The Chief's Maiden (Border Series Book 3)

by Cecelia Mecca

  She closed her eyes.

  “What’s happening?”

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  “What do you mean— Dear lord, open your eyes and look.”

  She did. It appeared Toren was in control. He had backed the other man up against the tilt. While his small round shield—where had that come from?—seemed maddeningly inferior to his opponent’s, Toren didn’t seem to have much need of it. The power and control he displayed atop his horse had fluidly transferred to his sword-fighting abilities. The other man was clearly weakening. On the defensive now, his last attempt to knock Toren’s sword from his hand was met with a swing so forceful it not only knocked the sword from his hand but dropped him to the ground as well.

  And now it was he who did not move.

  Though the crowd cheered, the audience’s appreciation had been much louder when Toren’s competitor had toppled him from his mount. Although this was to be a neutral event, its location promised that the English were always slightly favored. Her father had explained that since they treated across the border in Scotland each month for the Day of Truce, the yearly tournament was always held in England.

  Nevertheless, they did cheer when the earl himself stood and clapped. Toren’s power was a sight to behold, and all present, including Juliette, had no doubt who the champion of the joust would be. None were as skilled as her Scotsman.

  As Toren moved toward his squire, Juliette squinted to get a closer look. He’d mentioned the boy to her, and something about the lad roused her curiosity. He was so small and moved differently. More gracefully perhaps.

  She wanted so badly to go to Toren, but even she knew there were limitations to their affair. Instead, she pretended to scan the field while shooting glances at Toren, the squire, and the attending grooms. As the ground crew cleared the field, picking up pieces of wood from the broken lances, she waited for Toren to look up.

  When he did, she let out the breath she’d been holding. He was fine. She’d already guessed as much, but her nerves hadn’t settled until he gave her the signal. The Knight Marshal announced the next combatants, and a new match began.

  “Extraordinary,” the woman seated in front of them said loudly.

  Indeed.

  “Juliette, are you all right?” Christina had not taken her eyes off her.

  “Aye, splendid. ’Tis a fine day for a joust.”

  A fine day to finally learn what it meant to fall in love.

  For there was no way to deny that, for the briefest of moments, she had thought her life was over, every chance of happiness gone. When she’d believed Toren dead. . .

  If this was love, did she want any part of it?

  Toren sat across the hall from Juliette, much the same as he had that first night. Gregory was beside him, at a table that was a mix of English and Scottish. A wealthy baron and his wife sat in their midst, sharing a flagon of wine with them and several knights who likely had nothing more than the armor they’d worn to this event.

  While the wealthiest or most prestigious guests typically sat closest to the host, this event was intended to bring borderers together regardless of rank or nationality—a notion that seemed more heartily embraced by the baron than his wife. For the whole meal, she’d stared in obvious horror at the man across from her, as if he were a barbarian and not a knight.

  “Imagine bedding that old witch,” Gregory whispered.

  Toren shuddered. Though the woman was handsome for her age, it was clear from the lines around her mouth that she rarely smiled.

  “I’d rather not.”

  He popped a piece of meat into his mouth and looked at Jules. Again. She had not glanced his way all night. Or perhaps she had but he’d not noticed.

  “Toren Kerr. In love with an Englishwoman.”

  He placed a well-positioned elbow into his friend’s side, caring not that Gregory choked on his dinner.

  “I am not—”

  “Ha!” Everyone seated with them looked at Gregory, who simply shrugged. In a lower voice, he continued his verbal torment. “I’ve had the great fortune to be in love with many women. It’s pure foolishness to get stuck on one.”

  Of all the men who could have done him honor on the battlefield, why must this cad have been the one?

  “Why don’t you marry her? Pride for having condemned your sister for choosing an Englishman? Will she not have you?”

  Though Gregory was clearly attempting to goad him, Toren refused to allow it. He didn’t react in any way.

  “No matter. It appears she’s found another to take your place.”

  Toren shifted his gaze to her in alarm, watching as the earl’s nephew held out a hand to her. She stood, tucked her elbow in his, and joined the other dancers. Music played throughout the meal. The dancers needed only wait for the main course to finish, and now that the hosts’ table had been cleared, the night’s revelries had begun in truth.

  As the song ended and the next one began, Toren began to stand.

  “Toren.” Gregory pulled him back down. “You will dance La Rursus? You will turn every head in this hall if you do anything other than sit and watch. Unless, of course, you’re prepared to declare for her.”

  Declare for her? That was not possible.

  “Well? Are you?” his friend pressed.

  “Nay.”

  He sat.

  “I thought as much.”

  Though he would sooner slit the earl’s nephew’s throat, Toren watched instead as he circled Juliette in the most erotic dance allowed in polite society. Outlawed by the church for that very reason, the La Rursus was only acceptable since Queen Eleanor, much to King Henry’s dismay, had declared it as her favorite. He watched as the young man circled Juliette with his hand at his sides. When the pace of the song increased, he placed his hand on her back. They turned, along with the other couples.

  His torment must have been evident, because Gregory clapped him on the back. “You’ve no claim on her,” he said, his tone no longer taunting.

  Toren shifted on the bench, grateful for his friend. Without someone to intervene, he would have stormed onto the dance floor. But Gregory was right, and he’d do best not to forget it.

  Juliette laughed as her partner lifted her into the air. Her hair swung around her, its golden hue in stark contrast to her blue velvet gown. They spun in a circle, laughing and clearly enjoying themselves.

  He could not watch this any longer.

  He clasped Gregory’s shoulder and climbed to his feet.

  “Fear not, my friend,” he said, in answer to the questioning look in the other man’s eyes. “I’m leaving.”

  Toren would not go to her again. The feelings she evoked in him were ones he’d do best to ignore. He forced himself not to look behind him as he strode through the hall toward the exit.

  He did not unclench his fists until he emerged into the night air, a floor away from the perfumed excesses of the hall. Some impulse bid him to walk and keep walking, and he made his way through the tent city, passing his tent. Guided by moonlight alone, he took the well-worn path to the lake below. He heard the rush of water before he could see it.

  The heat of the day had not entirely abated, and the prospect of a swim was too compelling to ignore. He took off his surcoat, glancing briefly at the crest his father had worn with such pride. At least his father had not lived to see him fail so miserably. Losing Bristol. Failing to retrieve Catrina until after she’d fallen in love with the enemy. Failing to complete the king’s mission. Falling in love with his target’s daughter. . .

  The rage he’d felt while watching Juliette dance had startled him. That, and his desire to protect her from harm, his nearly uncontrollable urge to be with her whenever possible. . .

  Bloody hell. He did love her, and he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do about it.

  “You didn’t care to dance?”

  He reached for the sword he’d discarded and swung it into position before realizing it was her. She had followed him without alerting
him to her presence even with a lantern by her side.

  That had never happened.

  Ever.

  He dropped the sword to his side.

  “Jules. . . how?” It was all he could manage.

  She lowered the voluminous folds of her dress she held to her sides. “I’ve read extensively on the subject of tracking.”

  “You’ve. . .” He took a deep breath. “Read about tracking?”

  “Aye.” She walked past him to the edge of the lake. He was about to admonish her to be careful when she stopped.

  “As I’ve said, Sister was adamant I read in every language, on every topic imaginable. Once I became of an age to do so. Odd, don’t you think? That she’d not have me concentrate on religious books? I read those too, of course. More often than the other. It is a convent, after all.”

  Her back was still to him. Only her hair and the lantern at her side was clearly visible.

  “Of course, I’d not read about tracking people. But I imagined it would be quite the same as tracking animals. . . and it is, is it not? Without being able to see clearly, I simply did what any skilled tracker would do.”

  Anticipate the prey’s movements.

  “How could you possibly have known I would come here?”

  She still did not turn toward him.

  “You were angry, and likely restless. You mentioned having used this path to bathe each day in the lake. So I simply assumed.”

  Sheltered, not stupid, she’d said. And she was right.

  “You’re angry,” he said.

  She did turn then, and with the glimmer of the lake behind her, she looked to him like a wood nymph, ethereal and beautiful. She made no move toward him.

  “I don’t understand you, Toren. Help me understand.”

  Oh God. . . if only he could. He wanted to reach out, pull her toward him, but she deserved more from him. If he could not answer such a simple question, he did not deserve to touch her.

  “Why do you hold back, even now?”

  Another question he could not answer. And so he stayed silent.

  “Tell me, Toren. Why? What is wrong with me? Why do you not want me?”

  He could not let her believe that, not even for a moment, so he did step forward then. Taking the lantern from her, he replaced it with his hand.

  “Nothing is wrong with you, Jules. Just the opposite. You are the kindest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. You’re as smart as our priest at Brockburg, as resourceful as my sister, and more caring than I deserve.”

  He’d give her every truth he could. It wasn’t enough, but it was the best he could do.

  “Then why? Tell me, please.”

  “I can’t—”

  “I believe I may be falling in love with you.”

  His heart stopped, albeit for the briefest of moments. At least, it felt as though it had. He was the luckiest and most doomed man in all of England. And Scotland.

  “Jules, you deserve so much more than I can give you.”

  She was so damn innocent. If loving her was the stupidest thing he’d ever done, what he was about to say was even stupider.

  “Your father.” God forgive him. “There are rumors. . .”

  “What do they have to do with us?” She pulled her hand from his and gestured back and forth between them. “I meant what I said. He’s innocent. I promise you. He would never, ever, do the things some are claiming he’s done.”

  The conviction in her voice was a reason to love her.

  “Sister Heloise knows everything, and she believes him to be innocent as well. When I overheard my father speaking to his steward, I immediately made inquiries.”

  He hadn’t asked her to elaborate before, and as much as he wanted to know what she had to say, Toren refused to do so now. He would not exploit their relationship this way.

  “Forget I said—”

  “Nay, you’ll hear me out on this. I spoke to my mother, who knew not a blessed thing, but Sister Heloise told me that what I’d overheard was true. Or at least the rumormongers believe it to be true. They say he has taken bribes from well-placed English nobles. They say he has guaranteed those who pay him exemption from being brought to trial on the Day of Truce. But hear me on this.” Her voice rose in volume as she spoke. Jules was truly upset. He reached for her, but she took a step back.

  “He did not do it, Toren Kerr. My father has spent his life ignoring everyone around him. My mother. Me. My brother. Everyone. All at the expense of securing peace along the border. He claims his greatest desire is to keep us safe. And maybe he believes that. But it’s a game to him now. One he’s determined to win. This is the quality King Henry saw in him. It is why he appointed a minor baron as Lord Warden of the Middle Marches—and why he has refused to consider these rumors.”

  He didn’t dare question her. Instead, he waited for her to calm. When she did, he broke the silence between them.

  “I believe you.”

  Either Douglas and his king were right, which meant Jules had not taken her father’s measure correctly, an idea he was increasingly beginning to doubt, or they were both wrong, and an innocent man was being unfairly persecuted.

  “But others may not. I’m here to learn the truth. When your father arrives—”

  “He’s not coming.”

  He could not have heard her correctly.

  “Not coming?” he repeatedly numbly.

  “Please do not point out the oddity of the warden not attending this tournament, or the obvious fact that his daughter should have some indication of his whereabouts.”

  He wasn’t coming. Toren kept his expression neutral while he thought of what needed to be done. He needed to relay a message to Douglas before any further decisions could be made. He’d send a trusted messenger from Bristol. Which meant. . .

  “I must leave on the morrow.”

  “Leave? You said you’d changed your mind. Is this because my father isn’t coming? That’s the only reason you’re here? I’d thought—”

  If anyone was within shouting distance, they would be upon them shortly.

  Suddenly, she stopped talking—or, more precisely, shouting—and attempted to march past him. He caught her by the arm.

  “It is not the only reason I am here. Jules, please. I want the same thing as your father. Peace for the borderers who see a lifetime of murder and bloodshed every year. I was sent here to save the process that has kept violence from spreading beyond the borders. To protect both countries from the death grip of an increasingly inevitable war.”

  She pulled her arm away.

  “I thought you were different.”

  “Listen to me.” Surprisingly, she stayed. The cries of crickets filled the air around them, and it suddenly struck him that they were arguing in the most peculiar of places.

  “How did you get away? Are you always in the habit of placing yourself in such danger?”

  She crossed her arms, reminding him he still had some convincing to do before she would answer his questions.

  “I came here to speak with your father and to represent my country in this overly extravagant but necessary display of peace between England and Scotland. I never expected to meet someone as extraordinary as you.”

  “So that is why you fled the keep this eve rather than coming to me as planned.”

  “Did you enjoy your dance?” he countered. That he’d found it impossible to watch her in another man’s arms was a thought he had planned to keep to himself.

  “Will I ever see you again after you leave?”

  If not for the mission that promised to keep them apart, the answer would be appallingly easy.

  Unless he could prove that Hallington was not the man he’d been painted to be, her father would die—if not by his hand, then by someone else’s—and it was possible Douglas would not be inclined to give the man the benefit of the doubt after the death of his nephew. So for now, he gave her the only answer he could possibly give her. “No.”

  It was the hardest t
hing he’d ever said, but he’d vowed not to lie to her, aside from his decision not to tell her the details of his mission.

  The candle in her lantern flickered. It was the only movement between them. There was nothing more he could say.

  She stared at him, her expression indiscernible. There was pain there, and something more.

  “I would know you then, before you leave. And before you say no, tell me true: do you want to make love to me?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then allow me this one chance to control what happens to me.”

  He wanted to argue. To force her to see reason. Explain why they could not, should not be together. But she was making it difficult to deny her. To deny them both.

  13

  Juliette shivered despite the warm, dense summer air. Though she could hardly see his face, she knew he was going to do it.

  She was scared.

  And excited.

  He reached for her and pulled her into his arms. His mouth covered hers in a demanding kiss that left no question as to his intentions.

  His mouth slid across her own as it had the past two nights, but this time there was an urgency that had not been there before. Toren reached under the right side of her gown and began to unlace it before turning his attention to the opposite side of the cumbersome dress. Without taking his mouth from hers, he worked quickly enough to make a skilled handmaiden jealous.

  Once loosened, he tore the laces apart and, in one quick motion, pulled the heavy velvet gown over her head.

  “Clearly you’ve done that before.”

  She didn’t mean to sound accusatory, but the memory from two nights prior of him flirting with ladies in the hall, or at least them flirting with him, sharpened her tone.

  “I’d no sooner answer that question than I’d ask you, once again, if you’re sure about this, Jules.”

  He discarded his surcoat and, for the first time since they’d been together, his shirt. In the past, he’d insisted they remain clothed for their encounters. Now, she understood why. Seeing him like this, it would be impossible to walk away without being fully satisfied.