by King, Susan
"I told him," William went on, "that I am tormented for love of his daughter, and that I am saved. That I am a stronger man now, for knowing her, than I was before." His gaze locked with hers, steady and bright, even in the shadows. "She is part of me, and I am part of her. She is the fire inside my soul, and I hope that I am the fire in hers. I know that I flare her temper, at least," he added in a dry tone.
"You told him all that?" she whispered.
"Not all," he murmured. "Some of that is only for you to hear."
Again that surge of the heart, as if her soul stretched out, yearning to touch him. She wanted to throw herself across the space between them and sink into his arms. But she only tilted her head and looked at him, cool and calm. "Do you mean this?"
"Tamsin," he said, and sighed, looking down, brushing a hand over the linen quilted coverlet. "You humble me. You push me. You fill me, and now you've shattered me with that cursed jug. I've lost your trust, and I dinna know how to gain it back."
"There is only one way," she said. "With truth."
"All that I have ever told you, or will ever tell you, is the truth. I have never lied to you. I never will."
"I knew naught of Jean, or Musgrave, or this awful plot—"
"You didna ask. I would have told you."
"And Musgrave, and the plot?"
He looked at her steadily. "I promised the queen dowager that I would do secret work for her, in the interest of Queen Mary. I wasna free to tell you, or your father, why I appeared to be Musgrave's comrade in his scheme. I knew what you thought, but I couldna correct it then. What Archie heard from Arthur Musgrave is exactly what the Musgraves believe of me. What I want them to believe."
"You have been acting as a spy for the court?" she asked.
"Madame the Queen Dowager wants to know what threat King Henry poses for her daughter. I hoped to thwart the English plan, once Musgrave revealed his next move."
"But my father has stopped Musgrave," she said.
He shook his head. "Musgrave has outwitted us. He has sent some others to do the task, while Archie was collecting his list, and while I kept you for a pledge and awaited a meeting. I was mistaken. I should have gone to him earlier. I should have—" He fisted a hand, thumped it on the bed in frustration. "There is little time, now, perhaps none at all. I must leave soon and try to discover this, try to stop it. But I couldna go," he said, and looked at her intently, "without telling you this. Without seeing you. That is a weakness of mine, I think. That I must have your trust. Your faith. Your love," he murmured.
She stared at him, her heart beating, her emotions racing. Her left hand rested on the quilt, and William reached out to curl his hand over hers, caressing her thumb with his, sending shivers through her. She wanted more, but stilled the wildness that urged her toward him. She had to be sure.
"Musgrave means to abduct the wee queen," she said calmly. "And you have never been part of that?"
"Do you truly think that I would do such a deed?"
"I... didna want to believe it. But the others said—"
"Believe anything you wish of me, but dinna think I would let harm come to a child. Or to my queen."
"Oh, Will," she whispered. "Pray pardon—" Her voice caught. "I was wrong to assume, just because others insisted. I panicked. I was torn between my father and kinsmen, and you. They confused me—told me things about you—"
"Just trust me," he said fiercely. His hand gripped hers hard. "I would never allow harm to come to Mary Stewart. And I didna seduce Jean," he said firmly.
She paused, knowing that her faith would only be full in him again when she knew the whole of that. "When I heard the ballad, I felt as if perhaps I didna know you, as I thought I did."
He sighed, let go of her hand. She sat back, watching him. "That song is no harbinger of truth," he said.
"The ballads can tell stories of what goes on at court, and in the Borders, and within clans," she said. "I have heard them all my life. I know they are often true."
"Some are quite true, aye," he said. "And some are naught but gossip. The one about Jean and myself is mostly rumor. Few know the truth of it."
"Tell me," she said quietly.
He drew a foot up to the mattress, rested his arm on his knee. "You know I was taken from my family, the day my father was hanged. Malise Hamilton took me away. For years, he and the earl of Angus watched over me like hawks, their prize prisoner, the pledge that bought obedience from some of the fiercest Bordermen, the riding name of Scott."
"Aye," she said. "I knew some of that."
"I hated Malise," he said bluntly. "I resented him as a lad. When I became a man, I ignored his power, and gained my own place in King James's court. And I didna shy from troubling him then. He had a daughter," he added. "I met her only a couple of years ago. She was... breathtaking. Beautiful, sure of herself, full of laughter. She became one of Madame's ladies. A court poet said Fair Jeanie Hamilton was a red rose among pale lilies."
Tamsin curled into herself, hearing that. "And so you fell in love with her," she said.
"I had loved other women, but I didna know then what love truly was," he said. "But Jeanie took my heart like a thief. And she made me laugh. Ironic, I think, that the daughter of my enemy showed me how to laugh again."
"She must have been lovely," Tamsin murmured. She felt very unlovely, herself, in that moment. "And she must have loved you very much—the bonny laird."
"She once said that she made it her cause to vanquish the bonny laird. And she did. I played the fool for a petty queen, and I didna see it. We trysted often. She craved jests and laughter, wine and merriment... and she craved bonny lairds, apparently."
Tamsin resisted a rush of jealousy. She lowered her head and sat in the dark, and thought of that beautiful young woman. She felt too aware, then, of her small, strange hand, her sagging braids, her ragged shirt.
A poor half gypsy could not compare to a fine lady, she thought, but that bedraggled gypsy loved the bonny laird more than anyone ever could. The thought gave her some courage. She raised her head and looked at him.
"I should have had more sense," he said. "I blame myself."
"She was part of it too," Tamsin said. "And she was beautiful, perfect. You loved her."
"I lusted for her," he said quietly. "I didna love her."
She tipped her head in wonder. "You didna love her?"
"I thought, at first, that I did. I even thought about wedding her, and risking her father for a good-father. But I soon saw that she lacked devotion and loyalty. She wanted laughter and dancing, gambling, heady sensations. She would never have been a faithful wife. She didna love me, but she desired me, as I did her. We were lovers, but I wasna her first. Nor was I her only lover, as I found out."
Tamsin stared, shocked. "Is Katharine... your daughter?"
"Jean said so. And when I look at the child... aye, she is mine. I know it."
"You didna marry her when you learned she was with child?"
"She never told me," he said. "I was away, on a mission to Flanders, gone for months. We had parted, for I had discovered that there had been others. When I returned to Scotland, she had left court in fear of disgrace. She went to her father's castle. By the time I learned of the child, 'twas too late."
"Too late?"
"Her father kept her confined, but she hadna been well, so she didna protest. When she told him who the father was and asked him to summon me, Malise grew furious. So she escaped in the black of night, near eight months gone with child, and rode to Rookhope with hopes of marriage."
"'Twas a foolish thing to do," Tamsin murmured.
"She was a foolish lass, in some ways. By the time she came to our gate, she was already laboring. My mother and sister delivered Katharine, a hard birth." He shoved a hand through his hair. "I sent for a priest. But Jeanie died before he arrived. She lost her lifeblood," he added. "She didna deserve that."
Tamsin sighed, sat forward, reached across the gap between them. She touc
hed his arm, rigid muscle beneath the linen of his shirt. "Dear God, Will."
"'Tis why I have Katharine, and Malise doesna," he said. "She was born in my house, my own daughter. I allow him to visit her, though it bothers my mother to see him. I willna deprive him of Katharine, or her of a grandsire. He does love her, I think. But she will stay in my safekeeping," he added fiercely.
"And the ballad?" she asked. "How did it come about?"
He shrugged. "Who can say? Some clever poet—the court is full of them—who knew us, who heard the rumors that I used her to hurt her father, but who never heard the truth. People love that sort of tale."
"And you have lived with the rumors all this time?"
"I canna stop them. I wouldna try."
"Surely you want the rumors to end, so you can gain back your reputation."
"I would rather mine be ruined than Jean's," he said. "She was well loved at court. Let them think the bonny laird disgraced her. I willna spoil her memory with the truth."
"Ah, Will," she said. "I think you did love her."
"I am grateful to her." His voice thickened suddenly. "She gave me Katharine."
Tamsin felt her own throat tighten, felt tears prick her eyes. She nodded, unable to speak, filled with sympathy, with a love that was so strong, now, that she could neither suppress nor withhold it, and never would again. She uttered a small sob and held out her hands to him.
William reached out and pulled her into the circle of his arms, while the rain sheeted outside, and a roar of thunder rolled past the window. But in the midst of that torrent, Tamsin was where she wanted to be, needed most to be, at last.
Chapter 27
"O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa'
And I mysell a drap of dew
Down on that red rose, I would fa'."
—"O Gin My Love Were Yon Red Rose"
She felt like paradise in his arms, sanction for his sins, a warm, graceful pledge of forgiveness. He had longed for this, for her, and thought he had lost it forever among the spilled wine and clay shards in the great hall. Gratitude, relief, and a flooding of love, pure and real, swept through him. He wrapped her in his arms, dipped his head, and sought her mouth, kissing her until they were both breathless with wanting. He drew back and framed her face in his hands, their breaths in tandem.
"Tamsin," he said, his voice husky. "I canna repair that broken jug. 'Tis beyond hope, that. But let me try to piece back together"—he lingered kisses over her brow, her eyelids, her mouth again—"your heart, and mine."
She sobbed in answer, and looped her arms around his neck, bringing his head down to hers. She melted into him, the curves of her body fitted to his where she draped over his lap, and leaned into his chest. He lost himself in the comfort of her kisses, while hands soothed and sought, and all he did, she did, stoked the fire that blazed sure and hot within him.
He wanted far more than comfort or benison now, the need so strong that his body ached and pulsed for her. He exhaled, and took her arms to put her away from him a little, both seated on the bed, heads leaned in together.
"Tamsin," he said. "I willna stop, given another moment of this with you."
"Dinna stop," she breathed out. "Please. Unless... you still want to beware lust?"
He sighed, caressed her back. "I wouldna beware anything with you... but the occasional jug." She huffed a laugh, and leaned against him.
"I need to leave soon for Linlithgow Palace," he said. "Musgrave sent his agents out after the queen, before Archie caught him. I dinna know who Jasper has sent or what he's done. Pray God I can find out from him and get there in time."
"Listen to the storm," she said. "There will be no one riding out tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough."
"And what if tomorrow is too late?" he murmured.
"Ah, then, I willna interfere with what you must do." She sat up and put her hands on her tangle of braids, and the beads that sparkled in the low light. She tugged, wincing, a gesture of stubbornness with a hint of dismissal.
William sighed, watching her. He lifted his hands to her hair and silently took over the task from her. She bowed her head a little, dropping her hands into her lap as she sat cross-legged in front of him, the coverlet spilled across her legs.
"You dinna need to help me," she said. "I will manage."
"I know," he said. "'Twillna take long, this."
"Go, if you must. 'Tis one lesson you have taught me, Will Scott," she said, her head bowed, the words hushed.
"And what," he asked, drawing a length of beads out of her hair, feeling another braid give way, slipping like heavy silk over his hand, "is that lesson?"
"Lust willna wait," she said. "But love is patient, and keeps its fire forever."
"Oh, God," he whispered, closing his eyes, bowing his head. His heart slammed within him, his soul felt as if it stirred, awoke. He drifted a rich kiss over her mouth, and went back to his task.
With calm hands, he unraveled another braid, spilled a handful of beads onto the quilt, clicking in the darkness. Tamsin sat serenely while he sifted his fingers through her hair, loosening it, freeing the curls, combing his fingers through the thick, glossy, silken masses as they escaped their confines.
He did not know how he kept at the task, when his body surged and his heart pounded. But somehow what he did was a prelude of what he wanted with her, for her. With patience and caring, he knew he could set her free along with the braids. He wanted her loose from the limits she had placed on herself, so long ago, with her conviction that she was undesirable, less than perfect. When she came into his arms, he wanted her to feel beautiful and cherished.
He left a slow trail of kisses at the side of her neck. Then he unwound a long strand of shimmering beads, coiled around a thick skein of hair. "Females are far better architects than anyone credits them," he remarked. He threaded out some single beads and loosened a coronet of braids.
She laughed, a sultry sound that shivered through him.
"You, my lass," he said, as he pulled out the last few ivory pins and tossed them away, so that the whole of her hair spilled down in a dark, thick curtain, "are beautiful."
"Oh, aye, a half gypsy who canna even do her hair or dress proper," she said. But her voice was light, and without the accusation and bitterness he had heard there at other times. She closed her eyes and moaned low in her throat as he winnowed his fingers through her hair. His body pulsed. He made himself wait. He would wait forever for this woman, he thought.
"You dinna need to wrap yourself in damask and beads, or busks and hoops. Not for me. Though you look bonny in such gear," he murmured, and rubbed her temples until she shivered, moaned again.
He took a handful of loosened tresses, fragrant with roses and rain and woman, and wound his fingers in it. He tugged until her head tilted back. Her eyes were closed. He set his lips to the soft creases that ringed her long, arched throat.
"Mmm," she breathed. "But I want to wear such gear. I like it. For myself, see you."
"Ah, then do so," he said, laying her back gently on the bed. His body throbbed with need. "But that gear will come off when we are in our chamber, my love," he whispered, his hands slipping over her shirt, grazing the firm swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her abdomen, the long, lean curve of her thigh. "I know how to undo whatever you've done."
She smiled and lifted her arms and pulled him down for a slow kiss, opening to him as he licked the contour of her lips and delved inside. Passion washed through him like new wine, raising his heartbeat to match the drum of the downpour outside. He pulled her closer, rolling with her, sinking down into the featherbed and the pillows.
She worked her fingers at the ties that closed his shirt at the neck. "I am not so skilled at that as you," she said, tugged, and drew the shirt off of him. He tossed it away and took her into his arms, warm against his bare skin. Her fingers fell to his waist, pulled the drawstring there. "But I know how to free you when I want too."
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Her hand slipped over serge, taking him by surprise, cupping the rigid part of him so that he filled and swelled under her brief touch. He groaned, took her wrists in his hands to pin her gently, resting on one knee to gaze at her through the shadows.
"Bold lass," he said, kissing her ear. She writhed a little, and he thought he would burst, having hardly begun to love her. He kissed her mouth, drawing away so that she arched toward him, eyes closed, waiting. He slid her shirt away, revealing the supple length of her body, gleaming and splendid.
Too late, he thought, to respect chastity until they were wed properly. Far too late, for he was lost, burning now to meld his body to hers. He sank down to kiss her lips, trailing his mouth over her throat, down over her breasts, perfectly globed, peaked and waiting. He tasted her there, savored her, and she moaned softly.
She swept her left hand over his hair, along the curve of his jaw, let it roam the planes of his shoulders and chest. Her touch was warm, gentle, timid. He knew, from her earlier boldness, that her shyness was due to the hand itself, and not due to how she felt toward him.
Reaching out, he captured her left hand in his and laid his lips to her palm. She seemed to go still in his arms. He kissed her hand again, and put it to his cheek, and looked at her through the shadows. The ruby light showed the glint of a tear slipping down her cheek. He kissed it away and smoothed back her hair.
"You are perfect," he whispered. "Dinna ever think otherwise. I see no flaws in you, only what is fine about you."
She gasped and pulled him to her, wrapping her leg over his, gliding her torso along his until he thought he might go mad with wanting her. "No flaws?" she asked, leaving kisses along his jaw, finding his mouth while she spoke.
"Only a temper," he breathed out, skimming his hand down her body. He found the soft place between her legs, dipped inside, where her inner folds were slick, heated, waiting. She sucked in breath and moaned. He touched her hard, touched her soft, until she arched and whimpered and pulled him to her. He felt her climb to her release and let go, and she grasped at him again, at the drawstring of his breeches, shoving at his confining clothes.
