by Paula Quinn
De Atre nodded and stepped carefully away from the blade.
Having proved true to his word to slice open anyone who touched his charge, Captain Gates sheathed his blade and turned to walk away.
Having remained in the yard after Gates took over the fight with his lieutenant, Colin watched de Atre rip a blade from his boot and lunge toward the captain’s back. He scowled, thinking that one of them should have killed the disreputable swine. He didn’t think too long though, but took off, leaped into the air, and fell on top of the would-be assassin.
They landed hard on the ground, though de Atre absorbed most of the impact since he hit it first. His dagger fell away, useless. Rolling to top position, Colin drew his arm back, ready to break some teeth, mayhap smash a bone. His shoulder locked in pain as his stitches tore open. When his fist fell, it did nothing but wake the lieutenant from his stupor.
De Atre went for a hilt tucked into Colin’s boot and pulled it free. Before he had the chance to stab Colin with it though, a fist, appearing from their left, slammed against his jaw and knocked him out cold.
Captain Gates tested his hand for broken bones and then shoved his arm beneath Colin’s and helped him to his feet.
They stood facing each other, both knowing they had moved to save the other’s life. No words were spoken, but what passed between them was the stuff that bound men together on the battlefield.
“Come on,” Gates said, turning for the castle. “Let’s have Gillian sew you back up and then we’ll share a drink.”
“Nae.” Colin held back. He didn’t think he could sit through another stitching with the lady of the castle without her haunting his thoughts for another se’nnight. He did want to sit with Gates though and find out what he could about the prince.
“I can tend to this myself, but I’ll meet ye in the Great Hall afterward fer that drink.”
He waited for the captain’s agreement, then cut across the yard to the other side of the castle, where the smithy was busy hammering away at swords. Colin hadn’t known how many swords until he stepped inside. The red shadowy walls were lined with rows of blades of various lengths. More were piled atop shelves and tables.
Clutching his bloody arm, Colin looked around and then at the smith, who paused in his labors to have a look at him in return.
“Expecting a rather large army, are ye?”
“Who the hell are you?” The smith squinted at him and held up the red-hot blade he’d been hammering. “What do you want?”
“Colin Campbell, and I require yer services, old man.”
“I don’t repair wasters.” The smith waved him away and went back to work. “See the woodcutter for that.”
“ ’Tis flesh that needs repairing, not wood.”
“Then you’ll be wanting the lady.”
“Nae, I don’t want her,” he said above the noise of the fire and pulled on his shirt, exposing his gaping wound. “She mended me once already, and rather poorly, I might add. I want ye to seal it with yer blade.”
“My blade?” The smith held up the glowing metal and shivered. “Are you mad, soldier? That will hurt like hell.”
“I’ll survive it.” What he wasn’t sure he’d survive was looking into her eyes again, so close he could almost hear her thoughts. Watching the way her lips moved when she spoke, tempting him to wonder how they would taste against his. Hearing what kind of father she thought he’d make.
’Twas best if he stayed as far away from her as he could.
“Steady hands, then.” He took the smith’s trembling wrist in his fingers and brought the blade closer to him. “Just seal the wound, aye?”
The smith nodded, but he looked less than confident. Colin guided him closer and then closed his eyes, readying for the pain. He’d done this before, but one never grew accustomed to the pain and the smell of flesh burning.
Colin thought of every distraction his mind could conjure, but finally had to leap away from the smith’s touch. He leaned against one of the tables until the wave of nausea passed, then thanked the smith and plunged into the cool air outside. He dragged in a deep breath to keep from passing out, then headed for the Great Hall.
When he arrived, Gates was sitting alone at a table, staring into his cup. Colin picked up his steps when he saw the pitcher and second cup on the table waiting for him.
He slipped into the chair opposite the captain, appearing so suddenly that Gates startled a bit. Colin didn’t apologize but reached for the pitcher, poured himself a cup of whatever was in it, and downed its contents. He repeated those actions once more, slammed the cup down on the table, and looked at the man sitting across from him.
“Hell, don’t ye have anything stronger here? Whisky?”
Gates shook his head then dipped his gaze to Colin’s singed collar. “You burned it closed?”
“Aye, and I could use some damned whisky.”
“There might be some in the lower cellar. I’ll have a look later.”
Good, Colin thought, filling his cup once more with the piss-warm, weak ale. Gates was warming up to him. They always did. The more time Colin spent with someone, the more information they were likely to offer.
“I’ve been pondering some things, Campbell. I thought we might speak of them.”
Colin nodded his consent and brought his cup to his lips.
“I will need to find another who will protect Lady Gillian when I cannot.”
Colin guzzled down the ale. No way in hell—
“I don’t know who to choose. You know the men, Campbell. Who do you think can be trusted with her?”
Colin regarded him carefully. Gates was clever to ask for his opinion rather than his service. Every man in the garrison who secretly desired her would have leaped at the chance to be her chaperone, and Gates knew it. Another test.
“I think Lefevre would be best.”
Gates blinked. “Not yourself?”
Colin contained the smile creeping along his lips. He was correct then. He usually was. Part of what made him the king’s best spy was that he could read people so skillfully, understand what they were saying without their having to utter the words. “I wish to practice, not become a woman’s guardian.”
The captain looked into his cup while he sloshed his ale around inside of it. He seemed to be weighing his words before he spoke them. “Would your answer be the same if she requested you?”
Damn it, he hadn’t anticipated that. She requested him? “Why wouldn’t it be?” Colin asked him. “And why press me now, after ye convinced me of the dangers of forming attachments to them?”
Gates finally looked up, with eyes, large and solemn, like a man being forced to do something that went against every bit of good sense he had left in his pitiful head. “Because she is frightened of the other men here, and with good reason. Men tend to desire what is forbidden to them.”
“Aye,” Colin agreed, shifting to a more comfortable position. “I’ve been wanting to share a word with ye about that.”
“Have you?”
“Aye, I have. Ye warned me that the earl would harm Edmund if she tried to leave. But ye did not tell me why. Will he lose her father’s support against the king? And what does William of Orange’s arrival have to do with it?”
Gates looked about to answer, but downed his ale first and set his level gaze on Colin across the table. “Why do you allow the men to beat you in the yard when you are obviously better skilled than they are?”
Colin raised his cup to his companion. He wanted answers but he respected the captain’s refusal to give them up so easily. “Ye don’t believe that ’twas the rage of seeing my own blood that gave strength to my arm then?”
Gates chose not to reply to that, but to ask another question instead. “Why do you fight with a Highland sword and not an English rapier? You said you fought in the English army.”
These weren’t difficult questions to answer, since Gates wasn’t the first man to ask them. Colin almost conceded. But he wasn’t one to surr
ender. At least not until he got what he wanted. “I will tell ye why after ye tell me why Devon continually goes out of his way to shame his ward and spoil her name?”
For a moment, Gates simply stared at him, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tightening. Colin thought he would refuse again.
“She’s strong of will. Devon wishes to break her.”
Did Colin truly want to hear the rest? His blood was already simmering against her cousin. What if what he learned provoked him further? He already had a cause, and ’twasn’t her. He couldn’t let it be.
“Why?” he found himself asking anyway.
“So that she will not fight him when he takes her before a priest,” Gates continued, keeping his end of the bargain. “He makes her yield through Edmund, but we fear that once he has her, he will send Edmund away.”
A man’s coarse shout to his friend somewhere in the castle echoed against Colin’s ears as he sat staring at Gates. Had he heard the captain right? Devon wished to wed her? It wasn’t unheard of to wed one’s cousin. Prince William and his wife were related by blood, but Devon was a cruel bastard with little to offer her besides a fortress as cold and dreary as a marriage between them would be.
“Her father would allow this?”
Gates shrugged his shoulders. “Essex has practically disowned her already. And even if he forbids such a union, once William takes the throne, he will most likely agree to give Devon whatever he wants in gratitude for aiding him.”
Sitting back in his chair, Colin let what he’d learned sink in. Aye, William would grant his English lackey what he asked and Gillian would remain a prisoner for the remainder of her life. And what of Edmund? Devon wouldn’t keep her bastard son around longer than it took a priest to recite the benediction. But all hope wasn’t lost. William couldn’t grant Devon a damned thing until he was king—and Colin wasn’t about to let that happen.
“Your sword?” Gates arched a dark gold brow at him.
Aye, that. “ ’Twas a gift from my father. He presented it to me the day I left home to join the English army. He didn’t want me to ferget my roots.” ’Twas the truth, but Colin had never told it to anyone. If he sought to gain Gates’s trust, he knew he would have to give a bit more.
“And have you forgotten?”
Colin shook his head. “ ’Tis the reason I am here.”
Gates regarded him briefly, then pushed his cup away. “The afternoon grows late. I must attend Gill… Lady Gillian.”
Colin stood, disregarding his drink, as well, and turned to leave.
“Have you changed your mind?” The captain’s question stopped him. “About attending her when I cannot?”
He wanted to. Och, how he ached to protect her. Her and her son. He wanted to spend more time with them, hear their laughter, be a part of the intense love between them. ’Twas passionate, and things had stopped being passionate for Colin long ago.
But he wasn’t part of it. He couldn’t be. Now more than ever he had to remain dedicated to his task and stop William from taking the throne. “Nae,” Colin told him. “I have not.”
He was a cold, merciless bastard. And as he left the Hall, he felt like one.
Chapter Fifteen
Gillian wrapped her son’s wet body in a heavy drying cloth and lifted him from his morning bath. She pressed her nose to his damp, golden curls and held him close against her.
“My, but you smell good. I thought you might smell like a fish forever.”
“I would like to smell like a fish, Mummy!”
She laughed, gazing into his clear blue eyes. “Flies would like it as well if you did.”
The door opened as she was crossing her son’s room to his bed. She glanced at Margaret, entering with two male servants.
“He’s finished with his bath then?” Margaret didn’t look up when she spoke, but waited while the two men carried the basin away. Suddenly Gillian felt a sharp pang of pity for her. She knew Geoffrey often took Margaret to his bed. Poor girl. They were both suppressed under the pressure of the same hand. Why weren’t they friends?
“Margaret.” Gillian stopped her when the servant turned to leave. “Stay for a few moments, won’t you? We can—”
“I have more important duties to see to,” Margaret said, barely sparing her a glance. “Some of us do not have the pleasure of reading all day and doing little else.”
She left the room, slipping past George as she went. The captain watched her go and then turned to Gillian, who was drying off her son and trying to look unaffected by the servant’s rejection.
“I’m not permitted to do anything else,” she muttered.
“It’s safer that way,” her captain answered, entering the room.
Gillian closed her eyes, refusing to let loneliness grip her. “How does Lieutenant de Atre fare?” she asked, gathering her composure.
“I was in a merciful mood. He yet lives.”
“Spare me the details now, will you?” Gillian covered Edmund’s head with the drying cloth and rubbed his damp curls.
George took a seat at the table and frowned at her first, and then at the door. “Perhaps you can offer to teach Margaret to read.”
“Aye, perhaps,” Gillian said softly. She stopped drying Edmund, kissed his forehead, and reached for his fresh clothes, which were folded neatly on the bed. Another day almost gone. Another long night to come before it began all over again.
“Have you decided who will follow me about in your absence?” She prayed for him to say Colin Campbell. She knew it was foolish and dangerous, but Edmund so enjoyed his company… as did she. He broke up the day. His smiles, as brief and unwelcome as they were to Colin, made the moments here more bearable. Besides, she told herself, refusing to admit that she’d turned fool again and begun caring for a man, she still had things to learn from him for William.
“Yes, Mr. Lefevre. I will speak to him about it after supper.”
Gillian’s heart sank but she managed to smile at Edmund while she dressed him.
“You frown,” George noted, though she tried not to let him see. No sense in piquing his suspicions about her preferences, or why she had them. “Has he also made advances toward you that you haven’t told me about?”
“And what if he has? You still would not choose the man I prefer.” Good God, why couldn’t she control her own mouth?
“I did choose him,” George told her quietly. “He refused.”
Gillian’s comb paused in Edmund’s hair. He refused? Oh Lord, what kind of pathetic fool was she to allow herself the hope of… of what? Becoming more acquainted with a mercenary? To what purpose? He could do nothing to change her life, or Edmund’s. She didn’t expect him to change it. She only wanted—No, it didn’t matter. Mr. Campbell did this for Edmund’s sake. He didn’t want Geoffrey to harm her child because of his attention. She was happy that he was considerate enough to stay away. But a part of her feared that the Highlander didn’t favor her company. What man wanted to sit by a door while she read to her son, or sit on the rocks, waiting hours for a fish to bite? And why in blazes did she care so much if he favored her? She’d allowed her heart to rule her once before and look at where it had gotten her. She would forget him and keep her thoughts straight on things that mattered. Like keeping Edmund with her always… and always thanking God for George. She knew that the only way Mr. Campbell could refuse was if George had asked him. She smiled tenderly at her friend. He’d asked for her, putting aside his own misgivings for the sake of making her happy. It was nothing less than she would do for Edmund.
Save for one thing.
“Mr. Lefevre is as good a choice as any.” She plucked Edmund off the bed and set his feet on the floor. “Unless you allow him to refuse you, as well.”
George didn’t flinch at her mild jab, nor did he defend himself. He simply stepped around her and held open the door. “To the Great Hall then?”
She wanted to kick him on the way out.
The Great Hall was empty when the three of them entered
it. Gillian was thankful. She knew how the place sounded, how it smelled, when the garrison was in full attendance. Unfortunately, so did Edmund. Her cousin didn’t care if Edmund sat among them during the day. Geoffrey supped with the men only at night.
Her son had to hold his ears during a few of his morning or afternoon meals, when the men’s cups were heavy and their shouts to be heard over the clamor were too loud. He hadn’t complained though, and she guessed it was because a small part of him enjoyed the rowdiness. He was a boy, after all.
She released his hand when he pulled on hers to run to one of the tables. She smiled, watching him climb onto a hard, wooden chair, then turn in it to wait for her. As much as she hated eating in the Hall, her child liked it.
“Look, Mummy!” He pointed at something on the table as she sat next to him. “It’s Colin’s game! Want to play?”
She looked up at George, who was taking his seat across from her. “Perhaps Captain Gates will play with you.”
George blinked at her, and then flicked his gaze to Edmund, who was staring hopefully at him. “After we eat.” He turned to shout for Margaret over his shoulder.
Gillian should take pity on him; after all, it wasn’t entirely because of him that Edmund would have been happy to play Naughts and Crosses with de Atre if the man had ever asked. It was George’s duty to keep the men away from her. But it wasn’t Edmund’s fault at all, and she was tired of him suffering because of it. Why did they need Colin anyway when they had George? It was time he played with her son.
“We will need bread and cheese,” she reminded him when Margaret marched toward them waving her apron.
“The food is not yet ready. If you want it sooner”—the serving wench turned her simmering green eyes on Gillian—“the cooks said to tell you to complain to Lord Devon.”
“Just bring us some bread and cheese for now,” George’s voice dragged Margaret’s gaze back to him. “And remember that you speak to the daughter of an earl.”
Gillian watched her go, then turned to the captain. “She will likely rub something foul on our food now.”
He smiled, and then so did she, happy that he was her friend. “I don’t need protection from her, or do you think all those long, tedious days of you teaching me how to protect myself fell on a lackwit’s ears?”
