by Cosby, Diana
“I will be your wife,” she stated, “but never will I capitulate to being an observer when it comes to my people’s needs.”
He shoved aside his growing admiration for the fierce lass, damned yet another innocent was harmed in Lord Comyn’s bid for power. Nor, with the stakes so high, could this be helped.
Aiden folded his hands over his chest. “So long as you follow my orders, we shall be comfortable with each other.”
“I await the day you ride off to battle,” she said.
“Nay more than I.” And more than she understood.
The door opened. Cailin and Rónán entered.
After a surprised pause, Rónán shut the door. The knight’s gaze shifted from Aiden to her. “Is something amiss?”
Aiden unfurled his arms. “Lady Gwendolyn was just leaving. My lady, I will see you at supper.”
She stiffened, and he could all but see the angry thoughts whirling in her head. She gave a curt nod. “My lord.” She strode past his men, slammed the door in her wake.
“God’s blade,” Cailin said, “the lass is angrier than a wounded bear.”
“She is, and rightly so.” Aiden met his friend’s gaze. “I despise talking to her with such disdain. She is a strong and proud woman, but a stubborn one as well.”
“What happened?” Rónán asked.
“I had begun prayers when I heard a sound from behind the statue.” Aiden walked behind the figurine, frowning at the bottles of oil on the floor and a small door cracked open. He pushed it wider, impressed by the array of oils lining the hidden shelf. “’Twould seem I caught her replenishing oils and herbs, but after I entered, she didna make her presence known. For the short time we are here, we must be careful. I willna risk her interference.”
“We need the lass’s aid to discover whether a secret tunnel to the castle exists,” Cailin said.
“As much as I agree, given the tension between us, I doubt the time exists to gain her trust.” Aiden stowed the bottles she’d left, then closed the small door. “For the few days we will remain, all we must do is allow her to continue to believe I am her betrothed. If somehow I can convince her to divulge the location of the secret passageway, so be it.”
His men nodded.
Aiden continued, “Given her reluctance to marry, she willna seek me out and we can explore unheeded. Once it is dark, come to my chamber and report your findings; then we will discuss our next step.”
“How will you warn us if there is trouble?” Cailin asked.
“I will rub my thumb across my jaw.” Aiden paused. “Any other questions?”
His men shook their heads, then departed.
Aiden stepped toward the door. At the entry, he glanced back to the altar.
Lady Gwendolyn wouldn’t marry Bróccín, but she would wed a man chosen by the Bruce. Latharn Castle’s strategic location was too important to allow the lass to live without the protection of a noble loyal to King Robert.
Nor was her desire to remain unwed of any matter. War demanded its own dictates, all within its own boundaries, often sacrificing one’s dreams for the sake of power. A fact he well knew.
Yet she wasn’t a warrior, but a maiden ensnared within the turbulence of war.
Sympathy for her plight swept him. Her fate could not be helped. He wasn’t a noble who could offer her aid, but a Knight Templar.
No, his life in the Brotherhood was over.
Aiden’s hand tightened on the entry at thoughts of King Philip’s duplicity against the loyal order that had protected the sovereign over the years. Desperation and greed had pressed the king’s hand, neither of which excused the royal’s betrayal of warriors who had displayed the highest ideals and principles for nearly two centuries.
Aiden yanked the door open, the golden rays of the late afternoon sun far from warming the chill blackening his heart.
Almost a year had passed since he and the other Templars had sailed beneath the shield of night from the port of La Rochelle. He regretted those they’d had to leave behind, the many brave men who had been tortured or killed since.
Aiden strode toward the keep. By God, their sacrifice wouldn’t be for naught. This night, he and his men would begin gathering the information King Robert needed for the attack on Latharn Castle. Thoughts of a lass had no place in war, something he must never forget.
* * * *
The lingering scent of venison, herbs, and onions filled the air as Gwendolyn finished the last sip of her wine, relieved the tedious meal was over. Except for Lord Balfour’s initial reserved greeting, when he’d sat beside her on the dais, throughout the meal he’d remained quiet, his cool demeanor far from a surprise after their confrontation in the chapel.
The entry to the keep opened. Illuminated by torchlight, Sir Pieres stepped into the great hall, a sealed writ in his hand.
Mary’s will, what news did he bring? Fingers trembling, she set aside her goblet. Please God, let it not be a warning that the Bruce’s men were nearby.
Her trusted knight strode to the dais, handed her the slim, tied leather pouch. “This just arrived from Rome.”
“Rome?” Relief swept her that ’twas not a report concerning King Robert. As she accepted the document, she caught her betrothed’s interest. Mouth tight, Gwendolyn broke open the seal, unrolled the missive, and scanned the lines. Her fingers tightened on the parchment.
Lord Balfour raised a brow. “What is wrong, my lady?”
Wrong? An understatement. Pressure tightened in her chest as she reread the damning lines and then lifted her gaze to his. “’Tis a request for Father Iames to sail for Rome immediately.”
With a shrug, her betrothed emptied his goblet. He set it on the table, motioned for the lad nearby for more. “I see no issue with the priest’s departure.”
She damned this unwanted turn of event. Nor did he understand the consequence. “In the missive you delivered, Lord Comyn instructed we would marry within a fortnight after your arrival. Father Iames is to perform the ceremony.”
A bored expression settled on Lord Balfour’s face as he took a sip of his wine. “A directive easily fulfilled. We will send for a nearby priest.”
Gwendolyn struggled to accept that the time to adjust to his presence, to find a way to tolerate him within her life, was lost. “There are nay other clerics nearby.”
“Then at the end of the period in question, we shall handfast.”
“I would agree,” she said, cursing the tremor in her voice at thoughts of the Scottish practice of marriage through oaths pledged to the other, “but Lord Comyn’s directive states our vows are to be given by a priest.”
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then grew unreadable.
She frowned. Panic? Nay. Lord Balfour was anxious to wed, to enter a union that would bring him the title of the Earl of Hadington, along with Latharn Castle. “A ship awaits Father Iames in the harbor. Once he has performed our marriage ceremony, he will leave.”
* * * *
Aiden forced his expression to remain calm, at odds with the alarm raging inside. Married this night? God’s sword, no! From the corner of his eye, he caught Cailin watching him from a nearby trestle table, his expression curious. Aiden rubbed his thumb across his jaw
Eyes widening, Cailin leaned close to Rónán, whispered. Both men sat back, covertly watched for his next signal.
“Sir Pieres,” Gwendolyn said, “instruct Father Iames of the change in plans posthaste.”
Worry lined the knight’s brow. “Aye, my lady.” He bowed, then hurried out.
Gwendolyn’s eyes leveled on Aiden. “’Twould seem,” she whispered, her voice icy, “that you will have my castle this night.”
Heart pounding, Aiden fought rising panic. Blast it, there must be a way to avoid saying their vows.
With her guard filling the castle, he and his men couldn’t slip awa
y unseen. Nor could he allow her to see his concern. God help them if ’twas discovered they were the enemy.
Through sheer will, Aiden set the goblet on the table as if the news hadn’t shattered his composure, then met his bride-to-be’s fierce gaze. “Don a gown fitting for our marriage, then return.”
Her eyes blazed with anger, and he muttered a silent curse. The last thing he wanted was to involve the lass further, much less toss her into this sham of a marriage.
Gwendolyn fled to the turret.
On unsteady legs, Aiden rose. With herculean will, he stepped off the dais. His stride easy, as if his entire life hadn’t been tossed into chaos, he walked over, halted before his men. “We need to speak in private.”
Nodding, his knights followed him down the corridor.
Once inside the solar, Aiden shut the door. The scent of fresh rushes melded with the warmth of the summer night, at odds with the anguish roiling in his gut.
Cailin narrowed his eyes. “What happened?”
Unable to believe the turn of events, Aiden rubbed the tension in the back of his neck. “’Twould seem Lord Comyn dictated our marital vows are to be given by a priest.”
“A common occurrence,” Rónán said.
“I agree, but Father Iames has been called to Rome and sails this night, and there isna another man of the cloth nearby. Thus Lady Gwendolyn and Lord Balfour are to wed immediately,” Aiden said, the words screaming in his mind.
Cailin’s face paled. “God’s blade, you canna marry the lass!”
“Dinna you think I know that?” Aiden spat, praying that at any moment he would awaken and find ’twas naught but a nightmare.
“God’s truth,” Rónán breathed, “we must leave now.”
“Nay, we would be seen if we tried to take our mounts and go,” Aiden said. “Nor have we gathered the information necessary for King Robert.”
Cailin gave a rough exhale. “Then what are we going to do?”
A question Aiden had asked himself a hundred times since she’d broken the news, yet each answer had collapsed in his mind but for one.
Duty.
The reason they were at Latharn Castle.
An objective regardless of the risks they must achieve.
However much he loathed the idea, he resigned himself to the choice he must make, one involving a stubborn lass with gray eyes whose actions had shown him more of a spine than he’d expected.
“The details we gather are critical to King Robert’s capturing this stronghold, a fortress he must seize if he is to unite Scotland,” Aiden said, his voice grave. “We have bits of information, but far from what is needed to ensure our sovereign’s success.”
Rónán eyes widened. “God in heaven, you are actually going through with this farce?”
A hard ache pounded in his head. “I have nay other choice. When we have the information we need, in a day, two at most, we depart as planned. Once we reach the Bruce’s camp, I will send word to Lady Gwendolyn that Lord Balfour has died.”
“God help us if she learns that you are not her betrothed before we escape,” Cailin said.
Confident in this regard, Aiden shook his head. “She willna. And any vow I swear under Bróccín’s name will not be binding.”
Brows furrowed, Rónán walked to the hearth, turned. “What of the lass?”
“What of her?” Aiden asked.
“She believes ’tis her wedding night,” his friend replied. “She will expect you to bed her.”
Aiden stilled. In the chaos, he hadn’t considered the possibility of their sharing a chamber, or the repercussions of that intimate setting. He recalled how her face had paled at the prospect of an immediate marriage, and the pounding in his head eased. “Given Lady Gwendolyn’s dismay at the news of our imminent marriage, I doubt she will be troubled if I dinna share her chamber.”
“With the celebrating after your vows,” Cailin said, “and more than likely the revelers following you to her chamber, I dinna think you will have a choice of where you sleep this night.”
God’s sword, their being alone was never to have been an issue. Except the priest’s imminent departure had laid waste to his plans.
For an instant, his body hardened at thoughts of the sheer loveliness of Lady Gwendolyn’s curves. In different circumstances, he couldna deny he would be interested in exploring her alluring form. Yet he couldn’t ignore his greater duty, or that he wasn’t her betrothed. When he used a false name for the upcoming marriage, he would not be her husband.
Though she was beautiful, and regardless if she intrigued him, or that he’d never met a woman like her before, with ease he could keep his distance. How many nights had he spent in the desert with naught but a blanket to cover him, or sailed with a galley of knights preparing for an attack. Sleeping in a chamber with the lass was naught but another obligation.
“Given the earl’s renowned dictatorial manner, she will expect a quick bedding,” Cailin warned.
A muscle worked in Aiden’s jaw. “Bedamned with what Lord Balfour would have done. I refuse to make a mockery of the sanctity of marriage any more than necessary.”
But his friend’s words held wisdom, ones he damned. She would expect his sharing their marriage bed, but based on her reaction when she learned their wedding would be this night, intimacy was something she loathed. A fact he would bend in his favor.
Aiden refused to ponder her naked curves or soft sighs. Instead, he thought of what was within his control. “Once the bedchamber door closes, I will devise a reason to allow her to sleep alone.”
“What of the well-wishers who will camp outside the chamber and demand proof of Lady Gwendolyn’s innocence?” Cailin asked.
“A simple task to take care of, which doesna involve her.”
Rónán arched a brow. “And she will comply with your deceit before her people?” “I believe she will, at least for the few days we are here,” Aiden said.
Based on their prolonged silence, neither of his men seemed convinced of his plan.
A shout, then laughter echoed from the great room.
He frowned. “We must return before Lady Gwendolyn arrives.” With his men on his heels, Aiden exited the chamber and strode to the dais, anxious for the time they could depart.
* * * *
Torchlight filled the great room as Lady Gwendolyn stood before Father Iames, noting the way his cassock hung from his reed-thin frame, and the deep lines of worry creasing his brow.
Through her dread, she forced herself to smile. She refused to add anguish to a man she’d known all her life, one who was more than the priest of this stronghold but a friend, one who knew of her reluctance to marry.
Heart pounding, she faced her betrothed, aware of his eyes lowering to her ivory silk gown with a scowl. Let him be irritated by her choice. After her first marriage, she refused to wear white. Though elaborate, this attire wasn’t crafted for a wedding. ’Twas a gown her father had gifted her with months ago as a surprise for an upcoming trip to meet with Lord Comyn.
Weeks after, he had died.
She slid her thumb over the embroidered gold detail at the edge of one of the long sleeves, appreciating the elegance of the gown, of how the simple ivory top narrowed at the waist, then opened in a vee to the floor to expose a delicate weave of golden flowers. For that momentous occasion, every detail had been considered, from matching panels sewn into the exposed sleeves to the ivory pearls and gold beads threaded into a Celtic pattern that surrounded her neck. But most of all, she had loved that her father had taken the time to select a dress for her of such elegance.
Tears burned her throat as she remembered how she’d learned he’d died, how she’d collapsed on her bed and wept until she had no tears left. Heartbroken, she’d stowed the gown deep inside a chest, never again to be seen, the gift given out of love naught but a reminder of his dea
th.
Today, she found this garb a fitting reminder of dreams shattered.
Numb, she took in the pride and joy on the faces of her men filling the great room when all she wanted to do was scream with outrage at this marriage.
Lord Balfour shifted beside her.
Gwendolyn stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge his presence until decorum dictated the commencement of this horrendous act.
Like a death knell, the peals of the chapel bell announcing Vespers sounded.
The priest nodded to Sir Pieres, and the knight called the crowd filling the large chamber to silence, but she caught the anguish in his eyes at her marrying another man. However much she did not want this marriage, she wished that one day her friend would find a woman deserving of his love.
The scent of roast venison and herbs filling the air, Father Iames opened the Bible. Strains of Latin echoed around her as the sacred ceremony began, holy words that would forevermore bind her to a man she detested.
As the priest made the sign of the cross, Gwendolyn averted her gaze to the flames in the hearth, the whirl of black soot spiraling upward, so like her life, charred of hope.
“Do you,” the priest began, “take Bróccín MacRaith, Earl of Balfour, as your lawfully wedded husband?”
The vicar’s deep voice echoed within the great room, and her stomach lurched.
At her silence, a frown worked its way across the priest’s weathered brow.
Too aware of the pride-filled faces around her and refusing to dishonor her legacy, she steadied herself. “I—I do.”
The priest’s gaze shifted to Lord Balfour. “And do you, Lord Balfour,” Father Iames said, his aged voice rough with emotion, “take Lady Gwendolyn Murphy as your lawfully wedded wife?”
At his silence, she looked up.
Green eyes penetrated hers with such intensity, like a warrior set to conquer, and she shuddered. “I do,” he replied, his deep, his confident burr rolling through the chamber as if staking his claim.
Her knights within the great room exploded into cheers. Tankards of ale were passed around with fervor, and men raised their cups in toasts to the occasion before downing the brew.
