The Warrior's Queen (Border Series Book 6)

by Cecelia Mecca

  Not once did he mention Agnes. Why had he gone with her earlier in the day? Was she still here? And why did she care so much when both of them knew this marriage was not one born out of love?

  And still . . . he’d vowed not to dishonor her.

  “I do believe it’s . . .” He stopped and looked around. The room appeared abandoned.

  “Where is the baker?” she asked.

  “He’s likely brought his wares to the kitchen for this evening’s meal.”

  Graeme picked up a discarded wooden bowl, stuck his finger inside, and then licked the white crème from his fingers. “Crème boylede, as I suspected.”

  She’d never heard of the dish.

  “Is it possible you’ve never tasted crème boylede before?”

  She shook her head.

  “Come here,” he said, sticking his finger back into the bowl.

  She walked toward him and lifted her chin.

  “Relax,” he said, glancing around. “You’re allowed at least one impropriety each day.”

  “Is that so?”

  “That is so, lass. Now stop worrying and open your mouth.”

  She did as he asked.

  But when he placed his finger on her tongue and she wrapped her lips around him to taste the sweet, everything changed.

  No longer was he her guide, and she the wide-eyed Englishwoman getting to know her surroundings.

  Instead, she was simply a woman. One who could not deny the pull this man had on her. That he’d always had on her.

  He pulled his finger slowly from her mouth as his eyes darkened with lust.

  Though his finger was fully withdrawn, he didn’t move.

  Her heart thudded in her chest. Was he going to kiss her?

  “Did you like it?” he asked.

  Gillian swallowed.

  “Very much,” she said, aware her words held a double meaning.

  “There will be more this evening.”

  Still, he didn’t move.

  And then a thought occurred to her. “But won’t I need to share?”

  Gillian could have referred to the custom of sharing a bowl of custard with all seated at the high table, but that wasn’t what she spoke of at all.

  And Graeme knew it.

  “Never,” he said, his voice firm.

  Agnes was gone.

  Perhaps she was a fool to believe Graeme, especially after seeing him with Agnes in the morning. She’d rebuked the advances of many a married man at Lyndwood, had she not?

  And then, of course, there was her father’s infidelity.

  But she believed Graeme meant what he had said.

  “Just know, wife.” Her husband’s tone took on a hard edge. “Neither do I share”—his eyes narrowed—“my custard.”

  She should not be so saucy, but Gillian found herself reaching down and dipping her own finger into the bowl. She intended to tease him by licking the rather delightful sweet off herself, but she didn’t move quickly enough.

  Graeme grabbed her hand and lifted it toward his mouth. When he wrapped his lips around her finger, a fluttering at her very core threatened the self-composure she so diligently practiced.

  And then he suckled her trembling finger, withdrawing ever so slowly. Just before it was completely free of his lips, his teeth, barely touching her skin, closed around her, softly nipping. By the time her finger was free, Gillian could barely stand.

  There will be more this evening.

  She had never looked forward to a meal, and to afterward, quite so much.

  14

  Graeme released his wife’s hand.

  He wanted to kiss her. Nay, he wanted to take her here and now. Make her his wife in truth. That they’d been married for almost a week and had yet to consummate the marriage. It was unthinkable . . . and yet he wanted it to be perfect for her. He’d never bedded a virgin before, but Graeme clearly remembered his first time. The serving girl, a pretty, buxom young woman, had been loose with her favors. And while he’d never admitted it aloud, he had been quite nervous. She was older, more experienced, and self-assured.

  Graeme had decided that cold winter night in the stable loft he’d never bed a virgin, and he hadn’t, no matter her station. He’d come to quite enjoy his time with the fairer sex, and the idea of his bedmate being uneasy or uncomfortable did not settle well. Which was why, he supposed, he wanted to make the experience special for Gillian.

  Tonight . . .

  The bakehouse was no place for her first time, and though he would very much enjoy tasting more than just the custard for this evening’s meal, they needed to leave.

  Now.

  He grabbed her hand, the feel of her delicate fingers a pleasure he refused to deny himself despite the unconventionality of hand-holding. He looked at her, his hesitant bride, and wondered, not for the first time, what she was thinking.

  Gillian spoke little and revealed even less.

  “We should be getting back for the meal.” Her smile nearly felled him.

  “You’re looking forward to it, then?” Graeme was of a mind to skip the damn meal and take his wife to their bedchamber—his bedchamber—now.

  In fact, that was not such a bad plan.

  “There you are.” Aidan ran toward them.

  “What is it?”

  “The Day of Truce.” His brother looked from him to Gillian and back again, his expression making Graeme uneasy. “’Tis tomorrow.”

  Graeme shook his head. “Nay, it’s not for more than—”

  “We’ve just received word. The date has been changed.”

  “But I don’t understand. Each month—”

  “Apparently Douglas and Hedford came to an agreement, because of Blackburn, to conduct it and put an immediate end to the proceedings. There is a consensus . . .”

  “There may be trouble brewing.” Graeme chanced a glance at Gillian. “I need to go. Immediately.”

  “Aye, you do,” Aidan agreed. “I’ve already had your mounts prepared and the men readied. I’d come if—”

  “You know I could never allow such a thing. I need my second here, especially now.” Aidan understood. He’d not leave Gillian unprotected. Ever.

  Aidan nodded—it was what he’d expected, of course—bowed to Gillian, and left.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” Graeme started. But his wife cut him off.

  “’Tis not your fault. Go,” she urged. “See the offenders of the raid brought to justice.”

  And he could tell she meant it. Activity whirled around them in the courtyard, but it felt as if the two of them were alone together. He brushed away a tug on his heart that had nothing to do with desire. For the briefest moment, he imagined this same scene, years from now, with bairns at their heels. Gillian had experienced the very worst of welcomes to Highgate, and yet, she genuinely seemed to understand.

  They’d not have their wedding night yet, but he’d be damned if he’d leave her like this. So, in full view of everyone, he pulled her toward him.

  And kissed her.

  With every bit of pent-up desire . . . with the burgeoning feelings he didn’t care to categorize . . . with every part of himself, Graeme kissed her. He held her face to him and did not hold back. She gave of herself freely, and he took her offering.

  He stopped only when cheers erupted around them.

  Graeme held her face still, his thumbs running against the smooth skin that felt so unlike any part of him. How had he gotten so lucky?

  “I plan to do just that,” he said. “And when I return”—his lips turned up ever so slightly—“we will finish . . . the custard.”

  Gillian’s laugh, the sweetest sound he’d ever heard, followed him away from Highgate End.

  She sat next to Aidan at the evening meal, grateful for an ally. But not completely clear on why he was still here.

  “You are Graeme’s second,” she started, picking at the figs in front of her.

  “Aye, lass. That I am.”

  “And this particular Day of Truce
is rather important given that the fiend Blackburn is on trial?”

  She didn’t understand his chuckle.

  “My apologies, Lady Gillian. I’m just . . . pleased to hear of your assessment of Lord Blackburn on behalf of Highgate.”

  Gillian could not allow him to think that, exactly. “Of course, I am rather vexed on behalf of Clan Scott.” She nodded to a servant, who filled her goblet with more wine. “But Lord Blackburn’s underhanded tactics are well known in England as well.”

  He looked at her curiously.

  “My father said he was actually caught cheating at the last Tournament of the North. And that he made an enemy of Clan Kerr ever since.”

  “Your father is correct.”

  “He did not have many kindly things to say about the man.”

  Aidan took a bite of the lamb in front of him. She was about to ask him a question about Graeme when two Scott clansmen entered the hall and waved Aidan toward them.

  “Pardon,” Aidan said, standing.

  As she watched, they spoke for a moment and then looked at her. They were talking about her. Though Gillian had been generally pleased by her reception at Highgate, she knew the people did not trust her yet. Why would they? She was a stranger. And an Englishwoman. But this was her home now. And though she’d been sheltered, Gillian had at least been trained to run a household. She could do this.

  So why were they looking at her so—

  “Morgan!”

  It had to be! Every head in the hall turned toward her. She hadn’t meant to shout, but she was so pleased by the prospect of seeing her lady’s maid, she’d momentarily lost control.

  So very unlike her.

  Gillian folded the linen napkin she held and placed it on the table. Rising, she made her way to the opposite end of the hall, where she could now see trunks being brought in from the outside. She recognized some of the men. They were from Lyndwood. Yes, Morgan was here!

  The petite, brown-haired woman ran toward her. And although Gillian knew she should not embrace her in full view of everyone, she did so anyway. If Graeme could hold her hand and kiss her in front of his people, she could very well show affection to the only familiar face here at Highgate.

  “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow,” she said.

  “They were surprised I rode so well.” Morgan motioned to her father’s men, who nodded to her when she glanced their way.

  Fiona appeared and introduced herself. “Welcome, Mistress Morgan. My lady has been looking forward to your arrival.”

  She smiled at Fiona. “Aye, very much. I’m pleased to introduce you to Mistress Fiona. She is . . .” Gillian stopped, not knowing how to introduce her. A lady’s maid, without a lady to care for, would typically receive another less prominent position.

  One look at the older woman’s face and Gillian knew exactly what she had to do. She prayed for Morgan’s understanding. “She was lady’s maid to my husband’s late grandmother.”

  Fiona’s face fell. Aidan stopped talking to his companions.

  “But I should be quite pleased if she shared your duties, Morgan, and would serve me as well.” She rushed to finish, “Of course, only if Mistress Fiona—”

  “I accept,” Fiona said, her uneven smile telling Gillian she had done the right thing.

  “As such,” she said to the older woman, “if you could arrange for the remainder of my meal—”

  “Done, my lady. I’ll have one of the girls bring it up to you straightaway.”

  Gillian moved away from the hall and motioned for Morgan to follow. Greeting the men as she walked by, she excused herself to her brother-in-law and wound her way upstairs and toward the lady’s chamber, ushering Morgan inside.

  “This is quite lovely.” Morgan placed the sack she carried at the foot of her bed. “Will a pallet be brought in here?”

  She’d shared her bedchamber with Morgan since the girl had been assigned to her when she was but ten and one. Would Morgan stay here? Would Gillian? Or would she sleep in her husband’s chamber every night as he’d alluded to the night before?

  “’Tis a good question.” She moved to the bed and motioned for Morgan to do the same. Her maid folded her hands in her lap, and though she’d seen her sit exactly the same way many times, something struck her about the properness of it, especially since Allie had told her it was a habit Morgan had picked up from her.

  It had seemed quite normal at Lyndwood.

  “Tell me . . . everything.”

  Morgan took a deep breath.

  “So much to tell, my lady.” Morgan tapped her fingers together.

  Her maid was nervous.

  “Morgan?”

  “I can hardly believe yer married, my lady. And this is our new home. When you didn’t return—”

  “Morgan.” She did not mean to sound so stern, but her chest felt tight in anticipation. “Is something amiss?”

  Her maid’s nod, so slight, confirmed Gillian’s greatest fear. Her family would lose Lyndwood. If her father could not pay his debt to the Crown . . .

  “’Tis Allie.”

  Gillian’s throat went dry. “What is it?”

  Morgan’s already thin lips disappeared as she pursed them together. Whatever she had to say was not something that came easy for her. Gillian held her breath.

  “Allie has been promised to Covington.”

  Nay, not that. Never that. She’d barely allowed herself to fear it.

  “My lady, did you hear me?”

  “There must be some mistake. She’s much too young. Covington specifically asked—”

  “For your hand in marriage, aye. My lord reminded him so. He said—”

  “Wait, Father spoke to Covington?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  Morgan’s hands were no longer folded neatly on her lap. Gillian could not stop looking at them.

  “He arrived at nearly the same time as your father. He already knew of your wedding.”

  Morgan stopped, and Gillian looked her straight in the eyes.

  “He was not pleased,” Morgan said.

  Gillian didn’t ask how Morgan knew all of this. Her maid was well liked and resourceful. If any member of the household at Lyndwood knew something, Morgan knew it too.

  “Oh, Allie.” Her heart hurt to think of her lovely, perfect sister attached to such an old man. Though Gillian had said her sister was much too young to marry, she knew, of course, that was not exactly true. At ten and nine, the only reason she was not already promised to someone was because of her father’s insistence that Gillian marry first, as was the custom.

  This could not be happening.

  “Your father and Covington argued something fierce,” Morgan continued, warming to her topic. “And the very next day, the same day I left for Highgate, the betrothal was announced.”

  “When?” She had to stop it. Somehow she had to stop it. The thought of her sister married to that man . . .

  “The first of June, my lady. ’Tis said the earl did not wish to wait so long, but he finally relented.”

  “And Allie?”

  Morgan shrugged. “Lady Allie was, well, Lady Allie.”

  Which meant she had accepted the decree in public, as Gillian had done, and cried foul in private. Neither of them would dishonor their parents, but Allie was more likely to put up a fight. To what end? Her mother would certainly not approve of the betrothal, just as she had not wished for Gillian to wed Covington, which had become fully clear at Kenshire. Unfortunately, however, only one person’s orders mattered in Lyndwood.

  The baron’s.

  She and Allie and their mother obeyed him in all things, even if they disagreed.

  Allie would eventually fall into line and do as she was told. Lyndwood would be saved, but at what cost?

  Nay. I will not allow it.

  “There is still time,” she said, thinking aloud.

  The door opened after a quick knock. Gillian waved the serving girl inside.

  “Time for what?” Morga
n asked, looking longingly at the wooden tray laden with food.

  Gillian smiled at the serving girl, trying to remember her name.

  “My lady? You’ve got that look about you,” Morgan ventured.

  She wasn’t sure how Morgan recognized “that look.” She had so rarely defied her father. For all his shortcomings, he was her father, a fact that nothing would change. And yet . . . she’d also spent plenty of time with Sara throughout the years and could hear her friend’s voice now.

  ’Tis time your father sees what is in front of his face. Being perfect will not turn you into a son.

  Perhaps Sara had been right. Perhaps it was time to break the rules a bit, as her friend had always encouraged her to do.

  “And what look is that Morgan?” she asked, standing.

  To which her maid mumbled, “The look of the Kenshire women.”

  15

  Gillian paced back and forth, glancing every so often at the guards stationed on each tower. The battlement, made for defense, was the perfect spot for her to look for any sign of Graeme. He’d been gone for two days, but according to Aidan, he would arrive imminently. Her brother-in-law had been in a closed-door meeting with a member of a neighboring clan for most of the morning, and Gillian could not have been more surprised when he’d sought her out in the hall.

  “Our visitor says Graeme is just behind him,” he’d told her.

  Gillian had awaited this very news for two days.

  “Thank you for letting me know,” she said. And then she waited. Aidan obviously had more to say.

  “If Ferguson is in a better mood later, I’ll be sure to introduce you to him.”

  “Ferguson?”

  “MacDuff. Of Clan Bourne.”

  But it was his next words that startled her.

  “MacDuff didn’t realize Graeme was just behind him until he met with two Scottish reivers on the road. The men apparently ran with Geoffrey Waryn years earlier, and they know my brother.”

  “I see,” she said.

  It was common knowledge Sara’s husband still had allies in a community marked by odd allegiances. To each other first, and to country only occasionally.