By Grace Possessed

by Jennifer Blake

  “Mayhap she told me? No, I merely took the trinket when she offered it, and hired a man for her. I’d have found a more nimble assassin if the plot had been less hasty.”

  “I didn’t offer it,” Cate cried, “I didn’t!”

  “Careful, man,” Braesford said. “You’re confessing to attempted murder.”

  Trilborn laughed. “What odds, if I take her with me?”

  “What odds indeed?” Ross said, turning with Cate in the circle of his arm, supporting her as he walked with her toward Trilborn. “That’s been your purpose all along, to take Cate away from me. Why not confess to attempted murder? They can’t cut off your head twice. Though the headsman will surely come for you for treason and your try at regicide, Cate could well burn for attempting to kill her husband. But you will never take her from me, not here and not in the hereafter. She is mine by duly consecrated ceremony. She is my wife, my hope and my future, and I’ll hold her with the last breath in my body.”

  Manic rage twisted Trilborn’s face. The grunt in his throat rose to a bellow. Wrenching his arm from Braesford’s grasp, he bent to snatch up his sword from the grass at his feet. In the same move, he lunged in low attack, slashing at Ross’s unprotected knees.

  Ross spun Cate away, slinging her away from danger. Without looking to see where she fell, he swung up the blade that dangled from his wrist, parried with a hard twist of his body to stop the wild advance. The steel edges of the weapons scraped together, screeching metal on metal. Then the two settled to the fight.

  It was not pretty, had no fine moves, no elegant strategy. It was cut and thrust and hard, laboring effort while the sun poured down upon them and sweat stung their eyes. It was kill or be killed.

  Trilborn was crazed, advancing, always advancing, with savage daring in his blows and bloodlust in his eyes. Ross parried, watching, waiting, knowing the Englishman could not keep it up, knowing his wrist was weak, knowing he must tire. Yet the man seemed possessed of demonic strength. He had no fear, no caution and scant defense.

  He wanted to die.

  Trilborn meant to die by the sword rather than face the ax, had asked for it moments before. He wanted no trial with jeering nobles, no date with the headsman while the crowd laughed, bought pasties and threw slops. He meant to be a suicide.

  Ross was of a mood to oblige him.

  He did it then, and not just from fury, from ancient scorn or even for Cate, but from sudden, vital compassion. He used his strength and skill for a slicing cut as clean and true as he could make it. It took Trilborn in the neck, providing the exact sharp and sudden end as a headsman’s blow. It was a merciful finish for an old enemy. It was what he might have wanted someone to do for him, had he been in Trilborn’s shoes.

  When it was done, when Ross could catch his breath, could bear to face the horror and condemnation in Cate’s eyes, he turned to her. She lay where he had thrown her, sprawled in the grass. She did not move when he dropped to his knees beside her, didn’t move when he called her name, didn’t move when he gathered her close. She didn’t move when he took her up with him upon his destrier and turned back toward Henry’s camp.

  She never stirred at all, not even when he whispered over and over into the braided silk of her hair, “Don’t let her die. Pray God, don’t let her die.”

  The messenger from Scotland arrived at Braesford a month to the day after the Battle of Stoke. The news came to Cate where she sat in the courtyard garden Isabel had created, reclining among cushions in a bower of roses while stock and lavender scented the air.

  It was Ross who brought it, approaching her with quiet footsteps as if he feared to wake her. It was not so unreasonable, for she had slept much of the weary way from the battlefield, and dozed often since then. Concussion, Henry’s physician had called it, though Gwynne swore it was because she was breeding. Mayhap she was right. Though close work with a needle and other such tasks still gave her a headache, she was tired of being treated like an invalid.

  This deferential approach was not how she had once dreamed of being accosted in a garden by a handsome knight, as in the Roman de la Rose.

  “Yes?” she asked, lifting her lashes, which she had let fall briefly against the brightness of the sun. “What is it?”

  “Do I disturb you? I can return another time.”

  “No. Please.” She moved her feet, gesturing toward the end of the bench. “I heard the trumpet for the gate. Is there word from the king?”

  Ross accepted her invitation, turning to face her as he settled on the bench. “From Braesford, rather, under Henry’s seal. All is well with him. The number of the fallen from the battle at Stoke has been set down as only two hundred killed for Lancaster, though several thousand for York. And the young pretender, born Lambert Simnel, is safe. Henry, unlike Richard before him, saw no need to have this boy done to death. He has been put to turning a spit, instead, earning his keep in Henry’s kitchen. Even the priest who tried to turn him into a prince has been sentenced to prison instead of death.”

  “Judicious.”

  “Oh, aye, if that’s another word for canny,” Ross said. “He would distance himself from any hint of child murder, and who can blame him?”

  Cate could only agree. After a moment, she said, “And was that all?”

  “There was also a message from the old laird, sent first to London because he thought it would find me there.”

  “Not ill tidings, I trust.”

  Ross gave a small shake of his head that set the sunlight to shimmering in the dark waves of his hair. “All is forgiven. I am ordered home.”

  Home. He still considered Scotland as where he belonged. She looked at the rose blossom she had broken from the canes that arched above her, twirling it in her fingers. “A grand boon, but sudden. How does it come about?”

  “Word reached my father that Trilborn was slain by my hand. The Englishman was the last of his line. The feud is over. Having brought this about, I am considered to be redeemed as a Dunbar.”

  “Being in charity with you, your father, the laird, is prepared to overlook a small thing like taking a Sassenach wife?”

  Ross leaned forward, resting his wrists on his knees and meshing his fingers together. “As you say.”

  “Will you go then?” The words were light, almost without expression. She was proud of that, regardless of the effort required to make them so. “I must.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he would return, but she couldn’t bring herself to form the words. “When?”

  “At once. An escort was sent along with the message.”

  At once. He did not intend to wait for her to make ready, did not mean to ask her to go with him. A lump formed in her throat of such size it was impossible to speak.

  He glanced at her, and then returned his gaze to his hands. “It’s best if you don’t travel just now,” he said, as if in answer to her unspoken question. “You haven’t been well, and there is the babe.”

  It made a fine excuse, just as it had excused him from sharing a chamber with her, or a bed, since their return. It was time that was ended. “I’m perfectly well now.”

  The gaze he turned on her was dark with doubt. “Are you? You were so… I thought you might die.”

  “Are you certain that’s all?” She drew a deep breath, let it out with care. “Or can you possibly believe there was truth in what Trilborn said, that I sought your death to fulfill the curse of the Graces and be free of our marriage?”

  “Cate, no.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you.” She went on with a quick shake of her head. “All those things I said about the curse, the evidence of the knife you retrieved, the confession of a man who expected to be executed—it must look damning.”

  “It looks impossible,” Ross countered, his voice firm, his eyes clear. “You would never connive in a sneaking murder, Cate. If you wanted to be rid of me, it would be in so fine a rage you’d carve out my lights and liver with your own hand.”

  It was no
t a picture she could appreciate, but she let it pass. “Well then?”

  He rubbed his hands together with a dry rasping of sword calluses. “I never deserved to take you to wife,” he said to the ground at his feet. “You are Lady Catherine, daughter of a peer of the realm, while I’m naught but a border reiver. They’ll call me laird one day, but ’tis an honorary title with little nobility about it. To think you might want me dead was naught but an excuse to keep me from homing to you like a hawk to the lure, to prevent me from turning into an Englishman for your sake.”

  “That could never happen,” she said as a smile twisted her lips.

  “More than that,” he went on with a dogged air, “I kept you with me when I should have sent you away from danger. I left you unprotected at Henry’s camp, and look how that turned out. I’m a selfish bastard and no courtly knight. Even yon David, Braesford’s squire knighted by Henry, proved a better lover.”

  “No,” she said plainly.

  He seemed not to hear. Rising with the effortless flex of hard muscles, he moved away to stand with his back to her. “You would be better without me.”

  Was that truly what he meant, or was he saying he preferred to return to Scotland alone? He had been forced to marry her, had accepted Henry’s charity because he had no home or homeland. That was changed now.

  “What of Grimes Hall?”

  “It was given for your sake. You must do with it what you will.”

  She opened her lips to ask if she was to bring up their child by her will only, and alone, but that smacked of whining. She would not make him a hostage again, tied to her by the babe they had created. Nor would she beg him to stay with her, to love her, though the words rang in her head with such force that the ache of concussion returned from the pressure.

  “So this is farewell,” she said to his broad back.

  “If you will it so.”

  Her will. That word again.

  “What has my will to say to anything?” she demanded in ire. “When have I been allowed any decision whatever in this affair?”

  He swung back to face her. “You could have refused to be married.”

  “Oh, yes, and with what result? Being branded a harlot after spending a night alone with you, or being handed to Trilborn, instead, by Henry’s decree? No, I thank you!”

  Ross set his hands on his hips. “You preferred me.”

  “Of course I did, being possessed of my full wits,” she fairly spat at him. “Not that it signifies in the least.”

  “Except you could have let me die of a putrid knife wound, but did not.”

  Her face flamed as she recalled sponging him to lower his fever, enjoying the glide of a cloth over his body, uncovering him to see how he was made. “I felt responsible. You were injured while coming to my aid.”

  “And later, when you came to my chamber?”

  “I thought you might die before…that is, before the marriage could be consummated.”

  “Thoughtful of you,” he drawled, his eyes narrowed.

  “Wasn’t it?” She glanced at him, then away again. “And all for nothing, because you were hale and hardy both before and after the wedding.”

  “And why is that, do you think?”

  “I’ve no idea. Mayhap because you had no belief in the curse, or because it was Trilborn who first asked Henry for me, so the malice was directed at him.”

  Ross’s eyebrows lifted. “Now there’s a thought, though you did your part to bring his treasonous intentions to nothing.”

  “Not from malice,” she said quickly.

  “Nay, only for the king.”

  She lifted her chin. “And for you. Trilborn meant to kill you in the confusion of battle.”

  “In addition to dispatching Henry. An ambitious turncoat.”

  “But neither of you believed me when I told you.” It was a grievance that had troubled her then, and did so still.

  Ross crossed his arms over the broad width of his chest. “We believed you, but it was necessary to convince Trilborn otherwise. We preferred that he strike as planned instead of getting cold feet.”

  “You might have let me know.”

  “So we might, except that it was you he was watching, you who could best convince him that it was safe to act.”

  “Oh, aye, but I was not safe.”

  “No,” Ross agreed, his voice sober, “which is why I would leave you here, in Braesford’s care.”

  She stared at him for long moments while the summer breeze tossed the roses above them, releasing their sweet scent along with a shower of pink petals. “Braesford is an excellent brother-in-law and fine husband,” she said finally, rising to her feet and taking a step forward, “but not the one I married.”

  Ross set his jaw, though wariness came and went in his eyes. “He is better able to keep you safe.”

  “Did I ask to be safe?” she inquired with an edge to her voice. “Mayhap it’s not my will. Besides, you came after me when Trilborn forced me to go with him. You named me your wife then. You prayed that I would not die. Over and over, you prayed it.”

  Dull color rose under the darkness of his skin. “You heard.”

  “As in my most fervent dreams.”

  “You had saved my life with your warning. To come after you was the least I could do.”

  “You said to me, ‘later,’” she reminded him, moving toward him with footsteps that grew more certain as she came closer.

  “Later?”

  “When I would have told you how I felt about your death.” He’d said it other times, as well, she remembered, especially when there was something he didn’t wish to discuss.

  “It wasn’t the right time then.”

  “Because you came upon me with Trilborn and knew not what had passed between us, what he might have done to me?”

  “That had nothing to say to it,” he returned with a scowl. “’Twas because I was a bloody-handed Scotsman fresh from battle, and you an English lady. It’s still true.”

  Relief brought a lump to her throat that she swallowed with difficulty. “But has even less to say to it now. I believe you are overnice in your ideas of English ladies, Ross Dunbar.”

  “You are one of the Graces of Graydon.”

  “And only a woman for all that. It means nothing—unless you fear me because of it?”

  “Nay, never!”

  “So I thought. I also think you claimed me after Stoke, prayed that I would live, because you love me. You’ve been unaffected by the curse because you loved me from that night in the New Forest, when you nearly set the world ablaze to keep me from freezing. You allowed me to come to you because you loved me. You married me for the same reason and no other. It’s why you stayed away so long at Grimes Hall—because you dreaded that I should see it. It’s why you kept me with you, marching with the army.”

  “No,” he said, his voice hard.

  She jerked, as if that single word had been a blow. “No?” she whispered.

  Slowly, he shook his head as he reached for her like a man in a dream who fears a vision will disappear. “I loved you from the moment I saw you face the outlaw leader with that puny poniard in your fist. The courage of it stunned my heart. It nearly killed me later to think, even for an instant, that you might have turned it against me. And then knowing you had been forced to use it against Trilborn, that I had failed to protect you, made me see I wasn’t worthy, had never been worthy of the bride Henry gave me.”

  “I thought…” She had to pause to clear her throat before going on. “I thought I was not a fit bride for a Scotsman.”

  “Don’t be daft. My father would be your slave within an hour of meeting you. Aye, as I was. As I am.”

  It was no doubt an exaggeration, but she would not hold that against him. “Then should we not make certain he does?”

  “Should we?” Ross asked, his thumbs smoothing her upper arms through her silk sleeves. “When you may not stay?”

  She drew back a little, the better to see his face.
“Why would I not?”

  “I claimed you as my wife. You have not claimed me as a husband.”

  “Of course I did,” she said, frowning, “every time I came to you.”

  A smile, fleeting as a memory, came and went across his face. “Was that what you were doing? I rather thought it was something else.”

  “No,” she whispered, stepping closer until her breasts brushed his chest.

  “I don’t suppose you would care to…nay. The priests say it’s forbidden while you’re carrying the baby, and after the birth. For two long years.” He sighed.

  “The priests,” she said, running a finger along the opening of his shirt for the delight of touching him, “know little of breeding, having never carried a babe under their hearts.”

  “True.”

  “They’ve never given birth to one, either.”

  “No. Do you think…”

  “That this is more of their perversity to prevent our pleasure? I do, yes.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I am.”

  “Ah, Cate.”

  The heat that rose like blue flames in his eyes warmed her to her toes. She gave a small laugh, then a relieved sob as he swept her against him with sure strength. His mouth came down on hers in a kiss that devoured, but also cherished, possessed, bestowed trust, love and fidelity. When he released her for an instant, she rested her forehead against his chest.

  “What of your father, the laird?” she asked with a sigh, “and the escort he sent for you?”

  “They can wait. It was his idea to disown me. I see no hurry about returning to his good graces.”

  She glanced up, an anxious frown puckering her brow. “But you will go? I would not keep you from your family and friends.”

  “You would have me be a border reiver again?”

  “If…if it pleases you,” she said, though her distraction was caused by his thumb rubbing over the crest of her breast, rather than by the threat.

  “I am an English baron like yon Braesford now, by Henry’s grace, and own fine, wide lands. I have no time for reiving, even had I the urge. But there is a desire of mine that could be satisfied in Scotland.”