by Darci Hannah
Sir George’s eyes widened at this charge, yet his disarming smile remained. “My dear madame, I make no excuses for intercepting the messenger. As I explained to Hendrick, I recognized the man. I have been keeping an eye on my lands in Teviotdale knowing that Julius was about, and when I saw the messenger coming, riding along the Kelso road, I had a feeling he was proclaiming the return of Isabeau. I was overjoyed when I saw that it was addressed to Hendrick, and told the lad I’d deliver the message myself, as I was going that way. A couple of groats in the lad’s hand, and the letter was mine. I would have delivered it too if my men and I weren’t so brutally set upon by the English when we were.” He turned to me. “You must know, Isabeau, how anxious I was to have a word with you away from the eyes and ears of the king and his court. You have had a most diligent guardian in James, so diligent that even your most ardent admirers have had to admire you from afar.”
Still shaken by his allure, I replied from the safety of Seraphina’s arms, “I don’t think you’ve ever been very far.”
His response to this was a brilliant grin, and then he threw his head back and laughed. His laughter, deep and rich, echoed through the large chamber, bouncing off tapestry and tester bed alike. It was infectious, and I did all I could to suppress a smile. “You know me surprisingly well, Isabeau, my elusive dove, and that alone gives me reason to hope. I think you will find, if you’ll allow yourself to give me a chance, that I can be a charming ally.” The word ally was said with subtle mischief to make me understand his real meaning, and it suddenly reminded me of the king’s request that I find a suitable husband or one would be found for me.
“You jump to conclusions,” I said plainly, guiding him toward the door, “for I have never considered you an enemy. And if you wish me to consider you as anything at all, you’ll let me get some sleep. I doubt it has occurred to you, but I’m spectacularly tired.”
“Forgive me. I forgot for a moment that you’ve been in the company of Marion these last few days. A dear lass, but insufferably wearing.” His eyes widened in a knowing manner. In spite of myself I smiled.
“It might possibly run in the family,” I said half-teasingly as I steered him past the doorway. “Now, if you’ll be so good as to let me retire, and if I make it through the night without incident, mishap, or molestation, we shall begin tomorrow with a new understanding of one another.”
“Isabeau,” he uttered plaintively through the swiftly narrowing crack. “I find that insulting with me before your door.”
The door closed and I threw the bolt, grinning a little. “Sleep well, Sir George.”
Although thoroughly exhausted, my body limp with the lack of will or desire to move, I could not sleep. It was the wee hours of the night. The castle, filled with so many rambunctious men, all of them riled by the recent assault to their pride, had quieted down. I should have been among them, sleeping soundly if not peacefully, yet instead I found myself flat on my back, motionless in the giant bed that had belonged to my father, with the fine gossamer curtains fashioned by my mother’s own hand drawn close. I was in a familial cocoon, surrounded by the strong and poignant memory of my parents, only one of whom I had the pleasure to know, yet both were now gone. The thought that I lay on the very bed I was conceived in haunted me a little, and as the stump of the taper guttered in the holder, throwing its wan yellow light against the curtains, I thought of them both—the legendary beauty whose life was cut short in childbirth and the man whose love for her was so great that it drove him insane. When the first tear trickled down my cheek I did nothing to stop it. And then, as if a floodgate had opened after a deluge, all the sorrow I had kept in check for so long came upon me, doubling in virulence with the realization that I had never cried for them before now. How long I lay in this strange and haunted bed dampening the coverlet with my tears I couldn’t say, but once this bout of sorrow and self-pity played out, leaving me with no more tears to shed, I felt a little better and thought sleep would finally come.
But in this, again, I was wrong.
Frightfully unfettered, my restless mind turned next to the two men who most occupied it, the alluring dark knight holding vigil at my door and the golden predator who was my brother, now prowling the verdant glens of Blythemuir with his ravenous pack. Let loose upon the countryside, Julius and his men, like a cloud of insatiable locusts, would leave nothing but waste and desolation in their wake. Sir George Douglas possessed the will to stop him, but by inhabiting my castle he would be just as devastating—only on a more personal level. What was I to do? How was I to handle these two warring men while keeping my promise to Blythe Hall and her people? Mme. Seraphina liked to proclaim, as devout women often will, that angels watched over me. It was a great pity that I didn’t believe in angels, despite the family legend and to the chagrin of my governess, because for the first time in my life I believed that a little divine counsel couldn’t go amiss. But I knew, firsthand, just how dangerous such whimsical beliefs could be.
Perhaps it was this suggestion of angels and divine beings that invoked his memory again. I really couldn’t say. All I knew was that for the second time in the same day I was filled with a vision of a man not only physically perfect but possessing something much deeper, something radiant and pure. I had the feeling one gets when standing in the full, glorious rays of the sun. He was the essence of light, this stranger, the embodiment of virtue and honor. And yet there was a powerful virility about him that rendered me breathless. The face, which could have been attributed to a Roman god, was strong and noble, with perfect symmetry from aquiline nose to firm jaw complete with chin dimple. Yet it was the eyes—like two unblemished sapphires peering from beneath a golden brow—that positively smoldered with passion and palpable desire. Even in this odd fantasy of mine it was hard to peer directly into them, yet when I did I believed I finally understood what a powerful allure physical love must be. The man from my vision did not speak, but I knew he felt my desire, which was as raw and unfettered as his own. This knowledge caused my body to suddenly erupt in a burst of tingling. From my head to my toes, every fiber of my being became alive, every sense heightened. And when it finally subsided, he followed me into my dreams, and there he lived, awakening my soul, igniting a fire within me that I feared only he had the power to quench.
It was only when I felt the body in bed next to me that I began to understand that something was not right. At first it seemed the most natural thing in the world, a living extension of my dream where the elusive being, half angel, half warrior (yet undeniably all male), was fulfilling the more carnal desires he had awakened. Love pulsated through me, along with a yearning that went beyond my understanding. The man in my dream knew what I wanted even if I could not put it into words; his own emotions were so entwined with mine that I didn’t know where he ended and I began. And so, when I felt the body easing its way into my bed, I subconsciously assumed my dream had become real. I believe I let out a small noise of surprise when his cold skin pressed against the thin fabric of my nightdress, yet his breath was hot and sweet against my cheek. He murmured something in a tone that was as soothing as it was sensual. I had no idea what he said, but my body responded for me and snuggled into him, inviting him to put his arm around me. This he did, and spoke once more. This time I heard exactly what he said, and no shock could have been greater or more thoroughly disturbing.
“Dear God,” the expletive burst from his lips in a hot, breathy whisper. “What a wanton you are. Now warm me up, my sweet, nubile young vixen. I’ve come at last and have thought of little else but your delicious body writhing in pleasure against my own. Not even the great danger to myself—”
“Julius!” I cried, as every horrified fiber of my being exploded, causing me to slap his roving hand away as I simultaneously bolted out of the bed.
At the sound of my voice he jumped as well—as if being burned by hot oil. And in the darkness, his outline just visible against the fine curtains fashioned by our mother’s own hand, he cried: �
��Holy virgins afire! What the hell are you doing here?!”
“What the hell are you doing here?!” I spat back, fully awake and aghast. “This is my bedchamber, Julius! And … and you are in my bed!”
“This is not your bedchamber, Isabeau! Your bedchamber’s down”—he thrust out a finger and waggled it—“there. And what the devil do you mean by leaving your window open?”
“I always sleep with my window open!” I informed him, leveling a menacing glare at his shadowy figure. “And let me tell you that an open window is by no means an invitation to enter somebody’s bed. Dear heavens, Julius, have you no shame? You’re my own brother, for mercy’s sake.” The mere thought of his touch made me unspeakably queasy, dirty even. Thankfully he was as disgusted by it as I was, for I saw his body shiver in revulsion.
“I had no intention of getting into your bed, Isabeau!” His reply was heated, his tone a harsh whisper. “I may have many undesirable habits, but incest, you’ll be happy to know, is not one of them.”
This, in truth, was a slight relief, but it still didn’t change the fact that he—a dangerous and partially clad outlaw—had gotten into my bed. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I reached for the candle on the nightstand and paused to light it so that I could better see him. Enveloped in the cocoon of the large tester bed, the scant light, trapped and reflected in the fine gossamer of the curtains, caught his hair and made it appear a golden halo atop a face far too handsome for his own good. His only piece of clothing, as he stood across from me seething, was a long, loose-fitting shirt of expensive linen. It was open at the throat, revealing a sleek, finely muscled neck that melded into a well-formed, work-hardened chest.
“Whose bed did you think you were getting into?” I asked pointedly.
“That is none of your business,” he replied crisply, his lips curling ever so slightly with smugness.
I glared at him. “Very well. Don’t answer. But I would like to know how you got in here in the first place?”
“That is also none of your business.”
“Oh, but I think that it is my business, brother dear, as this is my castle now. You ought to have that cleaned and bandaged, you know,” I added, pointing to the blood-encrusted rip in his linen that bisected the flat plane of his stomach and revealed the cut he had received at the hand of Sir George.
He glanced down to where I pointed. “This little scratch? I’m fine. I heal like a mangled pup.” He looked up and twisted his expressive mouth again, only this time there was palpable malice in the grin. “Call me Rondo, but somehow I always manage to bounce back from the brink of death.” I ignored the painful barb.
“Rondo’s dead, Julius, and I’ll thank you to leave my dog out of this.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. He was quite the little miracle. Yet had I known I would offend your sensibilities, or agitate such painful memories, I would have changed. Then again, had I known you’d be here, I would not have come at all.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” I said in a voice thick with sarcasm. “I can clearly sleep peacefully now knowing that you’ve broken into my home twice in the same day but haven’t come to ravish me. And here I was just beginning to feel safe, with two armies patrolling the grounds and Sir George sleeping before my door.”
“Sir George? He’s sleeping outside your door?” His look was comically scandalized as he glanced in the general direction, although the bed curtains obstructed his view. He chuckled softly.
“Yes. I’m glad you find it so amusing.”
“Oh, it is,” he said, and attempted to quell his unstable mirth. “By God, it is. Tell me, did he, by chance, insinuate that I would attempt to kidnap you and then ransom you back to the king?”
“Insinuate, no. Insist, yes,” I replied evenly, my eyes never leaving his. “And … well, are you?”
His response was a short burst of stifled laughter. “Heavens, no! I mean, at least not tonight. Truthfully, and I think you’ll agree with me here, it was the farthest thing from my mind.” He was filled with effervescent mirth, and it caused me to wonder if he was still drunk. “Oh God, he’s good … the ass!”
“Forgive me for believing it was a real concern.” My reply was petulant, but in my defense, I was greatly unnerved.
His brows momentarily rose in amusement. “All right, I forgive you. And to ease your little, overtroubled mind once again, sister dear, just as in the case of incest, kidnapping is a currency I don’t trade in. Does it relieve you to hear it?”
“No,” I stated truthfully. “Not at all. Because you attempted kidnap once—with the boy king.”
To this he had no answer. After a long, contemplative stare he said, “Forgive me. I shall rephrase my answer: kidnapping is a currency I don’t trade in any longer. Is that better? Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“I want to hear the truth for once,” I demanded, my mind aswirl with contrary emotions—disdain, compassion, frustration, and forgiveness. But Julius was a stubborn soul whose motives had never been other than his own.
“The trouble with Truth, my dear, is that it is something quite different to all parties involved. What is truth? What is falsehood? What is it that one wants to believe? Truth can be as elusive as the fabled unicorn, and just as tricky to pin down. Even with solid evidence—take the spiral horn, for example—regardless of the fact that I know of no one who’s actually seen a unicorn, ’tis easier to believe it exists rather than explain the real creature that wears such a prong. Truth gets mired in falsehood. I would tell it to you, but even I wouldn’t be fool enough to believe it. So, for the sake of argument, let’s just leave it like this: unlike your life, mine has been a wee less charmed.”
“Excuse me?” Julius always had a tendency to be prolix, and I was slightly confused and a little affronted. “My life has never been …,” I began, but stopped when I saw the look in his eyes. It was the same cold, accusing glare from that day long ago—the day our father went mad. It was there but for the space of a breath or two, and then, like a mercurial wind, it vanished and he smiled. “But let us not dwell on a past we cannot change,” he said with a pretense of benevolence. “Let us begin anew. Let us live in the moment, and I find at this moment I’m wondering who it was you were expecting when I climbed into your bed?”
“What?” I blurted, then stared at him. “What … kind of question is that?”
“Oh, come now, Isabeau,” he said, and sat back down on the bed. His tone was infuriating, his looks cool and fresh as morning dew. Then, in a preposterous show of burning interest, he fluffed and rearranged some pillows, leaned back, and crossed his arms. “You may deceive others,” he continued pleasantly, “but don’t play the coy innocent with me. I wasn’t lying when I said you’d grown into a real beauty. And I know a thing or two about young women your age, especially young, convent-bred women. Deny it if you must, but you know as well as I that you were as hot, primed, and ready to explode as Orban’s great gun sitting at the gates of Constantinople, sister dear.”
Inflamed, and more than a little outraged, I replied: “I don’t pretend to know what you’re talking about. Obviously your lively imagination has run away with you—again. Get out of my bed!”
“I’m comfortable. And I’m not the one credited with a lively imagination.” Under the soft glow of the single flame, his eyes widened, making his meaning perfectly clear.
Still standing between bed and curtain, shaking slightly while attempting to quell every nerve in my body that was threatening to spring to life at the memory of the erotic vision, I glowered at him. “I was asleep! And … and there’s no one! I wasn’t even dreaming of anything remotely like you’re suggesting. And anyway, how could my thoughts have even wandered where your mind so easily jumps?” I yanked the pillow from under his head. He sat up, still amused.
“Your thoughts may not have gone there, my dear, but your body certainly did. But not to worry”—he waved a hand nonchalantly in the air—“unless the man you were expecting was Lord K
ill-Me-Now.”
Sir George Douglas. The thought never crossed my mind, but it was easier to explain away a real man than a mere dream. I hugged the pillow to my body as I challenged, “And what if it was?”
He grinned, but his eyes darkened dangerously. “Then I would have to kill him. He’s already been the ruin of one Blythe. I will not stand idly by and watch him be the ruin of another.” I hugged the pillow even tighter at this statement, for although Sir George had his moments, he was, at heart, a good and decent man. And besides, I found that I rather liked him. Julius, however, had a flair for the dramatic, along with a tongue in his head that did little but cause trouble and infuriate. That he had a valid reason to dislike Sir George was evident. They had, at one time, been friends, yet in the end it was Sir George who came forward with the evidence that nearly sent Julius to the gallows. But one could hardly blame Sir George, for he was merely trying to save a kingdom, whereas Julius had been trying to overthrow it. And then it hit me, the sudden, sinking feeling of why he was really here.
“Julius,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Why have you come back now? Am I to believe it’s just some cruel twist of fate that brings you here … on the very day I return home?”
“People, I find, give Fate far too much credit. Would you believe that I missed you?” he offered softly.
“I believe you’ve missed a great many things, brother, including Scotland. But you had no right to open this evening’s festivities with a campaign of humiliation against me and your former king.”
“And?” he prompted, his head tilted, eyebrows raised. “Go ahead, say it! Georgie Douglas, my lord Kilwylie! You’ll have to excuse my theatrics; I was spectacularly drunk at the time.” His lips twisted into a grin of sardonic amusement. “And, if you’ll recall, it was my lord Kilwylie who began the spectacle of the night, bursting into the hall and flinging his heart at your feet. I was perfectly content with the meal and the music, until he carried his performance too far. ’Tis rank bad manners to mock a person in his own home. The man was sorely in need of a verbal thrashing.”
