by Mary Wine
Today, those eyes were filled with hard displeasure. His hands were hooked into his belt, the fingers white from gripping it so tightly.
He glared at her, harsh reprimand etched into his features. “Where is my bride?”
Each word made her flinch. His men surrounded her, and she lifted her chin. There was power in his stare, but she refused to crumple. Maybe it was because she had been intimate with him, she didn’t know, but there was still a trust deep inside her that refused to believe that he would harm her.
There was no other man alive she felt such a thing for.
He snorted but flicked his fingers, and she heard his guards retreating. Only Synclair remained, his eyes burning into her back.
“Do not force me to break you, Justina. It would grieve me.”
Yet he would do it. Justina saw that truth reflected on his face. She shivered, feeling the last of her tender emotions for him dying.
Good. She didn’t want to even like any man. It was much better that way.
“Tell me where she heads and who sent you to assist her. I do not wish to raise my hand against you, but I will not order any man to do it, either. You know the only way out of this fortress. I trusted you with that knowledge. Curse you, Justina, for using that against me.” He stepped toward her, and Synclair appeared in front of her, too.
“I am already cursed, you need not apply more to me.” Fury edged her words, and both men looked stunned by her outburst.
“I am cursed with this beauty that prompts men to possess me like a fine bit of jewelry, all the while trying to use me against their enemies.”
“I never treated you as such.” Curan shook with his anger but kept his hands on his belt. “Yet I never deceived you with false promises, either. What have you done with my bride?”
The truth of his words undid her. Tears fell from her eyes for the friend she was losing in him. “I have restored her to her father’s men, as I was sent to do. They waited outside the walls for her. One of her father’s captains, he had a letter with the baron’s seal upon it.”
Curan looked stunned for only a moment before his face became a mask of rage, but it was Synclair who cupped her chin and turned her to face the flames of anger brightening his eyes.
“Are you mad to involve yourself with that bastard Wriothesley?”
Justina shook off his hold and stepped away, snarling fiercely. Synclair reached for her again, his expression furious.
“Hold.”
Even Curan’s voice wasn’t enough to stop Synclair before the knight had advanced another few paces. He drew himself up with a great deal of effort and turned to look at his lord, his body quivering with rage.
Curan stared back at him. “Think upon it, Synclair. There is only one thing that drives a woman to these lengths, and it is not affection for me.”
Synclair cursed. It was a vicious grouping of words that made Justina’s eyes widen, in spite of her sordid life.
“That bastard Wriothesley has your son.” Rage darkened Synclair’s face. The knight drew himself up stiffly. “You should have asked for my assistance.”
Justina shook her head. “There is nothing to do save obey. He is the Lord Chancellor, named by the king to remain in control even after the king’s death. Bridget has been promised to his compatriot. You cannot keep her.”
“I will have her back, Justina, make no mistake about that. The church will support my claim. Bridget is my wife.”
“To what end? Wriothesley will strip you of everything if you attempt to reclaim her. You will have nothing left if you resist. The church will offer you nothing save confirmation of your marriage, yet where will you live? How will you feed your children? What will become of them when they are grown and labeled with the stain of your disobedience to those in power? The king is dying now.”
Curan snorted. “That is my concern.” His voice softened. “I would have thought you would have more faith in my ability to defend what is mine.”
“Against the future that includes the chancellor ruling in all but name because Edward is a child? Trusting in that is foolish, and you are the one who needs to adjust your thinking. No one will call you Lord Ryppon if you persist in defying the will of the chancellor.”
Curan moved closer but stopped and looked at Synclair. “Leave us. Prepare the men to ride.”
The knight did not like the order, and his face showed his displeasure, but he turned and left after a barely noticeable inclining of his head. Curan waited until his footfalls had faded.
“Did Wriothesley order you to my bed?”
There was no hint of emotion in his voice, but Justina saw it lurking in his eyes. Just a mere flicker of injured feelings. Of course she had known that he did not harbor more than gentle affection for her, but that did not seem to change how he felt about her deceiving him. Anger she was accustomed to; this was something far different.
“It was the first time I did not feel like a whore since my husband died.”
He sighed, a soft male sound of frustration.
“I never suspected you.” He shook his head. “I believed I seduced you away from Synclair.”
Justina raised her chin. “Of course you did. My circumstances do not allow me to fail at the tasks demanded of me.”
Curan’s features hardened. “Then you will understand that I feel the same way about Bridget. Tell me where she rides to and trust that I will not allow your son to suffer.”
She couldn’t see the towers of Amber Hill at dawn. Bridget turned to look behind her, but the travelers were already too far north. Sometime during the night they passed a crumbling section of Roman wall that had been raised to keep the Celtic tribes out of Britain. Now the hills of the highlands rose in the distance. Before dawn chased the night away, she had been certain she heard the wailing of all the men who had died fighting over the ground she rode across.
In spite of having a king, Scotland was still divided. Clan lairds maintained the loyalty of their men even above the king. James the Fifth had his hands full with keeping his isle lords from stealing his crown, and while his attention was on them, the lairds often raided one another. Her cousin Alice had been terrified when her father negotiated a match for her on the other side of the border. But it had been done to help maintain peace, for Alice had only a single brother who was fifteen years her junior. Her father had needed his neighboring Scot to stay on his side of the border.
And now Bridget would be sent to Lord Oswald for a similar purpose—a pawn to be used to a father’s best advantage.
She sighed and tightened her grip on the reins of her mount. Captain Brume and his men were silent, their eyes moving constantly. They wore only chain mail, instead of armor, to better blend in. Without armor, from a distance they might be mistaken for Scots if you didn’t look at their pants too closely. The English cut their britches differently than the Scots made their trews.
“Up there, my lady.” Captain Brume pointed at the horizon. A single round tower was materializing as the sun burned some of the clouds away. Relief rang through his voice, and his men urged their horses faster. He turned to look at her.
“We’ll be sheltered soon, mistress. With something to ease our empty bellies, I’ll wager. Kin is kin, no matter what side of the border it lives on.”
“Indeed, Captain Brume, I believe you are correct.”
She gave the expected reply. One that she pushed past her reluctance, ordering herself to recall that she must make the best of her coming marriage. Just as all daughters were expected to do. She cradled her feelings for Curan deep inside her heart, where no one might view them. There was no further point in attempting to ignore the affection. It was like an infection, just as she had always been warned such tender feelings were. Now that these feelings had taken root, she was at their mercy.
They drew closer to the tower, and they heard the gate closing with the harsh grinding of the metal chains. The Scottish captain looked down on them while his men pulled their bows tight with
arrows in the notches and aimed at them.
“We seek shelter for the Mistress Newbury, cousin to your Lady Alice, come with a letter from her father seeking shelter,” Captain Brume called out to the Scots while they waited.
“You’ll have to be proving that, English, and do nae expect it to be a simple matter. These walls were built to keep you English out.”
“I’ve a letter that the Lady Alice will know is true.”
The Scots lowered a bucket in which Captain Brume was instructed to place the letter. Time seemed to stop while they waited, unknowing if they would be denied entrance and struck down where they waited. But the chains suddenly groaned, and the thick gate inched upward. When it had risen completely, they faced over a hundred steel-edged pikes aimed at them while the archers maintained their posts above them. On the far end of the yard, Alice squinted as she tried to recognize Bridget. She suddenly nodded, and a shrill whistle went out across the men threatening them.
“Come in, English, and don’t be making any fast motions.”
Captain Brume muttered something under his breath as he eased his mount forward. Bridget followed, feeling the stares of the Scots upon her.
“Bridget? Oh, Bridget, it is so wonderful to see you.”
Alice waved from where she stood at the base of the entrance to the tower. The gate groaned behind them, lowering once more.
“Come in, Bridget, it is going to storm.”
There was nothing else to do, and her cousin was correct, the clouds were turning dark. A brisk wind had whipped up, cutting through the wool of her surcoat. Her cousin wore a Scottish dress complete with arisaid pinned over her shoulder. It was hard to see the girl who had spent many years with her sharing her tutors before being sent north to the match her father had arranged for her.
“Go on, mistress. All will be right now.” Captain Brume was out of the saddle and reaching up to offer her a hand with relief shimmering in his eyes. “We’ll take shelter here for the night and head out at first light.”
Until then she would hide behind the walls of a Scottish tower. Bridget took slow steps toward her kin, the muscles of her legs protesting. Alice smiled warmly at her, continuing to wave her forward. Clutched tightly in Alice’s other hand was the letter Captain Brume had placed in the bucket. The wax seal was broken, but Alice held it against her chest as though she cherished it. There was no missing the sparkle in her eyes.
“You must come inside with me, dear cousin. I am so glad you have come to me.”
Alice reached out and clamped a strong hold on to her wrist. She pulled hard, surprising Bridget.
“I thank you, cousin, for your hospitality.”
“You must be hungry. Come … come. We will eat. Inside now.”
Alice pulled her inside and toward a set of stairs that rose to the upper floors of the tower. There was the loud sound of the doors shutting behind her that drew a startled sound from her lips.
“It’s going to storm, Bridget. We need to shut out the rain, you know. Here in Scotland it rains like heaven’s fury.”
“Yes, of course.” But two burly Scots took up position on either side of the front door, and she doubted that they were needed to hold it shut against nature’s fury. Suspicion clouded her mind, but there was little to do about it.
She would have to trust in her kin.
The day became a long string of hours in which everyone she met smiled and welcomed her. The night-long ride made it harder and harder to think every action through. She was longing for a bed well before Alice showed her to a chamber, which was high in the tower up too many stairs to count. But there was a fireplace and coals already blanketed with ashes to help keep her warm. She collapsed into the bed while Alice watched.
“Rest easy, cousin. You are very secure on Barras land.”
“Thank you, cousin … Alice.”
Her words slurred and her eyelids fluttered shut. Every muscle felt limp and lacking strength. It was strange and odd. She had been tired before, but not felt so drained of strength. Suspicion began to grow in her thoughts, but she slipped into slumber unable to act upon her mind’s musing. In her dreams, Curan stood just beyond her reach. She strained toward him, desperately needing to touch him. Just a brush of her fingertip would satisfy her, but no matter how much she tried to make such a connection, she failed. Bitter defeat filled her, sweeping her away into a nightmare where she was tormented by the thought of him lying with another bride. Tears wet her cheeks as she fought against the bedding, trying to fight her way free of the chains holding her. She turned her face up to see him riding away with another bride clinging to him.
In her dreams, her heart broke.
Chapter Nine
Her mouth felt as if she had eaten wool when she awoke. Sunlight was streaming in through the thin window on one side of her chamber. It was little more than an arrow slot, and the shutter had been opened. The sun was bright, confirming that morning had come and gone without waking her. Her entire body ached, as though she had spent the night struggling instead of resting. Her hair was a tangled mess, lending more evidence to the fact that her slumber had not been natural.
“I’m glad to see you rising. My husband is home and eager to have you brought below.”
Alice wasn’t consumed with good cheer today. A calculated look on Alice’s face and something in her eyes instantly revived the suspicions had begun when Bridget fell into sleep last evening. She stumbled when she tried to stand, and her cousin frowned.
“You’ll have to shake it off now, Bridget. Laird Barras is below and we don’t want to be keeping him waiting.”
“Who?”
Alice snapped her fingers, and a maid gripped Bridget’s wrist and pulled her over to a chair. There were suddenly hands on her everywhere, brushing her hair and wiping her face with a wet cloth. The cool water against her cheeks helped sharpen her attention, her mind beginning to function once more. A dryness in her mouth confirmed that her suspicions were well founded. It coupled well with the look of anticipation on her cousin’s face.
“What goes on here, Alice?”
Her cousin frowned and looked down at her clasped hands for a long moment. Not a single maid allowed their eyes to meet hers, and her anger stirred as she felt more of her head clearing.
“You poisoned me yesterday.”
Alice’s head lifted immediately. “‘Twas not poison. Just a bit of sleeping draught is all. You’ll be right as can be in another hour.”
Bridget pushed the maids away when they tried to resume tending her. One had even brought forward a powder box and was holding a small face brush.
“You are my kin, Alice; we are blood.”
Alice drew in a stiff breath. “And I am married to a Scot. You have no concept what that means, cousin. Life is harder here. My husband has to maintain friendship with the laird or we’ll be overrun by another clan, and he will refuse to protect us.” She shook her head. “I have my children to think of. Their inheritance must be kept secure.”
A sickening dread began to twist in Bridget’s belly. She turned to look at the maids and found every one of them looking as resigned as Alice did. Firm resolve shone from their eyes, but what made her belly fill with nausea was the pity mixed in with that determination.
Alice shook off her remorse, taking a step forward. “Laird Barras is below and waiting on you. It’s best not to test the man’s patience.”
“And I’m to be painted up for his pleasure as well, cousin?” Bridget used the family term on purpose, but she maintained a tone of voice that was sweet as springtime honey. Alice flinched, but Bridget gave her no pity. “By all means. Let me not keep the great man waiting. Far be it for me to expect my own gender not to offer me up like a roasted lamb. Or a painted harlot.”
“Bridget, do not be so hard upon me. Life is different in Scotland. The king does not have as tight a control on his clans. Raids happen here, and they change lives forever.”
“Alice, do not be so traitorous as to sli
p potions into my cup if you do not want me to tell you plainly that it is shameful behavior. The circumstances do not remove that stain from your actions, and I am no coward to look at the floor and refuse to say such straight to you.”
Her cousin paled. Bridget grabbed a hairbrush from the frozen hand of one maid and pulled it through her hair herself. She didn’t clamp down her temper but allowed it to burn away the sickness pooling in her belly. She needed her courage and her wits now. It took only moments to restore neatness to her hair.
“Keep your paint away from my face. If your Laird Barras doesn’t care for my face as it is, that much the better. I am no wanton doxy.”
Alice snorted. “Your temper will make things worse for you, Bridget. Better to use every weapon you might to lull a man into dealing softly with you. A pretty face has led more than one man to doing what a woman desired of him.”
Just as Justina had done last evening. The memory burned through her anger, allowing her to recall how much Justina was like Marie. Both women play acting the role of temptress to steal the wits of the men holding power over them. It was unjust but at the same time very effective. What truly mattered? Her pride or her future? Men did not take well to being challenged by women, or to being shown that women had intelligence equal to their own. Queens of England had lost their heads on the tower green for forgetting that fact. Bridget sat back down.
“Keep it simple and light.”
Laird Barras was a large man. He wasn’t an old man, either. Alice’s husband was sitting at the high table with the man when her cousin escorted her into the great hall. His eyes moved to her the moment she appeared. Sharp and keen, his stare declared him to be a man who was more than a roughly raised peasant. Over his shoulder rested a length of plaid wool in rust and orange. He wore no doublet at all, and the wide sleeves of his shirt were actually tied up to the shoulders of the garment, baring his forearms. The cool air of early spring didn’t seem to chill his bare skin. A knitted bonnet was hanging at an angle over his dark blond hair and he kept his blue eyes on her in spite of Alice’s husband talking to him.
