.”

  “Aye.”

  “How did your parents meet?”

  She sipped her wine, content to listen to Terric talk.

  “The same way we did.” He nodded to Lance. “At the Tournament of the North. Although the circumstances were very different. She quite literally fell on top of him when a horse shied too close. He caught her, and apparently never let go.”

  “Did her parents care she’d fallen for a Scotsman?”

  “Would yours?”

  Though she understood his meaning, Roysa could not help but blush at the idea of telling her father she planned to marry a Scots clan chief.

  “Perhaps. Though less so if he were also an English earl.”

  “Fortunately, it did not take long for my grandfather to accept my father. His unwavering support of him against King Henry’s machinations helped.”

  “So you hated both father and son?” she asked, though it was a silly question.

  “Aye. King Henry wronged my mother. And his man, a very close advisor, assaulted my sister. What kind of king allows such a man to serve him? And the son is obviously no better than his father. His cruelties became apparent nearly the moment his reign began. ’Tis what happens when power goes unchecked.”

  “But there have been many good kings who have not abused their power.”

  “And too many bad ones who have. A king is nothing but a man with a crown. There are good and bad men, and women, and they do not typically become any nobler for having power over the lives of those beneath them.”

  Indeed. The same could be said of Walter, she thought.

  Terric spoke calmly, but the tic in his jaw gave him away. Though Roysa did not blame him for his anger. She understood it, maybe even appreciated it.

  “What of your parents?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  Roysa hadn’t yet touched her own soup. Instead, she watched as Terric ate, ignoring the way Idalia and Lance kept glancing over at them.

  “They met on their wedding day.”

  Not an unusual occurrence here, but perhaps it was more so in Scotland. Terric seemed surprised.

  “It was arranged, of course,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “And more difficult for my mother, I believe, than my father.”

  She peered around Terric and Lance to look at her sister. Idalia did not know of their mother’s past, and she’d not learn it from her. It was not her tale to tell.

  Her sister leaned forward. “You’re speaking of Mother’s first marriage, are you not?”

  So Mother had told her too. She’d shared the story with Roysa after Walter’s first visit. At the time, Roysa had thought her mother was being supportive of her love match—but now she wondered if she’d hoped to show Roysa that the affection she’d built up in her mind was naught but a wish. A dream.

  It was not the kind of love to hang a marriage on.

  “When did she tell you?”

  Idalia exchanged a glance with her husband. “When she realized I was falling in love with a blacksmith.”

  Terric drummed his fingers on the stem of his goblet. “It appears I’m the only one who doesn’t know the story.”

  All too aware of her warming cheeks, Roysa explained, “She was supposed to marry my father, but she fell in love with a Scottish reiver. They married in secret, but of course my grandfather eventually learned of it. He never accepted her husband, even though they had . . .”

  She looked to Idalia for help, but her sister did not seem inclined to finish her sentence. Indeed, she was grinning in a most unhelpful manner.

  “Relations,” she finished lamely.

  “Ahhh,” Terric said, his eyes twinkling in amusement as they met hers. “She was no longer a virgin.”

  Roysa dearly wished she’d not taken a sip of wine to hide her embarrassment. Nearly spitting it out, she glared at Terric. The man knew he was mortifying her.

  “Just so.”

  Roysa sat up in her seat.

  “Tragically, he died less than a year after their wedding. My father apparently knew of it, but he still wished to marry her.”

  “Knew that she’d been married,” Terric asked, “or that his intended was no longer a virgin?”

  Lance swatted his friend, and Roysa silently thanked him.

  “You are a brute,” she said.

  “I am,” Terric agreed good-naturedly. “’Tis quite a tale.”

  Thankful for the bowl of pottage stew in front of her, she gave it her full attention.

  “Almost as fantastical as the story of a lord’s daughter falling in love with a blacksmith,” he said, a smile in his voice.

  Or of the lady’s other daughter falling for a Scotsman after being cast out by her dead husband’s brother.

  Quite a tale, indeed. If she were falling for said Scotsman.

  Which she most certainly was not.

  Chapter 17

  The last time Terric had laughed this hard, his brother had fallen from the loft inside their stables at Bradon Moor. Some might call him uncharitable to laugh at such a thing, but Rory had been seducing the stablemaster’s daughter at the time—and Terric had entered the stables with the girl’s father. He’d tumbled to the ground while hurriedly attempting to don his trewes.

  Their parents had not been as amused.

  Admittedly, Roysa did not seem greatly amused by the story that currently had him in stitches. Idalia was telling them, in great detail, about her sister’s first attempt to practice archery with her male counterparts. She had arrived at the training yard barefoot, as was the practice of many archers, and demanded a bow. Idalia admitted to not being present at the time, but her father had gladly shared the tale with them that night at supper. He’d explained that only those using a longbow needed to forsake footwear, the extra grip needed to steady an accurate shot.

  Apparently it had not been her first attempt to train with the men. Her visit to the archery butts had been her way of rebutting her father’s denial of her request for a sword.

  It was the image of a young Roysa standing in her bare feet, likely in a lovely gown, among a group of full-grown knights that had made him start laughing, and he found he could not stop. Lance and Idalia both joined him, and Terric could not blame Gilbert for looking at them all as if they’d gone mad. Terric raised a cup to his marshal, who sat just below them, and though Gilbert raised his goblet in return, he could tell the poor man worried for his sanity.

  “I would gladly show you how to use a longbow.” He waved away the pudding and dried fruits, realizing belatedly that Roysa may have wanted them. “However . . .”

  His three supper companions waited as Terric attempted to keep his expression neutral.

  “I would require just one thing . . .”

  He’d meant it as a jest, but the look on Roysa’s face made him hard in an instant. The way she’d parted her lips told him she was thinking about being his partner somewhere other than on the training yard.

  “What is it?” Idalia asked at last. “What is the one thing?”

 
Thankfully, neither she nor Lance seemed to have noticed the tension between them. Slowing his rapidly beating heart with a long, expelled breath that he did not bother hiding from Roysa, Terric turned toward his friends.

  “I would only ask that she leave her boots behind.”

  His shoulders shook as Lance and Idalia began to laugh once again. Even Roysa smiled despite their teasing.

  He liked that she did not take offense.

  He liked much about her.

  Her laugh. The way she spoke to Lance, as if he were her brother in truth and not by marriage. It had not taken her long to learn what Terric had known since that awful day at the tournament. A finer man would be difficult to find, and the sight of Lance and Idalia together, so happy, made Terric wonder, for a brief moment, if it were indeed possible . . .

  “I’ll do it.”

  Roysa broke into his reverie.

  “What will you do?” he asked, having momentarily forgotten their conversation.

  “I will leave my boots behind if you’ll indeed train me with the longbow.”

  He thought of bringing Roysa to the training yard in Bradon Moor. It would be the middle of the summer, and she’d stand there barefoot, her hands holding a bow the size of her own body. Terric would stand behind her, instructing her, touching her with the freedom of . . . what? Her husband?

  The thought was both disturbing and pleasing.

  She waited for his response.

  “You would be forced to remain until the spring. I do not recommend training barefoot in the snow.”

  Neither of them were laughing any longer.

  Lance and Idalia had begun speaking behind him, talking of something else.

  “You may be forced to do so anyway, if Dromsley Castle is under siege,” he said.

  “Will it be?”

  At this moment, he wished it were so. He found he quite liked the thought of being in Roysa’s company for months on end.

  “Nay. A siege would be a win for John. We will proceed as if Langham and Ulster will both move against us when the weather breaks.”

  He did not intend to frighten her, but neither did he want to hide the truth.

  “News from my scout, along with your information about Ulster’s meeting with Langham, forces us to prepare for such an event.”

  “Will you gather more men? From my father maybe?”

  “We have allies, including your father, but there may not be time to get them here. I doubt my men will arrive from Scotland in time either. And by crushing the northern lords first, especially one who founded the order that vowed to bring him to heel, the king might force others to reconsider their support.”

  “But you will try?”

  Losing was impossible, for many reasons, but also because Roysa and Idalia were here. He would not allow any harm to come to them. He would not allow Lackland and his supporters to take this from him. They would not prevail again.

  “I will do everything to protect Dromsley, protect the cause.”

  Protect you.

  “You were right, Roysa,” he said, lowering his voice. “I have been preparing for this fight my entire life. The king will not best me.”

  She did not hesitate. “I believe you.”

  Her unwavering faith was more than he had reason to expect—and it scared him more than any interaction they’d had before.

  He’d not earned that faith yet.

  But he meant to, starting this very night.

  Chapter 18

  Though Terric had not wanted to leave the dinner table, he’d noticed his retainers were getting restless. They would stay as long as he did, and so he officially ended the meal and excused himself.

  He took a moment to speak to Gilbert, his marshal, and a few of the men, but his gaze continued to stray to Roysa, who sat with Idalia and Lance in the same corner of the hall where he and Roysa had sat on that snowy afternoon, drinking more than they should, learning neither of them fit the other’s initial expectations.

  He had thought her beautiful then, but tonight, in that lilac gown, laughing with him as if they had known each other for years . . .

  Well, he found himself thinking of Guy, the friend who’d vowed never to marry. Guy had done things the wrong way around, of course—he’d married Sabine to save her from her unscrupulous guardian, and to keep her from divulging his secrets, and the two had fallen in love as an unintended consequence of their marriage.

  He’d asked Guy, of course, how such a thing had happened. His response had been to clap Terric on the back and say, “I fell in love.”

  A simple answer—too simple, indeed, given Terric himself had been in love before. Or had, at least, believed himself to be.

  His sister had, in fact, warned him against the laird’s daughter. Despite it, he opened himself to her. To Isobel’s sweet words and stolen kisses. It was only when Cait very deliberately told her of the possibility of Rory someday becoming chief that he’d learned the truth. She loved the thought of being the chief’s wife.

  But not him.

  He wanted to love his wife in the way Guy loved Sabine, and Lance loved Idalia. Something else had struck him tonight, looking at Lance and Idalia together. His friends’ wives were a part of the order. While Sabine was an actual member, who bore the same mark they all did, Idalia was an honorary one. He could marry.

  He was not ready yet, but neither was Roysa, just recently widowed.

  However . . .

  “Lady Roysa,” he said, approaching his friends from behind. He did not wish to sit with them. What he had to say was for her ears alone.

  When she spun in her seat, looking up at him, a prickle ran through his shoulders and arms. Terric focused on the single purple jewel that hung from her forehead, a favored headpiece he’d once thought pretentious but now adored. It gleamed up at him, as did Roysa, her eyes bright and welcoming.

  “A word?”

  She did not hesitate.

  Gathering fistfuls of her gown, Roysa stood and smoothed out the soft purple fabric.

  Terric avoided looking at Lance and Idalia, knowing both of them were staring at him. They likely misunderstood his intentions. Of course, he’d not blame either of them. His intentions had not been honorable when she’d stumbled into his bedchamber the previous night. Even now, as she took the arm he offered, Terric was tempted to guide her back there to finish what they had started.

  What he had ended.

  “There is an alcove . . .” He pointed through the hall with his free hand.

  “I worried for a moment you meant to abscond with me back to your chamber.”

  “The idea worries you?”

  Terric could not remember ever having felt such contentment as he did with Roysa on his arm. And on the precipice of a battle his own marshal and captain likely doubted he could win.

  “Nay,” she admitted. “It does not.”

  Grabbing a standing candle just before they stepped out of the hall, Terric guided her toward the most private place he could think of that was not his bedchamber. Or his solar. Both were too private, and Terric didn’t trust himself.

  Nodding to a watchman who passed them on the way to his station, Terric led Roysa toward their destination.

  “This way.”

  Reluctantly, he released her arm and stepped in front of her. The stairwell was dimly lit, and she’d need his light to guide them.

  “I’ve not been in this section of the castle before.”

  “Chapel Tower,” he said, arriving on the first floor.

  “A peculiar name as the chapel is not located here.”

  Terric could see their destination from the entryway. A window seat in the largest alcove in the castle. He suspected it had been built for the clergy who’d resided at Dromsley at the time.

  “Oh my!”

  Terric had been waiting for her reaction. A window such as this was so rare that Terric had never seen its like anywhere but Dromsley.

  “This must have cost a fortune. I’ve never
seen so much glass in one place before. I can see straight through it into the inner ward.”

  Placing the candle on the floor, Terric gestured for Roysa to sit on the velvet cushioned seat and settled down beside her. Through the X pattern in the glass, Roysa watched as the snow fell, once again, just outside. A nearly full moon provided enough light for them to see beyond the window, but not much farther.

  “And it’s warm,” she said softly, looking at him in wonder.

  Terric would have brought her here earlier had he realized she would have such a reaction.

  “Do you see those gaps”—he pointed to the ground beneath them—“just there?”

  “Aye,” she said, lifting her eyes to see the barely visible gaps.

  “Built there intentionally along this entire wall. We’re just above the only fireplace bigger than the one in the lord’s chamber.”

  “Bigger than . . . oh. The kitchen?”

  Terric did not want to talk about castle design. He wished to ask her a question that had been burning in his mind half the evening.

  Roysa shifted, adjusting her gown. Terric wanted to scoop her up and carry her back to his bedchamber, but instead he gathered himself and said, “I will see little of you these next few days.”

  She turned toward the courtyard, and just then, he could imagine having her painted. The look of wonder in her eyes, the way she was sitting so prettily on the bench, her gown impeccable. He faltered. Roysa could have any man she desired. And though she’d sent a message ahead to Stanton, she had not yet spoken to her parents about all that had happened.

  Very likely, Lord Stanton would already have a suitor in mind. Of course, it would be Roysa’s right as a widow to accept or reject his suggestion.

  Roysa waited for him to continue.

  “The upcoming battle, if it indeed comes to pass, will be hard-won.”

  “But not impossible?”

  “Nay. Not impossible.”

  The last time Terric had been this nervous, he’d been facing down a rival clan, hoping he could avoid a pike in his gut.

  He could not resist any longer. Terric reached out and took Roysa’s hand. Pulling it onto his lap, he covered it with both of his.