by Lynn Lorenz
“Now I am. Not long ago, I was a mercenary, a paid soldier.” Jackson grunted as he stood and stretched.
Liam dressed and gathered up the clothing. A mercenary? What a life! Danger. Battlefields. Fighting the enemy and winning the favors of a princess. He and the other boys of his village, armed with sticks, had played many fighting games, pretending to be mercenaries, soldiers, and knights.
“But how did you come to be duke?” The question slipped out before Liam could stop it. He held his breath, waiting to be cuffed for his impertinence.
“It’s a long story, boy. One that brings me great pain to recall. Forgive me if I don’t tell you the tale just now. Perhaps some other time.” Jackson’s mouth twisted in a sad smile that reached his dark eyes.
“Of course, Your Grace. Forgive me for asking.” Liam stared down at his feet.
“No harm in curiosity, lad. I was once like you, you know.” Jackson laughed, back in his usual good move.
“Small and scared?” Liam whispered. And very alone.
“Aye. Small and scared.” Jackson nodded. “For a long time, it was just me and my ma. Then I grew up, left home, and became a mercenary.”
“No father?” Could it be Jackson didn’t have a father, like him?
“Well…” Jackson frowned. “Just my mother and me.”
Liam swallowed and nodded. Once again, the awe that had filled him at his first look at the duke of Baymore took its place in his heart.
Mercenaries were prized fighters, paid for their services and skill with a sword. That would explain the duke’s large horse. Liam’s eyes widened.
“And your horse? Is he a real warhorse?”
“Aye. He is.” Jackson nodded. “He’s trained in combat maneuvers.”
“Bloody hell,” Liam exclaimed, then clapped his hand over his mouth.
Jackson looked down, then burst out laughing. He placed a hand on Liam’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
Liam grinned. “Can you show him to me?”
“Of course. I suppose I have time for a ride. It’s a fine day and it’s been a while since I’ve been on his back.” Jackson changed direction and headed to the stables, with Liam jogging to keep up.
They entered the livery and Jackson called out, “My horse! Saddle my horse!”
A cry went up among the grooms and the entire stable came to life. Horses neighed and whinnied as they were tended to in preparation for the duke’s ride. Liam realized that not only was the duke’s horse being saddled, but several others were also.
Perhaps in among them would be a small pony for him? No, that was too much to hope for, a chance to ride with the duke outside the castle’s walls. He’d never rode a real horse before, he’d only sat on the back of the old horse at the granary as it plodded around the stone grinding wheel, but that didn’t count. Not really.
One groom scurried about, getting the saddle and tack, and the other brought the great horse out into the middle of the breezeway and tied him off.
Liam sat on a bale of hay and watched as the boys, no older than him, move around the horse. Slinging the blankets and saddle over it, dodging the massive hooves as they crawled under to fasten the cinches, dressing the animal in its finery. At last, the steed was ready and along with it, four other horses.
All too big for a lad his size.
Liam sighed and pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms about them. Of course, he wouldn’t be going this time—still, it would be exciting to see them leave. In marched four armsmen, swords at their hips and crossbows across their backs. They took hold of their reins and mounted.
Jackson strode to his gelding and swung up into the saddle. After shoving the toes of his boots into the stirrups, he adjusted his sword and gathered the reins.
“Well, come on, boy!” he shouted.
Liam looked up and blinked. “What?” He stood, unbelieving.
“Aye, it’s time to ride.” Jackson kicked his horse forward, then reached down, grabbed Liam by the back of his shirt, and swooped him upward.
For a moment, he hung in the air as the ground dropped away and his stomach lurched, then the duke deposited him at the front of the saddle, between the reins.
“Hold tight to the pommel, Liam,” Jackson’s deep voice ordered.
Liam clutched it with both hands and clamped his legs as tight as he could. The hard leather of the saddle warmed beneath him, and he craned his head up and back.
Jackson looked down, grinning, and gave him a wink. “Shall we go fast?”
“Oh, aye, Your Grace!” Liam shouted.
Behind him, the duke’s body tightened, his legs clamped to his horse’s sides, and he leaned forward, surrounding Liam. From his perch, Liam could almost see over the horse’s head, between its twitching ears, to the bailey beyond the stables.
With a great cry, Jackson waved his arm and signaled his men forward.
The horse seemed to bunch, then explode from the stable. The others followed, clattering on the cobblestones toward the gates of the keep, eager to be on their way, free and galloping.
“Open the gates! The duke rides!”
As they waited for the massive wooden gates to swing open, Liam held his breath, not really believing that he sat on a real warhorse in front of the duke, heading out for a wild ride. He bounced in his seat, trying to keep his balance, as the duke’s horse pranced sideways, tossing its head, anxious to be on its way.
Behind him, the duke sat firm in the saddle as if he and the horse were one great creature and Liam merely a small mouse clinging to it.
At last, the gates were pulled wide, and Jackson jerked back on his reins. The great warhorse reared up on its hind legs, with a long, sharp whinny that echoed off the stone walls and vibrated in the pit of Liam’s belly.
He slipped backward, but Jackson’s arm wrapped his waist.
“I’ve got you, lad!”
Then the horse bolted forward and they were through the gates and down the road. Hooves thundering, the wind whistling in his hair, Jackson crouched over him, and Liam’s heart rose in his throat.
He opened his mouth and gave his best battle cry, “To war!”
Above him, Jackson laughed and slashed his reins across the beast’s hindquarters, urging it faster.
Chapter Seventeen
Beth gazed into the duke’s steel gray eyes and found herself unable to look away. Such depths they held, and she lost herself in them. The smile on his face belied kindness and generosity, both evident in the terms of his marriage contract. She should thank him for that, for his acceptance of little Anne, and for riding out to meet her.
Her brother spoke, as if in another room, and she nodded, not really hearing or caring about what he said.
She rushed forward, and dropped into a deep curtsey. “Welcome, Your Grace. I’m so very pleased to meet you. I’ve heard much of you since you claimed your title, and I am pleased to see the stories told about Your Grace have been the truth.”
His smile slipped, his brows came together, and his eyes darkened. The breath caught in her chest at the sudden appearance of unhappiness on the good duke’s face. What had she done? Perhaps she’d made some terrible blunder or not addressed him as due his rank.
“Sister, this is—” her brother said.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I should have thanked you first for your kind and generous offer of marriage. Both my child Anne and I thank you.” She stepped toward the duke, fell to her knees in formal greeting, snatched up his hand, and pulled it to her lips.
As she pressed a kiss to the back of the strong warm hand in her grip, the duke gasped and pulled away from her, leaving her on her knees and gaping up at him.
Tears came to her eyes at the thought of displeasing him so much as to have him refuse to be touched by her. Her mind spun at what she had done to cause his reaction and her searching gaze shot to her brother for an answer.
“Sister!” Basil shouted and her last meal threatened to return.
The duke, e
yes wide, stepped back and looked to her brother. He shook his head, and his body posed as if he were about to flee from their camp.
Had she chosen the wrong gown? Did her hair or eyes displease him? Perhaps she was too thin for his liking?
“This is not the duke of Baymore, Beth. This is Marcus, the duke’s master of arms. He’s come to escort us to the castle.”
The man she’d thought Jackson, Duke of Baymore, her pledged husband, looked down at his hand, staring at the place where she’d kissed it.
“Oh,” she squeaked, like a tiny mouse caught in a trap. A fire burned up her cheeks as she looked from man to man. Basil came to her and held out his hand for her to take. She used it to get to her feet. “My lord, I am so…sorry.”
No one could have been more filled with regret than her that he was not the duke. Not her brother, and surely not this man. The rapid deflation of the happiness that had filled her body and heart left her weak and unsteady.
Beth slumped into a nearby chair. “Forgive me, Master Marcus.”
The man swallowed, then stepped forward. He fell to one knee in front of her and bowed his head. “It is I who must ask your forgiveness, my lady.” He looked up at her. “I should have informed you.” The look in his eyes now was one of sincere apology. She’d never seen a man so sorry and contrite.
“No, it was my fault. I should have waited for introductions,” she whispered.
“I should have spoken first,” Marcus replied.
Basil snorted. “Well, if the pair of you have forgiven each other, I will take the true blame for being so slow. I should have gone to your tent, Beth, and explained who our visitors were. Master Marcus, forgive me for putting you in this situation.”
Marcus nodded, and rose to his feet. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord, nor has your sister done anything wrong.” He gave a sharp nod.
“And you gave no offense, either.” Basil assured him. “Well and good. All offense is wiped away. Nothing to tell His Grace about, is there?” He looked at Marcus with one raised eyebrow.
Beth’s blood chilled. If Baymore learned of this mistake, would he be one to punish? His master armsman, her brother, or herself?
“Have no fear. I assure you His Grace would find this most amusing.” Marcus gave her brother a quick smile, then sobered.
Beth’s heart slowed its quick beating. She smiled at Marcus. His eyes held more than contrition and as she searched their depths, found only sadness and regret.
She much preferred the first look he’d given her, the one that set her body on fire. The one that told her he wanted her.
She knew well that look from her marriage days. A look Marcus wore well and had pleased her to see.
Now what showed in his eyes did nothing to stir her loins, but only served to dampen her desire as if cold rain fell on her. What a horrible mistake.
That she was so terribly disappointed in the truth confused and frightened her.
Basil cleared his throat. “The table is prepared and our food has arrived.” He swept his arm toward the table, now laden with platters of meat and bread.
Beth rose. Basil held out his arm for her to take. She gave Marcus a soft smile, then laid her hand over her brother’s arm, and let him lead her to supper.
∙•∙
Marcus’s legs trembled as he sat on the wooden bench Basil had directed him to, on the left, leaving the right for his sister.
Across the table, Marcus faced the woman he’d come to woo. All plans, ideas, and reasoning fled before her beauty. Why had William not warned him? How could he possibly turn her head from all a duke had to offer?
This plan of William’s had been conceived in desperation. Had any such plan ever won the day? He thought not. But despite knowing utter and complete failure awaited him, he had given his oath to protect Baymore.
He’d do that even if it meant his death.
After a long silence, Lady Beth asked, “How is the duke?”
Marcus raised his head and looked at her. “He was well, last time I saw him.”
“Good.” She nodded, then her gaze flicked to her brother.
“What my sister means to ask is, tell us about the duke. We know little, other than what’s been spoken, mostly rumor and assumptions.”
“What do you wish to know?”
“For one, what does he look like?” Basil asked.
Marcus cleared his throat. He had to speak about Jackson without disparaging his own duke, yet drawing her favor to himself. This was work better suited to William’s quick wit, than him.
“He’s a big man, my lord. The tallest at the castle. And broad of shoulders. He was once a mercenary, that much is true. His skill with a sword is beyond compare.”
“A mercenary!” Beth gasped. She frowned and looked at her brother. “Did you know this, Basil?”
Basil stabbed a piece of venison from the charger and bit off a bit. He shrugged.
“Have no fear, my lady. He hasn’t killed anyone in some time,” Marcus assured her.
“Killed someone?” Her eyes widened.
“In some time, aye. Which speaks highly of his temperament, does it not?”
“Indeed,” Basil agreed. “And great restraint.”
“And the servants are rarely beaten or the soldiers whipped.”
Lady Beth paled as she listened to his words. “Beatings? There are beatings?”
“Rarely.” Well, it was the truth. Most of it. There’d been that armsman who beat poor Liam, and since taking the position of master of arms he’d never had to take a whip to anyone in his charge.
“So you’re saying he has a bad temper?” Beth leaned forward, her mouth a thin line, her hands clenched into fists.
“We all have tempers.” Marcus shrugged.
“Indeed we do.” Basil laughed. “I seem to remember your temper, sister. And fear it.”
“But my temper won’t be levied against myself or my child.” Now she wore a fierce frown, as if just the thought of a threat to her child angered her, making her, to his eyes, even more beautiful.
Basil stared at him, one brow raised. Perhaps he’d gone too far in his vagueness.
“I assure you, His Grace would never strike a woman or a child.” There. It wasn’t his duty to spread lies about Jackson, besides, his honor would forbid him from it. How could he woo the woman, if he had to speak about Jackson’s good character and say nothing of his own? This was impossible.
“Have no fear, sister. I will speak with His Grace.” Basil nodded and smiled at Beth. She looked down at her platter and nodded.
For now, Marcus would be better served keeping quiet. What he needed was time alone with the lovely Lady Beth. But with her brother in close command, that would be most unlikely.
Marcus cut a slice of venison, put it in his mouth, and chewed. He was sure it was well cooked, but it tasted like ashes.
He spent the rest of the meal speaking with Basil about his duties at the keep, and answering questions about the duke’s lands. Basil seemed curious, and Marcus couldn’t fault him for it—after all, his sister’s well-being would depend on Baymore.
At last, the wine poured, Lady Beth rose. “Brother, Master Marcus. I bid you both a good night.”
Marcus rose. “And a good night to you, my lady.” He bowed deeply.
She smiled, and turned toward her tent. He watched as she disappeared inside, and the drape fell, blocking his view.
When he turned back, Basil watched him, one brow cocked upward, his chin resting on his fist.
“So. You find my sister beautiful?”
Marcus cleared his throat. “My lord?”
“Do you find my sister beautiful? It’s a simple question.” Basil stared into his eyes.
“She is a beautiful woman. Our duke is a lucky man.” Marcus nodded.
“I think my sister was greatly disappointed tonight.”
“Disappointed?” Marcus swallowed. “I’m most sorry if I have done so, although, I must admit to not understan
ding of what you speak.”
“That you were not Baymore.”
“Oh.” Marcus stared at his platter. So it had not been his imagination. Lady Beth had given him looks of desire. He stifled the urge to grin like a fool. And a fool he would be to let his feelings be known, especially to Lady Beth’s brother.
“Oh.” Basil snorted. “I will not hold it against you, Marcus. She is a beauty. So is her child.” He sighed. “With the death of her fool of a husband, Lady Beth was returned to me. I would keep her with me always, but I must look to her happiness.”
“As a good brother should.”
“And as a good brother, I must be sure that the man I choose for her is in her best interests. Well placed. Well appointed. With money enough to keep her and little Anne.”
“I understand.”
“The Duke of Baymore is such a man, is he not?”
“Aye, he is.” Marcus nodded, wondering where this talk would lead.
“Do you know of another man to fit her needs?” Basil cocked his head to the side and waited.
Marcus stared into the dark beyond the glow of the lanterns and didn’t answer.
“Of course, I would have preferred she have a love match, but it was not to be.” Basil’s gaze fell on him again, the weight of it pressing on him.
“I think most people would prefer a marriage of love over a marriage of convenience.”
“Well, that is what this marriage is. Convenience.” Basil leaned forward. “I want this marriage to happen, Marcus. For my sister’s sake. Before her affections are stolen by some wandering minstrel, or a second son with no title, no lands, or money.”
“Someone like me?” Marcus looked up and met Basil’s stare with one of his own.
Basil nodded. “Indeed.” He leaned back and rapped his knuckles on the wooden table. “Let me make myself plain. Any interference in her marriage plans will be dealt with harshly, Master Marcus.”
“Even if it’s not what Lady Beth wants?”
“Beth wants the dream of love, but it’s as elusive as smoke.” Basil waved his hand as if trying to grab the air.
“What if she found that dream? What then?”
