Perhaps she shouldn’t be so surprised. Her nemesis was, after all, the worst kind of man.
An Englishman.
“My kind,” he said, his voice not as light as it had been earlier. “And what kind is that, my lady?”
“The kind that would steal from the most holy of persons, put a knife to an innocent maiden’s throat and—”
“Innocent? Maiden?” He laughed again, and this time Marion nearly gave in to her urge to kick him.
“You are despicable.”
Instead of responding, Court smiled. A lazy, half smile that said he didn’t believe her. And with that, he turned and walked away.
After a few moments, she realized he wasn’t coming back. Using the time to see to her needs, Marion continued on toward the water, where she washed herself as best she could before returning to their makeshift camp. It consisted of nothing more than a small clearing and, after she pulled it down from his saddlebag, a bedroll.
Court returned shortly after she’d begun to gather sticks into a pile for a fire. He tossed his own logs on top and proceeded to gut the hare he’d caught. Marion made a sound of disgust and turned her back.
“You prefer just to eat it then. No interest in how your meal is prepared?”
She crossed her arms and remained silent. Staring off into the darkness, she listened to his movements behind her. Just as she’d done many times before, usually when someone teased her about her “abilities,” Marion contemplated how to get out of the situation with her dignity intact. She’d only turned around because she could not tolerate the sight of blood, whether it be from a hare or a man. But now she refused to look at him because he expected her to. And because she’d not admit that flaw to him.
And she’d called him stubborn.
“Do you plan to starve, my lady?” he mocked.
Given a cue, Marion did turn then. And gasped.
Court leaned over a fire roasting their meal. He’d removed his surcoat and chain mail. Clad in only a long linen shirt, the neckline open, and woolen hose, he looked dangerous . . . and delicious. With such a wide chest and thick arms, the Englishman could no doubt crush a man’s skull with his hands, and then carry a maiden to his tent.
“See something you like?”
Court certainly did.
He’d had no intention of making camp this early, but every time Marion shifted, her backside brushing against him, he became more and more uncomfortable.
“Aye,” she said. “Dinner.”
He really should leave it at that, but something about Marion made him want to misbehave.
Walking toward the fire, she placed her hands over the flames and rubbed them together. The warm summer days often, like this one, turned into much cooler nights.
“Mmm,” he murmured, her murderous glare warning him away.
At least, it would have warned off a more cautious man. Court ripped off a piece of meat and handed it to Marion as she lowered herself onto the makeshift seat he’d provided. He watched as she opened her mouth and brought it down on the roasted rabbit.
“Is it safe to have a fire?” she asked.
He concentrated on the flames rather than the redheaded beauty who was likely contemplating how to kill him in his sleep. “As safe as it can be in the borderlands.”
Which meant it was not safe at all. But if they were discovered, it would not be the fire that gave them away. The little-used road would not hide their tracks, ensuring he would have a mostly sleepless night.
“So where is it?”
Court wasn’t foolish enough to look down at his waist, the pocket he’d sewn into his hose to keep the stone safe. Instead, he continued to gaze into the fire. The sound of crickets was the only accompaniment to the crackling of the wood.
“Why did it call to me if I was not meant to take it?” he asked between bites, aware she would not answer him.
Marion licked her fingers. God . . . why had he looked at just that moment? “Tell me who you plan to attack and when, and I will tell you what I know of the stone.”
Court pressed his lips together. He tore off another piece of meat and handed it to her. When their fingers touched, she pulled away as if she’d been burned.
A smart lass.
“I cannot give you details, but if you tell me why I was called to that place, I promise to tell you something.”
When she peeked up at him, light from the fire dancing across her face, Court’s sight fluttered and he had his first vision of his companion. No longer haughty, the earl’s daughter was replaced with a passionate woman, lips parted and eyes hooded.
“What is it?”
He closed his eyes and waited for it to pass.
“Court?”
“A vision,” he murmured, opening his eyes.
“You had a vision? Of what?”
If he dared to put to words what he’d just seen, his Scottish maiden would suffer quite a shock. Instead, he offered what he knew. Which was not much.
“I’ve had them my whole life,” he admitted. “Sometimes years pass between them. But since the stone’s pull began, I have them much more often.”
“What do you envision?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. The person in front of me. But different. They seem to give me some sort of insight.”
“What did you see when you looked at me?”
He didn’t wish to lie to her, but he was even less eager to answer her question.
“The guard. The one with the priestess,” he offered instead. “I saw him as a young boy, scared and alone.”
Thankfully, she didn’t continue to question him.
Placing a piece of meat daintily inside her mouth, she looked every bit the lady—her log a throne and the trees her lady’s maids. He smiled as he watched her finish eating.
“These visions,” she began, “are your special ability.”
“My—”
“Special ability,” she repeated. “Though I’m unsure exactly what it means. Mine is much simpler.”
He shook his head, not understanding.
“Did no one ever explain your gift to you?”
“Gift?” He laughed. “Curse, you mean?”
She sighed. “Aye, that too.”
“Nay,” he said, standing. As he made his way to the saddlebag, he continued, “My mother died in childbirth. My father followed her not many years later. No one knew of my gift. Until now. If they had gifts of their own, I never knew it.”
He pulled the leather waterskin from the bag and walked back to the fire.
“I fostered with Richard Caiser, Earl of—”
“Kenshire.”
He wasn’t surprised Marion knew of him. Though Richard had died more than two years earlier, passing the earldom to his daughter and her husband, all in the borderlands knew of the man. Some said he’d been more powerful, and certainly more beloved, than the King of England.
“Aye. He knighted me. Entrusted Camburg to me. And said nothing of my gift or ability or however you speak of it. Although I doubt he, or anyone I know, would believe such a thing.”
The corners of Marion’s mouth lifted in a small smile. Sympathy? Surely not. Well, he’d promised her information, and information he would give. Some.
“On a recent trip to London, Edmund of Almain ordered me to take . . .” He hesitated. “A keep.” Moordon Castle had at one time merely been a keep. So this was not truly a lie.
“In Scotland?” she correctly guessed.
He nodded.
“Is this . . . Edmund of Almain one of the king’s regents, then? Why would he order such a thing? Why now?”
Court had asked the man that very question. Though it was true these lands had become unstable recently, the border lines had been drawn more than thirty years earlier. The English and Scottish Wardens held monthly Days of Truce to ensure peace continued to reign between the two nations. And yet Edmund had told him it was an edict from the king himself—that Moordon would provide the foothold they need
ed in the event war broke out.
“He is one of Edward’s regents,” he answered. “While Edward continues his crusade abroad, he left his duties to two men. Any one regent would have gained too much personal power. But Edmund, along with—”
“Robert Burnell, the king’s chancellor. I know some of your English politics.”
He was impressed. “Aye. And as to your question of ‘why now?’ I do not ask, but simply follow my king’s orders.” For an order from the regent was the same as an order from the king himself.
That Edmund had promised him the very thing he’d always wanted, a title and land of his own, Court kept to himself. Halbury Castle was not nearly as grand as Camburg, but it would be his own.
Marion fell silent. He handed her the waterskin, and she took it. She drank deeply, her elegant neck stretched back, and then returned it to him. A lone drop of water had escaped onto her bare chest.
Don’t look.
“Before meeting the priestess,” Marion said finally, her tone serious, “I had no way of knowing what was true and what was legend. Growing up, the healer in my mother’s village told tales of the Ladies of the Stone, women chosen throughout time to protect the stone, a symbol of Scotland herself. It was said that our lands would remain safe so long as the guardian kept the stone safe. From the priestess, I learned that if the stone fell into the hands of . . .” She looked at him with the same malice that had been directed at him earlier that day. “. . . you . . .”
His eyes narrowed.
“. . . Scotland would be in danger. For each guardian, there is a nemesis—someone who is called to take the stone. To use it against Scotland. When the protector and her nemesis die, the stone finds its way back to the pools to be guarded by the priestess until it can be claimed once again.”
“And you are that guardian?” Her tale was too fantastical to be believed. If it weren’t for—
“I am.”
She said it so confidently that Court froze. Her eyes held his own, never wavering.
“How could you possibly—”
“When I first told my mother of my ability to sense danger, she did not believe me, of course. It was only after many years of warnings that she and my father finally understood. And then, of course, there was the mark.”
His skin tingled. “The mark?”
So it was true. Everything she told him, as much as it sounded like a jester’s tale of fancy, was true.
“Do you have it?”
This time he looked down to where the strange mark had appeared just a fortnight ago. His clothes hid it from sight, but he could almost feel it burning his flesh.
“I have one as well,” she said, pointing to her right hip.
Court groaned inwardly, imagining—
“Where is yours?”
He almost asked if she’d like to see it. But Court caught himself before he let the impropriety slip. Instead, he pointed to the exact same spot, but on his left hip. His mind reeled with revelations. The first thing he would do once back in Camburg was to seek out the advice of the elders. Surely there must be an English legend similar to her Scottish one. In her version, she was the protector, he the enemy. But perhaps his people had their own version of the tale.
“So you know now why you were called to the stone.” She smiled sweetly. “Now you know why it is mine. I’d like it back.”
4
Though Court never looked down, his hand moved toward his side protectively. By all the saints, how could she steal it back if he kept it there? Her first failed escape attempt had not gone well, but this time Marion had to get it right. Once at Camburg, the stone would be lost to her forever.
“I cannot give it to you.”
She’d expected him to say as much.
“But don’t you see—”
“I see only what you tell me, Marion. Your version of the legend.”
A shiver ran down her arms. Her name had never sounded so . . .
“It will aid my cause,” he blurted out. Court tossed the bones of his meal into the fire. He looked at her, as if awaiting confirmation. The revelation seemed to surprise him even as he said it.
She’d said too much. Belatedly, Marion realized if Court had not known of the stone’s importance, he may have been more inclined to give it to her. “Think first, speak later,” her tutor had often said.
So much for that lesson.
“If your cause is to start a war along the border,” she said, preparing to stand, “then, aye. The stone may prove useful.”
“Sit,” he asked. Only the softness of his tone stayed her. “We are at an impasse, it seems. But can we not put aside our differences—”
“Differences?” She shook her head, astounded. “We are enemies, Court. You aim to hurt my people—”
“Who refuse the call for peace. The border has become unstable—you know it as well as I do. Those who remember how it was before the Days of Truce say it will only get worse. Blackmail, increasing raids—”
“On both sides,” she spat back.
“It would be foolish not to prepare for the worst.”
She disagreed. “Surely you don’t ask me to condone an attack against my own country?”
“Surely you don’t ask me to disobey orders from my king?”
Marion opened her mouth and then closed it again.
What would I do in his position?
They glared at one another, Marion wanting nothing more than to reach over, grab the stone, and get away from here.
Away from him.
Not true.
She pushed away the thought, stood, and marched over to the bedroll. A thin linen blanket and makeshift pillow made from grass and leaves were to be her only protection for the night. Trying to ignore the sound of her companion moving around camp, Marion closed her eyes and breathed deeply, taking in the smell of moss and . . .
Court?
He lay behind her, pushing her over and nearly off the bedroll. Without turning, she asked, “What are you doing?”
He shifted against her, pulling the blanket over his body. It was just large enough to cover them both, but . . . did he really think to sleep this way?
“Attempting to get some rest,” his deep voice answered.
“Surely not like this?” She shoved him with her backside, attempting to regain some of the space she’d lost when he lay down.
“Surely not,” he answered.
Marion turned from her side to her back in order to see him. With two hands propped behind his head—at least he’d given her the pillow—he appeared quite comfortable. A man who would steal the stone, attack her country, and cause Marion to fail at her purpose in life . . . and she was drawn to him like a starving man would eye a banquet. A dangerous, virile, and attractive man. “This is not . . . proper.”
He turned his head slowly, raising his eyebrows at her. “You are really concerned about propriety? After all that has happened today?”
“And they call us barbarians.”
“Who does?”
Was he serious?
“You. The English.”
Court turned onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “Have you met an Englishman before?”
“Of course.” And that was the truth.
“And he dared to call you a barbarian?”
She thought about the question for a moment. “No, but—”
“I do not think that.”
She tried to slow her rapidly beating heart by willing it so, but instead it did just the opposite.
“You don’t?” she managed.
“No,” he said, looking at her lips.
Was he going to kiss her?
“I think you are extraordinary.”
It was so unexpected, Marion simply stared at him. What did she say to such a thing? That she felt the same way? That her traitorous body seemed to forget this man had stolen her destiny from her?
Foolish chit, he only thinks you’re extraordinary in the way everyone else does. How
could she have forgotten?
“Because of my gift,” she said softly.
He didn’t answer at first.
Finally, he asked, “You sense danger?”
“Of sorts.” She pulled the blanket over her chest. It was getting colder with each passing moment. “I sense when someone means harm.”
His jaw shifted, the slight tick a sign that he was annoyed, or perhaps anxious?
“What is it?” she asked. Court’s eyes darkened. Something had upset him.
“And that is what you sense from me?” he finally asked.
She really should lie. The more information she gave him, the more power Court would have over her. “No.”
They were so close that Marion could feel the rise and fall of the blanket as he breathed.
Too close.
Her answer seemed to startle him.
“Why?”
Marion wished she knew. “Mayhap it does not work on you?”
“But I saw a vision of you earlier. I saw—” He cut himself off. This time, there was no mistaking his expression. So he’d not been truthful. But he clearly didn’t wish to voice the reason for his lie.
“You said your last vision was of the guard . . . Never mind,” she blurted. “’Tis not important. We really should—”
“I saw your eyes hooded and lips parted, as if you’d just been thoroughly kissed.”
She accidentally looked at his lips then. They were so . . . full.
“I saw the passion in you, Marion.”
Oh God . . . the priestess . . . anyone. Please help me.
“But you don’t know why? Or what that means?”
He shrugged, and though it appeared a casual gesture, Marion could tell it bothered him, not to understand.
Court turned from her then, muttering something about sleep.
She did the same, turning so their backsides were touching. But she would not think of that. She’d not think of where and how they touched.
No, she would not think of it at all. Certainly she would not try to imagine what his buttocks would look like—
Stop!
Marion closed her eyes against the vision, but it stubbornly refused to go away.
Court could not tell if she slept or not. Even if he hadn’t been intent on keeping watch, he never would have been able to sleep with her so close to him.
The Protector's Promise (Border Series Book 7) Page 3
