The Scot

by Mecca, Cecelia

  Giving control of herself, including her body, to a man.

  “That finely honed body is coming toward us,” her sister said, lifting an arched eyebrow.

  Chapter 22

  “Good day, Idalia,” Terric said as he approached them. “Roysa.”

  She caught her sister’s eye before turning in her seat.

  “A brief word?” Terric held out his hand.

  “Of course.” She took it, the warmth of his touch leaving her bereft much too quickly.

  The last time he’d asked her that, Roysa had not quite been prepared for what he had to say. What was he about to tell her now?

  “We should not venture as far as yesterday,” Terric said, leading her through the hall. “But I convinced Lance a wee respite would not be out of order.”

  “Did he take much convincing?” she asked as Terric opened the second door they came to just off the great hall.

  “Nay,” he said, stepping inside and allowing her to enter. “He did not.”

  “’Tis the buttery,” she exclaimed, spying a chamber filled with wooden casks and barrels. Then he closed the door, and everything went black around her.

  “What—”

  He cut her off with a kiss. Though Roysa couldn’t see him, she could certainly feel him. His hands were everywhere, his lips moving across hers effortlessly. She did not hesitate to wrap her arms around his shoulders, holding on with everything she had. Thankfully, she had dressed simply this eve, the fabric of her low-cut gown thin enough that she could feel him pressed against her.

  It struck Roysa that she felt safer here, in this darkened room, with battle-ready knights bearing down on them, than she had in months. She felt protected. Of course, she’d always felt that way at Stanton, but she hadn’t realized how important it was until she’d left. Until she’d found herself a veritable prisoner in Stokesay Castle.

  When his lips moved to her neck, Roysa offered it freely.

  “This is courting, then?” she breathed.

  “Nay, ’tis more. I need more.”

  She could hardly see his face in front of her. But he was there, his nose pressed near hers, his warmth more inviting than the hearth.

  “So much talk of death.”

  Another kiss.

  “And destruction.”

  This one, on the corner of her mouth.

  “I needed . . .”

  Roysa kissed him first. She knew what he needed—for she needed the same thing. When his hands roamed down to her breasts, she welcomed the touch. Pressed into his hands, even when his mouth moved lower and lower. Terric’s warm breath alerted her to his intent, and he proceeded to tug on her neckline, just above her breast.

  He explored with his mouth, and Roysa arched upward, silently begging for more. For everything.

  The knock was so jolting, she nearly fell backward in her haste to jump away from him.

  When he opened the door, her eyes narrowed at the light’s intrusion.

  “Terric?” came the fervent question.

  “Lance, by God—”

  “We have visitors.”

  Terric opened the door a bit wider.

  “How did you find me?”

  She couldn’t see Lance’s face but could imagine his exasperated expression.

  “A wee respite,” he mimicked Terric’s accent. “I knew exactly what you meant when you suggested it.”

  He didn’t wait for Terric to comment.

  “A small party is marching toward Dromsley,” he blurted. “Their banners are clear even from a distance.”

  “Who is it?” Terric asked. “Surely the king wouldn’t send such a small group.”

  Roysa didn’t need to wait for Lance’s answer—he’d met her gaze and held it, but not as a reprimand. It was a message.

  “’Tis my father,” she guessed.

  Lance nodded.

  “Aye, my lady. Lord Stanton is here.”

  Stanton had come to Dromsley as a father. He’d received his daughter’s message about her husband’s death, and the sordid details around it. As such, he’d not come with a retinue of men. The second message they’d sent to Stanton, warning of a possible attack, had likely not reached the castle yet.

  They’d quickly moved to the solar, along with Lance and Terric’s men, and Terric now sat across from the man who, though he did not yet know it, might be his future father-in-law.

  “Who else have you asked for help?” Stanton asked. Direct. To the point.

  “Just you. No others but Noreham can spare enough men, and he is too far south,” Lance answered for him.

  “We’ve informed Noreham as well,” Gilbert added. “Though it’s to be expected he’ll have his own battles to fight. If John truly is mobilizing, there’s a good chance he’ll start by moving against Noreham considering his role in sending Bande de Valeur back to France.”

  “Or with Licheford.” Terric moved the map they’d been poring over for the last several days toward Stanton. “It would be a strategic win, to take such a place.” And Conrad well knew it.

  “But risky.” Stanton leaned forward, over the map. “The earls of Licheford have a long history of victory, against all manner of foes.”

  “Though they’ve never had cause to fight their own king,” he replied.

  Stanton looked up, his eyes hard. “Nor have any of us.”

  Terric and Lance exchanged a glance.

  “Tell me of your plan.”

  When Gilbert took over, Terric, grateful, only partially listened. Instead, he thought of the question Lance had whispered to him on their way to this chamber.

  “What will you tell him?”

  He’d not yet had the opportunity to speak with Stanton, but he knew he could not very well court Lady Roysa under her father’s nose without first seeking the man’s permission. Was he truly ready to marry her . . .

  He could feel her lips against his even now.

  For the blood of Christ, her father stands just next to me.

  But now that he’d had a small taste, Terric wanted more. He wanted it all.

  “Is there no other way?”

  Clearly Stanton did not approve of their plan.

  “A siege?” Lord Stanton looked at him.

  “We could hold out for months, mayhap even a year. But by then—”

  “By then John will have won,” Stanton said with a nod. “A siege here would be akin to a victory for him. Word will spread,” Stanton said.

  “Our allies will worry,” he agreed. “If the right ones abandon our cause . . .”

  “It will be lost.” Stanton crossed his arms as if surprised no one had gone to the trouble of arguing with him.

  Satisfied, Terric looked pointedly at Gilbert, who had been against his plan from the beginning.

  “Unfortunately, it may still be our best hope.”

  Terric’s smile fled. Stanton could not mean . . .

  “By your account, it does not appear they are waiting on the weather,” the earl began. “At least, we cannot assume as much.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “We have been moving forward with plans to move out within the next few days. As a precaution. Though our scouts have not reported anyone approaching, we will set up camp outside the castle walls in an area to our advantage.”

  “My daughters?”

  “We considered having Lance escort them to you—”

  “But if delaying the meeting was a ruse for more time, we must also consider the possibility John will also send men from the west.” Which was exactly the conclusion Terric and Lance had reached after days of discussing the matter.

  “Aye. Which means your daughters would be safest here.”

  “You do not have the numbers to defeat Ulster if he brings reinforcements.”

  Terric would not allow anyone, not even Roysa’s father, to alter what he knew was the best plan they could possibly have devised under the circumstances.

  “Unfortunately, there is no other . . .”

  He froze.
>
  A memory had slammed into him—something his friend Conrad had said to him the day everything had changed. The day his sister’s trusting nature had been shattered. The day he’d vowed to avenge his sister by striking against King Henry’s line.

  “I failed my sister,” he’d said to Conrad, the one who’d ultimately slain the bastard who’d tried to hurt Cait. “The king’s man knocked me down as if I were a young girl.”

  “Failed?” Conrad had said. “The man is dead. Your sister safe. If you need help to succeed, then take it. Burn a bridge, if you must, but take the win.”

  “Burn a bridge?” one of the other boys had asked. Terric could not remember if it had been Lance or Guy.

  “Aye. Burn a bridge. My grandfather once held off an attack by burning the bridge over which his enemies needed to travel. There are many ways of defeating your enemies. The direct approach isn’t always best.”

  Burn a bridge.

  He had his answer!

  “We will burn a bridge,” he announced, his tone brooking no argument.

  Lance shot him a curious look—although Terric couldn’t be sure if it was because he remembered the conversation too or because he thought Terric had gone mad. Everyone else simply stared at him.

  “The Watershed Bridge,” he clarified. “Without it, Ulster and Langham will have to travel far north or south to make the crossing.”

  “Or risk losing men crossing it before the thaw,” Lance said.

  “Either way,” he continued, “they will be delayed.”

  “Giving me time to return with men,” Stanton added.

  “And my own men time to arrive from Bradon Moor.”

  That seemed to surprise Stanton. He needn’t ask why—this was an English sort of argument, and they were men from Scotland. But they were his men. “Your clansmen are coming?”

  They should already be here.

  But Terric chose to keep that thought to himself. “Aye,” he said simply, not willing to discuss the situation.

  “Very well.” Stanton stood up straight.

  Terric looked from Lance to Gilbert. Neither appeared to have an argument with the plan. Although they would likely object to his next point.

  “And I’ll be the one to burn it down.”

  Chapter 23

  “But you’ve only just arrived!”

  Idalia stood next to her near the hall’s entrance just after sunrise as they said goodbye to their father.

  The previous night, the men had surprised them by joining them for the evening meal. Unfortunately, there had been little opportunity for a private talk with either Terric or her father. Her father’s title dictated he should sit next to their host. Lance, as always, sat on his other side with Idalia next to him. And because the steward had seated her next to Idalia, she’d been too far to converse with either her would-be suitor or her father.

  “Be thankful,” Idalia had whispered. “They speak of nothing but the upcoming battle.”

  She’d hoped Terric would ask to speak with her privately before the meal, but he’d contented himself with a parting glance that Roysa had struggled to interpret. Was it regret? Longing? Something else?

  She’d slept very little, and just before morning mass, Idalia had pulled her away to tell her of the plan they’d devised the previous night. Although the council had agreed to keep it a secret, Lance had divulged some of the details to his wife. She didn’t know what Terric’s mission was—only that he’d be gone and back in less than a sennight if all went according to plan.

  Thinking of Terric, of the plan he had not shared with her, she’d fidgeted through the priest’s sermon. Eager to see Terric. To talk to either him or her father. But neither of them had appeared at the morning meal.

  Indeed, Roysa had broken her fast alone.

  Only afterward, when Idalia had rushed up to explain that Father wanted to speak to her, had she learned why.

  “He knows,” her sister had said. “Father’s about to leave, but he wants to talk to you, and he knows about Terric.”

  She’d found herself face-to-face with Father before she even had time to recover, Idalia’s words floating through her mind.

  “Why do you leave so soon?”

  Her father looked around, as if assessing who stood within hearing. They stood just outside the hall, which ensured there would be little privacy if they spoke openly.

  “Over here,” Idalia said, escorting them to a more private alcove not far from the stairwell that would take him downstairs and out into the day.

  “A plan has been devised. We worked well into the night.”

  It was not an answer.

  “We know, Father,” Idalia said.

  He gave Idalia a sharp look, the likes of which he’d never once used on Roysa. She hated that her father favored her so openly. Speaking to him about it mattered little. He would simply chastise her for worrying unduly about ‘such minor concerns.’

  Minor concerns. Such as her sister’s feelings.

  She loved her father, aye. But Roysa would never understand him.

  “Lance told me.”

  Idalia’s answer pleased him even less. Roysa wondered what he would say if he knew Idalia had been invited to attend the war council? Lance had actually requested her presence. The only reason Idalia had declined was because Roysa had received no such invitation, not that she’d expected otherwise. If there were not already rumors of her and Terric, that would certainly have helped them along.

  “Then you know why I must leave for Stanton. Immediately.” His gaze shifted to Roysa. “Your husband is dead. Langham adhered to the marriage contract, but you left anyway?”

  “There were rumors. That he had his brother killed for . . .”

  Saint Mary above, please do not force me to explain this to him.

  “Rumors.”

  Her father sounded skeptical, but she would not back down. He had not been there, after all, and she felt certain she’d made the right decision. “Aye, rumors. And given what we now know, it appears those rumors were true. Langham is clearly not worried for his claim. But then, why would he be if his brother”—she refused to call him her husband any longer—“was secretly opposed to John, and Langham is the king’s man?”

  She could see Idalia’s open mouth from the corner of her eye. She’d meant to speak forcefully. Her father wouldn’t have listened otherwise. While most lords might expect their daughters to be acquiescent, their father was not most lords.

  “And you would remarry so soon. Without my permission?”

  “Nay, Father. Terric—”

  “Lord Dromsley.”

  “Asked for permission to court me, not to marry me.”

  “Permission only I can give.”

  “I am a widow,” she shot back. “One who fled, in fear for her life, and who will not be forced to marry again. Unless it is of my own choosing.”

  For a long time, he said nothing. Her father had always had two ways of being angry—loud and eruptive or deadly silent. Roysa hated the silence. Lesser men had nearly fallen to their feet in repentance under her father’s scrutiny.

  “’Tis unseemly,” he said at last. “I would take you with me were it not so dangerous.”

  Roysa’s chest rose and fell as she held back the many retorts vying to be spoken. Anything she said to him now would go unheard.

  “Father, I do not believe it is unseemly at all,” Idalia said.

  This time it was Roysa’s turn to regard her sister in shock.

  Idalia had never, ever spoken back to their father.

  Who was this woman standing beside her?

  “You approve of the match?”

  Had they all gone mad while she was at Stokesay? This was the first time Roysa could remember their father actively seeking out Idalia’s opinion. Though it pleased her immeasurably, Roysa worried about how her sister might respond. After all, she did not seem altogether thrilled with the match.

  “I approve of Roysa’s right to make her own de
cision. As I did. She is a widow with more rights than I had when you allowed Lance and I to marry.”

  She could tell the moment Father softened.

  Just slightly.

  “I must go.”

  “Of course.” She nodded, not daring to embrace him in front of an audience. She hadn’t noticed before, but both Lance and Terric had joined them, though each stood far enough away so as not to intrude on their conversation.

  “I will say to you what I told Lord Dromsley.”

  Roysa looked at Terric without intending to, wondering when he’d approached her father. And what, exactly, he had said.

  “If the other wills it . . .”

  Had she just heard him correctly? Had her father just given them permission? Maybe even his blessing? Being curt was his way, but he never relented unless it was his will to do so.

  “Be safe,” he said, walking past them. “I will be back.”

  He had given them his permission.

  And from the way Terric was looking at her, she suspected she’d finally have an opportunity to speak to him.

  “Come with me.”

  When he passed by her, Roysa stopped breathing. This was the Earl of Dromsley, the chief of a clan she’d never met. A hard man, as she’d always suspected. By the time Roysa realized where he was heading, it was too late to question the sanity of what they were about to do.

  His solar.

  “Do you think it wise—”

  Her words were cut off as Terric pulled her into the room, continuing what her father’s arrival had interrupted the day before. When he kissed her, Roysa forgot everything. The growing resentment at the way he left her out of the discussions Lance so readily shared with Idalia. Doubt at how quickly they’d allowed this to progress.

  Nothing mattered except the feel of his lips slanting across hers, Terric’s hands everywhere at once. Roysa kissed back, not caring about anything beyond this moment.

  “God, I could do that all day,” he said, breaking away. “’Twas not my intent to accost you like that.”

  When he licked his lips, still gleaming from their kiss, all of the things she’d wanted to say to him these past few days fell away.