by Cosby, Diana
“I thank you, Your Grace.” Confident King Robert would ensure Gwendolyn was kept safe, Aiden gave a low bow and then strode out. He pushed away the sense of loss at never seeing her again. ’Twas for the best. Regardless of his feelings for her, she had no place in his life.
In his tent, Aiden paced. Blast it, soon the Bruce would send for Lady Gwendolyn. Despite his assurances to the king, he wanted to speak to her before that meeting. To say what, he wasn’t sure. Yet leaving her to the Bruce’s decision felt paltry, given all she had experienced and how he had hurt her.
Wincing at his throbbing head, he stood, glanced at Cailin. “I must talk to Gwendolyn.”
His friend stepped before him. “I dinna think ’tis a wise decision, my friend.”
“Move away.”
A muscle worked in Cailin’s jaw. “And what will you say to her that will make anything better? ‘If the priest hadna been called away that fateful night, I would never have wed you?’”
“’Tis the truth,” Aiden snapped, damning the words, sounding pathetic even to him. On a heavy sigh, he rubbed the back of his neck, thankful for the dry clothes, feeling warm for the first time since he had jumped into the river. “I need to try.”
“God’s teeth,” Cailin charged, “think! What will talking to her change? Will it lessen her anger? Make the false wedding not exist?”
Fists clenched, he glared at his friend, the weight of his lies a stain upon his soul. However intimate, at least he hadn’t taken the unconscionable step of consummating their farce of a marriage; for that he never could have forgiven himself.
On a rough breath, Aiden shook his head. “Your questions are ones I have asked myself. Yet I need to try.”
“You care for her,” his friend said, his voice softening, “but the last thing I want to see is for you to make things worse. For you both.”
“Ironic, is it not? Over the years, the life of a Templar fulfilled me, a life I was willing to die for. Never did I imagine a time would come when I would find a woman who would make me care. Now,” Aiden rasped, his throat tight, “I doubt if I will ever forget her.”
“Mayhap if you speak with King Robert about seeking her hand, he will—”
“The war to reclaim Scotland is far from over. Nor do I have anything to offer her.”
Cailin frowned. “You are the Earl of Lenox.”
“Nay longer,” Aiden snapped, cursing the reminder. “After my family died, I returned to Thorburn Castle to find my home seized by the English. Any claim to the stronghold, or my nobility, is long since lost.” The throbbing in his head grew. “I can offer Gwendolyn naught but the title of wife to a landless knight.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Regardless, after what has transpired, even if I held the rank of duke, she would never welcome me into her life.”
Sympathy darkened his friend’s gaze. “But you dinna know for sure.”
“Her eyes,” he whispered, aching at the memory. “God help me, the hurt, the anger. After my betrayal, I deserved both. Though I dinna expect her to forgive me, I must try to explain, and to prepare her for what may come. For her, ’tis far from over.”
On an exasperated sigh, his friend glanced at his injury. “How fares your head?”
He skimmed his fingers gingerly across the gash Rónán had sewn. “’Twill heal.”
Cailin grimaced. “I am still trying to accept the Templar ties to Latharn Castle.”
“I as well. ’Twas astonishing to learn that, like Avalon Castle, Latharn Castle had been designed by the Brotherhood.” Aiden paused. “You can imagine my surprise when Gwendolyn informed me of the tunnels and hidden chambers below, more so that her great-grandfather hadna designed but overseen the building of the refuge.”
“I was shocked when the Bruce confirmed your suspicion,” his friend agreed. He paused. “How will you convince Gwendolyn to tell you where the secret ledger is?”
“I will find a way.” A dubious task, considering she despised him, but one that, for his king, he would achieve. Aiden glanced toward her tent, gave a deep sigh. “If I am to succeed on any front, I must speak with Gwendolyn before the king sends for her.”
“Go,” Cailin said. “I will let you know when the Bruce requests her presence.”
“My thanks.” Aiden stepped outside, the warmth of the late afternoon sun far from easing the heaviness in his heart.
Birds chirped in the trees, the murmurs of men filled the air, but he focused on her tent.
At his approach, the Knights Templar guarding the shelter nodded. “Aiden.”
“Quentin, how does Lady Gwendolyn fare?”
His mouth tightened. “She has said naught.”
Blast it. He wished he could turn back time to the day in the cave. If only for a while to savor the way she had watched him with desire, and how foolishly he had wanted more. Aiden pushed aside the canvas.
At the scrape of fabric, she turned. Gray eyes narrowed. “Leave me.”
A cold welcome he’d anticipated. In a way, one he had almost hoped for. At least she wasna indifferent. He entered, let the flap fall into place, secluding them from the world.
She turned her back on him.
“I need to explain.”
Silence.
Aiden stepped closer. “Cailin, Rónán, and I were sent to study Latharn Castle.”
“To gather information?”
At least she’d replied. He would find solace in that. “Aye.”
She whirled, her face flushed with anger. “’Tis why King Robert is here, is it not? You and the others were to report to him what you learned so he could devise an attack?”
“Aye. Latharn Castle was to be seized before Lord Comyn learned of the Bruce’s intent.”
“And what of me? Or,” she demanded, “am I naught but chattel to be cast aside?”
“God’s sword,” he hissed, “you were never supposed to be involved!”
“Odd, given ’twas my home.”
He muttered a curse, damned the entire situation. “King Robert will ensure you are well cared for.”
“Will he? Oh, aye. I forget that I am to heed your words as you are a man whom I can trust. I assure you,” she said, her voice ripe with sarcasm, “you bring me great comfort.”
“Gwendolyn—”
She stormed over, thrust her finger against his chest. “How dare you come here, thinking I could care about anything you have to say? Aiden, is it? Or is that today’s false name, to be replaced by another tomorrow?”
“You are angry—”
“Angry, nay, furious. You played the role of my husband, touched me, allowed me to…” Her entire body trembled with fury. “You are despicable!”
Aiden’s gut tightened. He searched her face for a glimmer of softening, a chance that somewhere in this twisted mess she’d find a sliver of forgiveness.
Failed.
He swallowed hard, wishing he could undo what he had done but doubted a time would ever come when he could repair the damage he had caused her. “I regret the distress you have endured.”
Her mouth tightened. “Is Bróccín dead?”
“He is. On my way to your castle, my men and I came across him, mortally wounded.”
“So he didna betray Lord Comyn.”
“Nay.”
Her gaze shrewd, Gwendolyn studied him for a long moment, as if unsure of whether to accept his claim as true. “Why would he trust you with Lord Comyn’s betrothal writ?”
“We were friends as children,” Aiden admitted. “When I told Bróccín who I was, and believing me loyal to his liege lord, he gave me the writ. He explained the content, and requested I pass on his regrets for having failed you.”
“Yet you chose to play the role of my betrothed.”
“I did,” he said, his voice hard, “nor will I apologize for my decision. We are at war. Gai
ning access to Latharn Castle, learning its defenses and other critical information would have allowed the Bruce to seize the stronghold with minimum loss of life on both sides.”
She arched a sarcastic brow. “And marriage to me served King Robert best how?”
“Blast it, I never planned for the ceremony to take place. My men and I were to remain for a few days at most. Then the priest was summoned to Rome, and you revealed that by Comyn’s dictate, we must marry before he departed.” He paused. “Duty came first.”
“And the reason you didna consummate our marriage?” she said, her voice ice. “I am the spoils of war, am I not?”
“Making you a pawn, physically or otherwise, was never my intent,” Aiden said. “Yet by pretending to be your husband, and given access to the entire castle, including the ledgers, I could bring more information to our king. And then the English arrived and seized the stronghold.”
Gray eyes darkened like an impending storm. “How inconvenient for you. Meanwhile, Latharn Castle is lost, and the farms my people have worked years to plant, along with the homes they labored to build, are destroyed.”
Actions he regretted to this day. “I couldna allow the Duke of Northbyrn access to either. ’Tis prudent to remember that ’twas the English who betrayed the pact made with Lord Comyn. However much you despise me for destroying your tenants’ property, denying those resources to the English troops serves Comyn as well as the Bruce.”
Her eyes blazed, but he caught lines of fatigue on her face, her pale features evidence of their difficult travel.
A wave of tiredness swept over him, and Aiden gave a slow breath. “I dinna expect you to forgive me, but I needed to explain.”
Like a regal queen, she angled her jaw. “If you are finished, you can leave.”
At the coldness of her words, he stared at her, remembering their kiss, and how she’d fallen apart beneath his touch. He swallowed hard, their passion now seeming as if a memory. ’Twas clear at this moment he’d get no further with her, let alone convince her to divulge the location of the ledger.
Aware ’twas prudent to make a strategic retreat, Aiden stepped back. “If you have need of me, ask Sir Quentin. He will ensure I am reached.”
“I willna.”
With a muttered curse, he strode into the warmth of the fading sun, scanned the encampment. A soft summer breeze swept across his face as he noted cookpots hanging over fires, and the faint scent of venison and herbs filling the air.
He dragged in a deep breath. So upset he’d departed without talking to her about her meeting with King Robert as well as prepare her for what may come. Topics he would broach upon his return.
He nodded to Quentin, who stood nearby. “I shall fetch her a plate of food.”
His friend grimaced. “The lass hasna touched the fare I placed inside earlier.”
“I will ensure that she eats.” How, he had no idea, but he’d think of something. He could finish their discussion then. Another round of their contentious repartee he did not look forward to. Yet, however unwise, he was drawn to her. An unfathomable situation.
He turned, noticed Cailin walking toward him, a frown wedged across his brow.
Aiden met him half way across the encampment. “What is wrong?”
“King Robert seeks Lady Gwendolyn’s immediate presence, and has asked for your attendance as well.”
Aiden stilled. “Why would our sovereign want to see us both?
“I am unsure,” his friend said. “His request surprised me.”
Nor would Gwendolyn be pleased by the Bruce’s command. An understatement. “My thanks.” Dread sliding through his mind, he headed toward her tent.
At his approach, Sir Quentin lifted his brow.
“The king wishes me to escort Lady Gwendolyn to him.”
With a nod, his friend stepped back. “Godspeed.”
Aiden grunted. “I will need your prayers.” He lifted the flap.
Her eyes met his, narrowed.
As if he was pleased with the situation? “King Robert has requested your presence. I will accompany you.”
“I dinna need you there.”
Aiden released a slow breath, damned the words he must share. “He asked to see us both. With his seeking my presence as well, I am thinking the reason canna be good.”
Chapter 13
Eyes narrowed with fury, Gwendolyn swept past Aiden. Sunlight shimmered on her hair as she stormed across the encampment, the tumble of soft, golden waves at odds with the hard set of her face. He caught up to her, kept pace, ached to slip his hand around her elbow and pull her to a stop.
Need churned in his gut as he remembered his fingers sliding through the silky length, of the heat in her eyes as she’d turned to him, and of how, if only for a short while, she’d wanted him.
With each step she took, the burn of his deception ate through him, their passion-driven intimacy and her gasps of pleasure clear in his mind. God’s teeth! He couldn’t forgive himself for having allowed such; why should he expect her to?
“King Robert is a fair man,” he said, hoping to ease her worry.
“He is my enemy, or have you forgotten?” she ground out, her pace lengthening.
Aiden widened his stride to keep at her side. “He is the rightful king to Scotland, and one who seeks to unite our country. Unlike Lord Comyn, who consorted with the English.”
A gust rich with the scent of earth and a hint of pine tangled in her hair; she remained silent, her look fierce. Blast it! He halted before his sovereign’s tent. “Inform King Robert that Sir Aiden and Lady Gwendolyn are here.”
The sentry ducked inside. A moment later, he emerged and stepped to the side. “The king bids you to enter.”
On edge, Aiden nodded. Had the Bruce selected a lord high within his ranks to wed her? He grimaced, too aware she would never comply with such a command, one he’d intended to prepare her for. Or at least try.
If given the opportunity, he’d offer for Gwendolyn’s hand himself. A foolish thought. Aside from the fact that he was untitled, after his deception, she’d rather drive a dagger in his heart than agree to marry him. ’Twas best to pray that whatever fate the Bruce chose for the spirited lass was one that kept her safe.
* * * *
Smoke from the fires and a mixture of meats and vegetables lingered in the air as Gwendolyn stepped inside the king’s tent.
The flicker of torchlight illuminated numerous chests stacked against one side. A portion of the other was shielded by a ruby drape of velvet, behind which she suspected lay a bed. A rug of deep gold embroidered with a lion rampant in red on each corner lay before the sturdy, unadorned wooden throne. Poised upon the seat, as handsome as he was powerful, Scotland’s ruler watched her, his eyes sharp with intelligence.
She fought for calm as she halted before the king.
Power radiated from the monarch, a man confident in his command and determined to achieve his goal, regardless the cost.
Aiden stepped up to her side, bowed. “Sire.”
The hint of nervousness in Aiden’s voice had her glancing over. Taut lines marred his face, and his eyes, dark with worry, rested on the king. Had something occurred since he’d spoken with her?
On a shaky breath, she focused on the king, curtsied. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Gwendolyn, ’tis with regret that we meet under such circumstances,” the Bruce said, his voice grim. “Given the situation, ’twas unavoidable.”
Unavoidable? Fury trampled the nerves in her mind, and she scowled. “Sending warriors to spy on my home in preparation for an attack is hardly unavoidable.”
A fierce brow raised, then the ruler glanced toward Aiden. “Lady Gwendolyn isna a weak-willed lass.”
“Nay, Your Grace,” Aiden replied, his words tight. “As I mentioned, she speaks her mind.”
A whisper of
a smile touched the Bruce’s mouth. “An admirable trait, is it not?”
“’Tis, Sire,” Aiden replied.
“I am standing right here, Your Grace,” she said, insulted that they talked about her as if she was not there.
The king’s gaze narrowed on her, and the lightness of a moment before faded. “You are indeed.” He stood, strode over.
Muscles rippled with his every step. The power exuded by this royal warrior was palpable, yet Gwendolyn found herself unafraid.
Accounts of his intelligence, determination, and forthright way of speaking were well known, traits that had caused King Edward I, and now his son, Edward of Caernarfon, immense misery. From their first meeting, ’twould seem the claims she’d heard about Scotland’s sovereign were true.
A pace away, he paused, towered over her with a measuring look. “You are afraid of little?”
She held his gaze. Regardless of the escalating thud of her heart, she held his gaze. “I say what is on my mind.”
An intrigued smile curved his mouth. “Indeed? I bid you, my lady, to share your thoughts. I find myself curious to hear them.”
Aiden stiffened at her side, but Gwendolyn ignored him. Any influence he’d had in her life was past. Once she’d trusted him, no longer. As for repercussions for her words, the king could order her killed at any time. She had little to lose.
“I want Latharn Castle returned to me.” She angled her jaw. “’Tis my birthright.”
The king grimaced. “One seized by the English.”
Heat swept her cheeks. “Through treachery.”
“Deceit they are well familiar with. Nor,” the Bruce said, loathing tainting his words, “was their duplicity uninvited. Edward of Caernarfon’s forces sailed to Scotland in a plot conceived with Lord Comyn. He will learn, as I did years ago, that the Sassenach canna be trusted.”
The king’s use of the disparaging term for the English indeed fit their despicable acts. “Once my liege lord discovers their betrayal, he will ensure ’tis a decision they will regret.”
“Lady Gwendolyn,” the Bruce stated, “there is little he can do to avenge their treachery. Had Lord Comyn been able to raise sufficient troops, he wouldna have sought Edward of Caernarfon’s support.”
