Gavin led her to his horse, a tall, prized destrier. He knelt by the side of the sleek black horse and held his hands out to her, palms up, as in supplication. It took her a moment to realize what he was doing. He wished to help her onto the horse, but putting her foot in a man’s hands to be tossed into a saddle, his saddle, seemed strangely intimate.
“Ye’d like to stay here, m’lady?” Gavin’s eyebrows raised as he knelt before her, his hands raised, waiting for her.
“No, no, not at all.” She could not sit in his saddle on his horse, could she? “What about the wagon? Could you not take me back in that?”
“I could if I had something to pull the wagon.”
“Your horse perhaps?” she suggested.
“Och, what are ye thinking, lass?” Gavin stood, aghast. He smoothed the nose of his impressive horse. “She dinna mean it,” he whispered to the beast. “Pay her no heed.”
Colette sighed. Just like people, horses were divided into different classes. A warhorse would never pull a cart any more than a packhorse would be ridden into battle. She supposed she should not have even asked.
His horse soothed, Gavin once again dropped to one knee before her. “He is still willing to let you ride, unless you would rather walk.”
“It is a kindly offer,” she murmured, but still she hesitated, as if she knew that this act would change things. It would be the first time they touched—the first time she ever touched a man not her own father. Even such a commonplace, remote touch as to put the sole of her boot in his hand was still contact. She gritted her teeth to gain better control of herself. She must be going soft in the head. Perhaps this laughter had loosened something that was supposed to be tight. Why was she thinking such nonsense? She stepped forward and put her foot into his hand.
He did nothing. He continued to kneel there, one eyebrow raised.
Heat slithered up the back of her neck, and she feared her cheeks revealed a telltale sign of pink. Why was he not helping her into the saddle? “Well? Were you going to help me?”
“Well, unless you would like to sit backward in the saddle, m’lady, I suggest ye put yer other foot in my hands.”
She really did blush then, much to her dismay. Drat that man. How could he be so unfeeling as to make her feel such embarrassment? “Yes, of course,” she said sharply, removing her foot and replacing it with her other. More concerned with her own embarrassment, she was caught unprepared as he tossed her up into the saddle, and she pitched precariously, almost falling off the other side.
He leaped up and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her toward him, righting her in the saddle as he stood beside her.
“Oh! I am fine, thank you. No need to—oh!”
Not content with simply settling her in the saddle, he swung up behind her, reaching around to grab the reins.
It was too much. She had never been this close to anyone in her life. Ever. She had never been held or cuddled, at least not that she could recall. And this was not just anyone; this was a wild, broad-shouldered, square-jawed Highlander. He did not belong in her world, nor she in his. And he certainly had no right to put his arms around her in a most intimate manner.
“Release me at once!” she cried, leaning forward to try to prevent herself from touching him. It was a pointless endeavor.
“It is not my intent to abduct you,” rumbled Gavin’s low voice from behind her. She could feel the vibration of his chest when he spoke. “Would you rather walk?”
“No…I…I thought you would.” He should be leading the horse, not mounted behind her. It was beyond anything she had ever experienced or even considered. It had never occurred to her that he would take such liberties.
He merely chuckled. “I warrant ye did think I’d be walking my own horse. Sorry to disappoint, but we have tarried too long. Yer abductors were fools, but there are others who winna be so easily thwarted. We will both be safer wi’ ye back wi’ yer people.”
She was about to command him to dismount when she realized two important things. First, they did need to be on their way out of the forest as quick as may be, and second, Sir Gavin was not under her command. She feared this man was not under anyone’s command but his own.
Without waiting for her to make a more articulate reply, he clicked and his large horse leaped into action, and before she could say anything, they were crashing through the forest at top speed. Out of a sheer desire to live through the day and not fall off the large beast, she stopped trying to lean away from him and nestled back between his arms.
They were touching, moving together with the fluid movements of the impressive mount. Heat exploded through her. She feared her body was burning with embarrassment and, even worse, desire.
Desire?
She gulped air. She had no right to be enjoying contact with this man. What was wrong with her? Perhaps she had hit her head harder than she thought?
“I fear I may be concussed,” she murmured, half hoping it to be the case to explain this strange reaction.
“What was that?” he asked, slowing to wind his way around several large trees.
“My head. I fear the bump has left me daft.”
“Ye’re injured?” he asked, a tinge of anxiety to his tone. “Why dinna ye tell me? Where are ye hurt?” He slowed to a stop and attempted to remove her headgear, which only succeeded in pulling her hair.
“Ow! Stop at once. I am fine. My ladies can attend me. If you please, you will not touch me.”
Gavin dropped his hands at once and nudged his mount to move again. “Aye, as ye wish.”
“It is not that I do not appreciate your assistance,” Colette felt compelled to add. “It is only that I am not accustomed to being so close to a man.”
“Understandable. Pretend I am one o’ yer maids.”
Gavin one of her maids? She doubted anyone had that much imagination. “Never have I been this close to them. Or anyone.” She tried not to allow her thighs to touch his, but with the movement of the horse, it was difficult. It was fortunate that, sitting behind her, he could not see the furious blush that seared across her face.
“This may hurt my male pride, but pretend I am naught but yer own dear mother.”
“Not even my mother ever held me this close,” admitted Colette.
“Truly? My mum was forever hugging me and kissing my cheeks. I thought all mothers were alike in this.”
“I was raised a little differently.” Colette shifted again, not sure if she was more uncomfortable with the seating arrangement or the topic. Despite the unusual emotions it evoked, she did not wish to stop. “As my father’s only child, there were expectations of how I was to appear and how I was to behave. Demonstrative displays of affection were not allowed. I believe I was intended to be more…decorative.”
Gavin said nothing for a few moments and his silence stretched out like a rebuke. What was she thinking to say such candid things to this man? “Ye are a verra bonnie lass, I’ll no’ deny it,” his deep voice reverberated through her. “But none o’ God’s children was put here to be merely ornamental.”
It was a blessing he could not see her face, for she feared her detached facade broke. Her jaw dropped and she may have even broke into a wide smile, tears springing to her eyes, before she could get herself under tighter control.
She was spared the difficulty of making a response by their sudden emergence into a wide field. Gavin urged the mount faster, and the horse broke into a run, forcing Colette to hold on to the saddle to prevent herself from falling off. Even as she clutched the pommel, she knew with Gavin’s two strong arms around her, he would not allow her to fall.
Suddenly, they pulled up short beside a gnarled tree on the other side of the field. To her surprise, Gavin jumped down from the horse and strode to the odd-shaped tree. He glanced northward toward the bluffs that looked down upon the valley field. “Nay, it canna be.”
“What cannot be?” asked Colette, genuinely confused and strangely missing the warmth of his physical presence.
“I must ask to take your leave for a moment,” he said in a gravelly voice, his eyes never leaving the high bluff above them. “I must climb to the top of this bluff and will return shortly.” His face revealed nothing of his thoughts, unusual for such a generally expressive man. If his face was shuttered, he must be hiding something.
“What is wrong, Sir Knight?”
His eyes met hers. “I have found my father.”
Eight
This was it. This must be the place Chaumont described. The place he had been looking for these many long years. The gnarled tree, the wide field, the bluffs beyond—it must be the place.
“Your father?” Lady Marie Colette looked around, confused.
He did not have the words to explain. “Wait here,” Gavin demanded tersely. This was something he needed to do alone.
“But we must return to my people. You yourself said it was most urgent.”
Gavin stifled a groan. He supposed she was right. “Aye, but this is something I must do. Ye best follow me, for I canna leave ye here in the open.”
“Wait! We must return at once!” Marie Colette’s frown did nothing to diminish her beauty. She was a siren, no matter how much her fine eyebrows scrunched together in annoyance.
“I must do this.” He met her gaze, hoping to convey all he could not say. It was unfortunate timing, but he had searched for this place for years. It was his quest, his reason for remaining so long in France. He could not even think of leaving.
Without another word, he turned and ran up a steep path that led to the top of the bluff. Behind him, the muted clops of his mount on the hillside told him Marie Colette was following. He should have been irritated that at this most personal moment of the end of his quest he was not able to be alone, yet he was strangely comforted by her presence.
At the top of the steep embankment, he paused to catch his breath, gazing out over the lush, green valley below. It was exactly as Chaumont had described. Could it truly be the place?
His heart beat pounded in anticipation. He turned and caught Marie Colette’s eye. He expected her to be furious with him for delaying them, but instead her eyes showed only confusion and concern.
He turned away. He must attend to his search. Tall grass covered the bluff, swaying in a rhythmic pattern with the gentle breeze. He strode through the overgrowth, the cool fingers of the blades of grass brushing his bare legs. He pushed the grasses aside, searching for the spot. It had been many years; it would surely be overgrown. Or maybe this was not the place at all.
“For what do you search?” Marie Colette asked. It was a fair question, but one he could not yet answer.
He hastened his search. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps this was not the place. He waded through the tall grass until his boot hit something hard. He bent down and found a large rock. Brushing aside the grasses, he found a pile of large rocks.
Was this it? Had he found it at last? He began to furiously pull out the grasses and weeds that had grown around and among the stones.
“What have you found?” asked the lady, still mounted behind him.
He continued to pull away the grasses until he came to it. The hilt of a dagger stuck deep into the top of the rock mound, just as Chaumont had said, the dagger becoming the cross for burial. He took a deep breath. His quest was complete.
“My father.” His voice cracked and he could say no more. At last, he had found his father’s grave.
With a swish of her skirts, he heard her dismount. To his surprise, Lady Marie Colette, daughter of the duc de Bergerac, knelt beside him and began to help pull out the weeds.
“Ye’ll ruin yer gown and yer gloves,” he said, taken aback that she would lower herself to conduct such labor.
“No matter. They are already ruined,” she said in a logical tone.
They worked together, side by side, he acutely aware of her presence. She did an admirable job, though he would wager she had never condescended to do anything as menial as weeding before. When they were done, a pile of large stones had been revealed, capped with the dagger thrust down between them. His father’s dagger.
Gavin stood and returned to his saddlebag, pulling out the small marble slab wrapped in linen he had carried many a year since coming to France. He walked back and placed the plaque on the stone gravesite, arranging the stones to hold his marker secure.
Sir James Patrick
1317–1346
He knelt and prayed before the gravesite of his father, something he had wished to do for a long time. He placed his hand over his heart and felt his father’s ring hanging there beneath his shirt. Rest in peace, my father.
Marie Colette slipped a hand into her kirtle and produced a small book, which must have been kept in her purse tied under her skirts, as was common for ladies. “Would this be of service to you?” She held out a Book of Hours.
“Aye, it would. I thank ye.” She was being exceptionally kind. He did not know what to make of it. He brushed the confusing thoughts aside, focusing on the prayer book. He turned to the page for the Office of the Dead and prayed silently for his father’s soul, along with thanks for being allowed to find his resting place.
Lady Marie Colette sat serenely beside the grave marker, her legs tucked neatly beneath her skirts. When he crossed himself, she did as well. He appreciated her understanding and her willingness to wait patiently for him. He had thought her haughty and arrogant and rather spoiled. The understanding lady beside him was none of those things.
He handed the prayer book back to Marie Colette. “Thank ye for yer help.” He wanted to say more but had not the words to express it.
“It is nothing. This is the grave of your father, yes?”
“Aye. I have searched for the gravesite of my father since I have been in France. After three years of failure, I had given up my quest. I gives me great peace to ken that my father’s place o’ rest is no longer unmarked.”
A fine eyebrow raised. “I am glad the place is found to you. But how did your father come to be buried here?” Her eyes were a bright green, filled with compassion. A man would do much for such eyes.
“My father and my uncle, Laird MacLaren, traveled to France when I was but a lad to help France fight against the English who sought to claim their land. They were successful in their efforts and both were knighted for bravery on the field of battle.”
Gavin pointed to the date on the stone of his father’s death. “On this day, in the field below, my father fell in battle. He was buried in haste, for MacLaren soon discovered that they had been betrayed to the English. My father had died in vain. MacLaren and Chaumont found themselves surrounded by enemies, and they were forced to leave the country at once. There was no time to place a proper monument. That honor was left to me.”
“I am sorry for your loss and the betrayal of your father.” Marie Colette’s eyes were softer than he had ever seen them. “Who is this Chaumont of whom you speak?”
“Sir Chaumont is a French knight who befriended MacLaren and my father. When MacLaren returned to Scotland, he came too. When he met my mother, he stayed.” Gavin could not help a small smile at the thought. He had been a young lad when he first met his stepfather, and he had admired Chaumont from the start.
“So Sir Chaumont married your mother?”
“Aye. They were wed and Chaumont has acted as a good father to me. Yet as I grew, I wished to better know my sire. He left when I was but a wee lad, so I have but poor memories o’ him. It is a weight off my soul to know I have paid my respects to my father.”
Marie Colette lifted her hand as if to place it on his shoulder before thinking better of it and awkwardly placing it back in her lap. “This morn, before the sun rose, I visited my mother’s grave and placed flowers for the las
t time.”
“Your mother has also passed?” Gavin asked. He supposed he could have discerned it, since he had not met her mother. He realized how little he actually knew of the lady before him.
“Yes, it was many years ago now. The great plague passed through the land and so many of our people died. She was told to stop providing sustenance for the poor, but she said it was her duty and would not shirk it. She was struck down so fast. I remember being told one night that she was ill, and by sunrise she was gone.”
“I am sorry for yer loss as well.” He wanted to reach out to her but knew not how. The more she shared, the more he realized his assumptions about her had been wrong.
“I was but ten years old when she died.” Colette looked down and smoothed her skirts. The spring wind played with the grasses and rustled the bright green leaves. “We shall never stand beside them again,” she added softly.
“We shall, in the end times,” said Gavin with confidence.
“Oui. This is the teaching of the Church. I know it”—she pointed to her head—“but sometimes it is difficult to know it.” She pointed to her heart.
“Through faith there is hope, and without hope, life would be unbearable.” He spoke with conviction. He had seen fellow soldiers try to live without hope, poor miserable sods.
“Hope can be difficult when the path before you is so uncertain.” She turned her head to the wind, a deep sorrow in her green eyes.
He felt for her. She had a difficult journey before her into an unknown land. He struggled to find some words of comfort to give to her. “When our path is rocky, it is even more important to hold on to faith, to hope.”
She nodded but said nothing. He could tell his admonition had not helped and felt compelled to try again.
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