The Chief's Maiden (Border Series Book 3)

by Cecelia Mecca

  And much of the talk was about a certain Scottish clan chief.

  “Lord Blake,” Christina’s husband replied, “I’m pleased to introduce my wife, Lady Christina, and her friend, Lady Juliette, daughter of Lord Hallington, the second Baron Chauncy.”

  Though the man was not unattractive, Lord Blake’s predatory gaze made Juliette wish he were sitting across the room rather than across the table. Admittedly, the man dressed in high fashion, but unlike the muted tones favored by another man she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about, Lord Blake wore nearly every color in existence. The bright yellow of his surcoat made her dizzy.

  He finally tore his gaze from her bosom to address Christina’s husband.

  “I understand you were in France recently?”

  An interesting question.

  “Aye, and returned to accept this fine woman as my wife. Christina, tell Lord Blake of the magnificent ceremony you planned.”

  Lord Blake allowed the conversation to meander away from France. She wondered whether he ever talked about the time he’d spent overseas with Christina. Perhaps her friend would be willing to tell her. Juliette had once read a story, Livre des Merveilles du Monde, which Sister had insisted was so fantastical it could not possibly be true. She often imagined Lord Hedford similarly traveling the world and meeting adventures, though he was much more mysterious about it than the subject of the story.

  “Lady Juliette?”

  Lord save her.

  “My apologies,” she murmured.

  They all turned to her as if awaiting a response.

  “Lady Juliette prefers French wine, do you not?” Christina prodded.

  “Aye, very much. But I will admit ’tis the only variety Father allows, so I’m not exposed to many others.”

  Lord Blake shoved a morsel of meat into his mouth. Unfortunately, he didn’t bother to finish it before speaking.

  “Where is the warden? I would have expected him to attend as an extension of his duties.”

  Lord Blake was not the first to inquire about her father’s whereabouts. “Regrettably, he was forced to attend to matters that kept him away from this fine event. He sends his deepest regrets for his absence.”

  Seemingly satisfied, Lord Blake devoted his hearty attention to the meal in front of him.

  As the pre-course was served, Juliette washed her hands and dried them on the linen towel, but she did not touch the bread and cheese.

  “You must eat something,” Christina whispered.

  She glanced at Lord Blake, who was in deep conversation with the man sitting next to him. “I’m too nervous,” she replied.

  “And rightly so. This idea of yours is foolish. You hardly know the man.” Christina looked toward her husband, who paid them no attention.

  “I know Lord Wytham even less. Yet my father insists I should accept his hand in marriage simply because he’s inherited Providence Manor from his great-uncle. I care not that his land will border ours. Or that ‘’twill be a fine match.’ He’s not spent any time in England—”

  “But at least he’s English.”

  “Cares for nothing save my father’s title—”

  “Juliette.”

  “Smile, they’re looking at us.”

  Indeed, the conversation around them had come to a stop. A troupe as large as Juliette had ever seen had gathered in the corner of the hall closest to the hosts. The earl and his wife raised their goblets, and all at once the lutist and harpist began to play. Another man, dressed similarly to his companions, in an array of colors only Lord Blake could rival, waited with his horn raised. When he finally joined in, the soft tunes echoed on the stone walls of the great hall despite the fact that it was filled with people.

  “He’s not here,” her friend whispered.

  Indeed, Christina was right. The Scotsman was absent from the meal. She had thought to find him, perhaps catch his eye and get silent confirmation of their pre-arranged meeting.

  “’Tis well enough. I’m of a mind to tell Matthew of your assignation.”

  She stared into Christina’s eyes, begging her to do otherwise.

  “I will be fine. If the man wanted to harm me, he’d have done so last eve. In fact, his rebuke for putting myself in danger was as vigorous as your own. Besides, I can’t very well meet someone who is not present.”

  But before Christina could reply, the very object of their discussion entered the hall.

  She spotted him immediately.

  His size alone made him stand out, but it was not the only reason he demanded attention. At least, he demanded hers. She had not known his name last eve, but it seemed she’d heard little else throughout the day, whispers and comments about his match seemed to follow her all afternoon.

  “Knocked him from his mount with one blow.”

  “Has been champion more than any other Scotsman.”

  “And he’s only seven and twenty.”

  “Keeps to himself, even with his own clansmen.”

  “None will best him.”

  And he was here. The clan chief entered the hall alone, paused at the entrance, and looked around the room. A serving maid immediately sidled up to him on the pretense of offering a mug of ale. But even at this distance, Juliette could tell she wanted to offer something more. She let out a breath when he did not appear to reciprocate her offer.

  Clad in the same surcoat as the evening before, the only difference now was that his hair was wet and smoothed back, giving him a nobler appearance. But no less fierce.

  She was unable. . . unwilling. . . to look away.

  His gaze found her.

  He took the mug offered to him and, without hesitation, began to walk toward their table. An initial burst of pleasure—he was coming for her, and he’d ignored the comely serving girl—gave way to panic. What is he doing? We didn’t plan to meet until after the play began.

  “Juliette—”

  “Yes, it is,” she answered her friend. If Christina sounded alarmed, it was with good reason. There could be no doubt now. He headed toward them.

  Juliette reached for her wine but changed her mind when her hands began to tremble. She traced the outline of the rose pattern on the copper goblet, concentrating on the leaves. If he told Lord Hedford what she had asked him to do. . .

  “Greetings,” his voice boomed. “May I join you?”

  She looked up and watched in horror as Lord Hedford nodded to the empty seat next to Lord Blake.

  “Your clansmen—” Lord Blake started pointing to a nearby table, presumably one which he believed would be better suited for the chief’s company.

  “Are in Scotland,” he said, looking directly at her. Odd, but though he’d not given her leave to address him by his given name, Juliette already thought of him as Toren in her mind. It was a fine name. She tried to keep her expression neutral. Surely everyone could hear her wildly beating heart, or did the sound invade her ears only?

  “I am—” he began.

  “The chief of Clan Kerr,” Lord Hedford finished. Juliette caught his quick reproachful glance across the table, but could not tell if it was directed at their new guest or the pompous lord beside him.

  “’Twould be difficult for the man who has championed his country more than any other at this event to remain anonymous.”

  Juliette had lured him to another meeting with the promise of revealing herself. Would he reveal her misdeeds? Did he mean to call off their assignation?

  “Lord Hedford and my wife, Lady Christina, at your service. And her dear friend—”

  “We’ve met.” Toren said and inclined his head in greeting. “My lady.”

  He had purposely cut off Hedford to keep her name a secret. Did that mean he intended to keep to their plan after all?

  Though she looked away, she could feel the chief’s gaze on her still. She looked up and found she was right.

  “I trust you are well this evening?” His voice was low and hinted at another meaning. Juliette knew she should stop staring b
ut could not.

  “I am. And trust you are as well.” She took her hands from the goblet, folded them onto her lap, and looked at the musicians, who had just begun a new song. From her seat, Juliette could see everything. The lord’s table, the army of servants emerging from the kitchens with trays of food, the massive arrangements of flowers just about everywhere. “Our view is quite spectacular.”

  She gave her attention back to the others.

  “Indeed,” Lord Blake muttered to himself, although she could hear him clearly. The man was not looking toward the front of the hall but rather at her. Though not at her face, exactly.

  Juliette wanted to bring her hands up to cover the exposed skin on her chest, but she kept them on her lap instead, not wanting to bring undue attention to herself.

  She chanced another glance at Toren, whose eyes were conspicuously hooded. Indeed, he looked as if he would like to give Blake the throttling he deserved. But his expression changed so quickly, Juliette wondered if she had imagined it.

  The main course was served without further incident, despite Lord Blake’s increasingly drunken state. Juliette spent most of the course attempting to divert her attention from the Scotsman she’d arranged to meet after dinner. She watched the harpist’s fingers glide across the strings. She smiled as the earl and his wife laughed together, looking every bit the perfect hosts. She did manage to eat a few morsels until a piece of cheese nearly caught in her throat at Christina’s proclamation.

  “Look! They’re setting up a stage.”

  Sure enough, the musicians were moving to the side as servants cleared the space in front of the high table.

  The play.

  Her head whipped around to find Toren Kerr already standing.

  “Good eve, my lords. Ladies. I fear I must retire early this eve.”

  He didn’t so much as glance at her. With that, the Scot turned and left as quickly as he came.

  For a moment, Juliette was baffled—had he changed his mind?—but then she realized he’d likely left to meet her, which meant it was time for her to leave, too. Juliette placed her hand over her chest. There was no need to feign illness, as she really did feel quite lightheaded.

  “I fear I must do the same. Pardon, my lords, I suddenly feel overwrought.”

  Christina had fought her all afternoon over her “foolish plan,” but her friend came through, just as she always did.

  “You do look quite pale. Perhaps you should take a rest before the dancing begins. Or even retire early if you must. Tomorrow will be another long day, is that not right, husband?”

  Hedford looked back and forth between them, his eyebrows drawn up, likely trying to determine if they were up to any mischief. Juliette and Christina were known to get into some trouble when they were together, though perhaps Christina had not told him that.

  “Aye,” he said. “I will escort you, Lady Juliette.”

  He began to stand, but Juliette could not accept his offer. While she could go to her bedchamber and then return, she worried the Scot would not wait that long.

  “No need, my lord. I know the way.”

  She expected him to argue. To tell her there were too many strangers lurking about. But after delivering a quick fare thee well to the young couple and her unwanted companion for the evening, who was now openly gaping at her bosom, Juliette fairly ran from the table.

  She skirted men and women shouting and clapping as they prepared for the night’s entertainment. Servants cleared the last course as she wove her way through them, turning into the corridor that would lead to the opening she’d used for her escape the evening before.

  She stopped at its entrance and stared at the light from a nearby wall torch. The flickering light and distant sounds of celebration gave her pause.

  What if Christina was right to be concerned? This was not a story, and the man waiting for her was not Sir Gawain. Maybe instead he was the Green Knight, thinking to test her but really preparing to chop off her head.

  Nay. He was no monster but a mere man. Well, mayhap not a ‘mere’ man. Had there been more time, she never would have behaved so rashly. But there was not, and Juliette would listen to Sister Heloise’s advice. She would not docilely accept the small life her father wished to give to her—she wanted her cup full, overflowing.

  Of course, when the nun had told Juliette to choose her own path, the abbess very likely had not realized it would steer her to a private nook in a strange castle with a Scotsman she’d met but twice.

  Juliette took a deep breath, placed her hand on the stone wall, and took a hesitant step forward.

  5

  She wasn’t coming.

  Toren had suspected as much at dinner. After learning Hallington was not yet at the tournament—if, indeed, he was coming at all—he should have left straightaway. Although it was not ideal, he would need to travel to Chauncy Manor to find him.

  But he had not liked the thought of the Englishwoman waiting for him, not knowing what had become of him. He had stayed because he was courteous. For all his faults, and there were many, rudeness was not one of them. His decision had nothing to do with his desire to see her. Or his yearning to touch her, so strong he’d nearly reached for her when she’d approached him in the field.

  And yet something told him there was more to it. He’d desired plenty of women, lain with many, and cared little for any of them. Never before had he put a mission on hold for any woman, and the thought that he’d do so for an Englishwoman was enough to give him pause.

  Granted, this lass was not his mother, the Englishwoman who’d fled Scotland two days after his father’s death.

  His sister would be thrilled to hear he’d waited for a lass.

  “Toren,” Catrina had said on her last visit to Brockburg, “no less than three alliances have been proposed, none of which you’ll even consider. What is wrong with you?”

  The question was a common one, and he’d answered it the same way every time.

  “I have no need for a wife. If something happens to me, Alex will become chief. And then Reid. The Kerr line will remain strong.”

  “We need more allies.”

  Toren had turned from her then, and looked below, across the open landscape at Brockburg. Lush, rolling hills in the distance. A hundreds-year-old tower walled and heavily guarded. Brockburg Castle was well fortified. It had not been attacked in years despite its proximity to the border. They needed no one.

  “Allies to betray us? Nay—”

  “You’re more than a mite stubborn, brother.”

  “And you’ve a short memory.”

  They’d ended the conversation there, but Catrina’s words hadn’t failed to move him. He thought of them even now, standing against this stone wall for the second time, thinking of the blonde beauty who’d sat across from him earlier.

  He should leave, but instead he stayed and looked up into the night sky. He thought of the sun and stars revolving around them. He ached to return home.

  He ached to touch her.

  Toren heard the footsteps before the sound of her voice met his ears. “The abbess would say God must truly be happy to give us a night such as this.”

  “The abbess?”

  She turned the corner to meet him, and Toren sucked in his breath.

  Holy hell, she was lovely.

  She looked just as she had earlier, her pale blue gown somehow outshining all of the other bright colors festooning the gathering of nobles. Though it was understated, unadorned but for simple embroidery with a shiny white thread, the woman who wore it was anything but.

  Her expression, as usual, was welcoming. Her smile was contagious.

  “Sister Heloise. She tutors me each day at the convent adjacent to—” her smile broadened, “—my home.”

  “If you think to withhold your identity forever,” Toren pushed himself away from the wall, “I can simply go back down to the hall and ask—”

  “Nay, do not.” She grabbed his arm to stop him, and when she began to let
it drop, he stopped her with his own.

  He turned her hand over with her palm facing upward and lowered his own palm to touch it. Her fingers were so much smaller than his own. And softer. The feel of her skin against his rough palm instantly hardened him. This slip of a woman affected him so strangely.

  “So small,” he thought aloud.

  She allowed his touch. An intimate touch for two strangers, but this was the same woman who’d asked him for a kiss on their second meeting.

  “Yours are so large. And rough. They’re very different than mine.”

  Toren swallowed. He shouldn’t be here. Though undoubtedly alluring, his Englishwoman was an innocent. Her forward suggestion aside, how could he have ever doubted the fact?

  “We are very different,” he said.

  He reluctantly pulled his hand away and looked at her. Thanks to the moonlight, he could see her face clearly. Her eyes betrayed her. She was nervous. Rightly so. It was foolish of her to be here, but he’d put her at ease nonetheless.

  “Do you mean that I am English?”

  He wasn’t thinking that exactly. But it was a safer conversation than the one he’d been imagining. The one that involved the removal of their clothing to explore.

  “Aye. And a woman, of course.” He would stop there.

  Her laugh, a deep and almost sensual sound, forced a smile from him.

  “And you are much bigger than I am.”

  He would very much like to prove that she was right on that particular account.

  “Let us see,” she was clearly warming to the topic of their differences. “Do you have siblings?”

  “Two brothers and a sister.”

  “Well then, we both have a brother. Kelvin is nine. Yours?”

  Toren tried to remember his siblings at that age, although it was becoming more and more difficult. Although not young children when his father died and his mother left, they were still of an age to be cared for. It was his most important job, and the one he took most seriously.