The Knight's Bride

by Stone, Lyn

  Alan paused as if he considered Ian’s plan. When he answered, he seemed totally at ease, almost bored. But Honor marked the way his forefinger drummed against his thigh. “Nay, I must have her back. There is Tavish’s bairn, which is mine now.” He nodded toward Christiana.

  Ian rose immediately, lifted the swaddled babe out of Honor’s arms before she could think to protest it, and laid the wriggling bundle on an empty trencher. This he slid across the table in front of Alan. “Then have it, cousin. Enjoy!”

  Alan straightened and stared down at Christiana. “But you cannot—”

  “Aye, I can!” Ian exclaimed, very precisely. “You may go now since you do not seem hungry.”

  Alan slammed a fist down on the table beside Christiana. “I’ll no’ leave wi’out my wife, Ian. Damn yer hide!”

  “Ye’ll leave wi’out yer damned hide if ye dinna mind yer manners!” Ian mocked. “See there, you’ve gone and made it scream. Och, what lungs! Take it away and begone.” He made a dusting motion with his eating knife.

  Alan scooped up Christiana and laid her to his shoulder, patting her bottom until she quieted. When he spoke, his voice was tense, contained. “Ian, think. A bairn needs it’s mam.”

  “Get you a wet-nurse,” Gray suggested, popping a piece of meat in his mouth and chewing heartily.

  “I canna do that,” Alan argued softly, jiggling Christiana a little. “Look, the babe’s not too well, aye? She must have her own mother to see to her. Have ye no pity, mon?”

  “No more than yourself, apparently,” Ian returned, squeezing Honor’s leg again. Another silent message?

  Well, he wasn’t groping for pleasure. She thought she knew what the fellow was about now and hoped to goodness he succeeded.

  Her husband wanted her back. And not just for Christiana’s sake, either. It would be all too simple to hire a replacement to nurse the babe. Several women at Byelough had babes and could easily accommodate another. Even his own stepmother could, and would do so gladly. No, Alan wanted her. Possibly he did so only so that he could punish her for this escapade, but she hoped he had another reason. If so, if he did desire her, he might one day forgive her.

  Ian’s trick might force Alan to promise she could keep Christiana with her. She had told him everything in order to explain her unexpected arrival. Would Gray help her that much? He never seemed to take things seriously. To him, this was probably just the evening’s entertainment he spoke of earlier. Honor knew it must be killing Alan inside to grovel to his cheeky cousin.

  “Ian, I want my wife. Do not make me kill you.”

  “Fine boast for a man with but six lads outside the walls and no weapons on you. Besides, she is unwilling to go and I’ll not force her.”

  Alan leaned forward. “Honor, tell him you wish to go home.”

  She remained silent.

  “Damn you, woman! Tell him!”

  Honor glanced from Ian to Alan, worrying her bottom lip with her tongue. Then she inclined her head and studied her husband for a moment. “I will come with you, sir, if you promise not to part me from my daughter.”

  He gave one succinct nod. “Done. She will remain with you until she is of an age to foster.”

  “Until she marries,” Honor bargained. “And I shall have right to approve her match.”

  “Nay, you will not!” he argued.

  “Then I shall accept the hospitality of Dunniegray,” she stated flatly.

  Alan turned away and lowered his head. She did not want to think what muttered curses Christiana might be hearing sotto voce. “Verra well,” he mumbled.

  “Louder please. ’Tis a vow, I am asking of you,” she declared.

  “Aye, then, I vow!” he nearly shouted. “Ye can keep her! And have say to her disposition! Are ye satisfied?”

  Christiana gurgled, as though to add her own demand.

  “And you will not visit any punishment on Melior for his aiding my flight from you. Promise,” Honor ordered.

  Alan glared, shaking with poorly restrained rage.

  Honor looked from one man to the other. Ian sat with his arms crossed, tongue in cheek, eyebrows raised in question. Alan looked fit to burst on the instant.

  She dared not provoke him any further, but some devil made her do it anyway. “Have I your oath, sir?”

  “I will not kill him. My word on it.”

  “Not quite enough, sir,” she said softly. “Melior only followed me to keep me safe.”

  He pulled in a quick, deep breath, and released it slowly before answering gruffly. “Have your way of it then. I’ll not punish the fool!”

  Ian laughed and clapped his hands. “Great God, I love this!”

  “You,” Alan promised ominously, “I would like to kill.”

  “But not tonight!” Ian said, laughing even harder.

  “Come, Honor, let’s begone from here,” Alan said, turning toward the door to the hall, surely knowing she would follow since he still held Christiana.

  “’Tis full dark now,” Ian mentioned. “You are both welcome to bide the night.”

  “Not for a promise of paradise would I stay in this hellhole,” Alan said over his shoulder.

  “As you will, then,” Gray conceded with utmost politeness. “Do come again!”

  Honor threw Ian a smile behind Alan’s back. She had made a friend by coming here, she thought. Ian Gray was a rogue of the worst sort, a wily rascal who obviously loved a good jest. As near as she could tell, he made a jest of everything. That he used her and hers for his own merriment bothered her not in the least, considering the results of it. Not daring to speak aloud, she mouthed her thanks.

  He nodded and winked, still toying with his eating knife. Just as Alan reached the doorway, the blade thunked into the wood only half an arm’s length from his head.

  Alan jerked around, murder in his eye. Unarmed and holding an infant, Honor knew there was little he could do. Before he could speak, Ian ordered, “Do not mistreat her again, Strode.”

  “Go to hell, Gray!” Alan said, tugging the knife from the door with his left hand. With a pointed glance around the littered hall, he added, “Though I canna think the accommodations there would be much worse.”

  With that, he returned the knife. The point embedded itself in the front edge of the chair arm between Ian’s second and middle fingers.

  Ian’s whoops of glee followed them out the door and down the wooden outer steps to ground level. Even after the sturdy gates were closed behind them, she could hear him.

  She made no objection when Alan handed Christiana to Father Dennis. Then he lifted Honor to the saddle of his warhorse and mounted behind her. “Hand Kit to me,” he instructed the priest. Alan settled her babe in her lap and encased them both in arms that felt hewn of oak.

  On the ride home, Honor wondered whether Alan would ever soften toward her again. Would he ever hold her as he had done before and be the tender lover she had come to care for? Mayhaps not, but she did know she could trust his vow not to take Christiana away from her or to harm Melior.

  She wished she had extracted Alan’s promise not to beat her while she was about making her demands. A thrashing was not her greatest concern, however. She had simply lost all control over her life, if in fact she had ever had such to begin with.

  If only she had kept her wits about her and not told Alan the truth about tricking Tavish, he might have kept respect for her. All she had needed to do was say that yes, she had loved her husband. Unfortunately, she had found she could not lie outright to Alan about that.

  Now he, just as her father had once done, directed the disposition of her body, her possessions and her future. Never again would she feel herself mistress of her own fate.

  But at least Honor had gained something she never thought to have. She had the choice when Christiana came of age to wed. Her daughter would never have to lie, steal and seduce a rescuer to avoid a dreaded marriage as Honor had done.

  She supposed that was no small victory for a woman, however
it came about.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Alan’s outrage shrank to fairly manageable proportions as they rode away from Dunniegray. Then picking his way through the perilous bog after dark required his concentration for a while. Until this moment, he had hardly suffered at all from holding Honor close. Now, on more certain ground, he encountered another problem.

  Without danger to distract him, he had little to think on but how soft she felt, how delicate and perfect the body resting so trustingly against his own. Alan wished he could bury his nose in her hair and draw in her sweet scent, but pride prevented that. Consequently, his own sweat, that of the horse and the odor of wee Kit’s fouled nether cloth totally occupied his keen sense of smell.

  Honor had not uttered a word since they set out. He knew she feared what he might do when they arrived home. Strange that she had not thought to protect herself by making him swear to forgo her own punishment. Did she feel she deserved it?

  Alan believed she did need a penalty. Not anything truly hurtful, of course, but something to prevent her doing anything so foolish again. He decided to allow her to worry on it a while longer. That in itself should serve as proper chastisement. His arm tightened around her waist. She need not know just yet that it was desire that prompted it. That, added to a healthy measure of relief that she did not lie dead in the bog.

  They rode through the gates of Byelough where nearly every inhabitant of the castle and a number of village folk greeted them with rushlights and cheers. One of Honor’s women reached up for the child the moment Alan halted his mount.

  He got down first, and as soon as he set Honor on her feet, a crowd surrounded her. They hustled her away and into the hall so quickly, he had no chance to protest it. He would not have done so anyway.

  Protecting their lady spoke well of their people, even if their purpose was protecting her from him. Alan smiled wryly and shook his head. Devious and calculating, Honor might be, but she commanded the love of everyone around her. His love, most of all.

  Even Ian Gray had been smitten. That struck a harsh chord of jealousy in Alan. But it also alleviated some of his distress that she had duped him so roundly with her innocent smiles and pretense at perfection. Fool Alan might be about her, but at least he was not the only fool.

  Thoughts of fools brought Melior to mind. By rights, he ought to have the man’s head on a pike. Wisely, the player had remained at Dunniegray for the nonce. Likely, he would venture back when Ian assured him Alan had vowed not to kill him. Honor had enticed that particular fool to do her bidding for the second time.

  She had, by hook or crook, drawn both Melior and Father Dennis away from their good living within her father’s household. Then she had seduced Tavish with words of love and the false marriage contracts. Turning her charms on an unworldly fellow such as himself must have hardly challenged her at all, Alan reckoned. Then Ian had turned up sweet for her. A cartload of addle-pates, the lot of them. His residual anger continued to dissipate as he began to see the humor in it.

  “I should order us all to don jester’s garb,” Alan muttered laughingly to himself.

  “Pardon?” Father Dennis questioned as he fell into step beside him.

  “Bells,” Alan explained with a chuckle. “We should be wearin’ bells on our caps. And motley.”

  “Ah,” the priest remarked, clasping his hands behind him, head bent in thought. “You think we need to entertain our lady, sir?”

  Alan laughed. “I do not doubt she was well entertained this eve, bells or no bells. ’Twas a right good comedy. Ye must have heard Gray cackling as we left.”

  “All went well inside Dunniegray, then?” Father Dennis asked, unable to hide his curiosity about the confrontation inside Gray’s hall. “You looked so preoccupied on the way home, I hesitated to ask.”

  “There were harsh words passed. I could tell ye all about it in confession, come the morn,” Alan teased with a sidewise glance.

  “And argue with me about any penance as usual,” the priest grumbled, his brows knit with aggravation.

  “I’ll have a head start on the prayers,” Alan said with a wry grin. “Lady Honor has already brought me to my knees.”

  Humbled, he was. And weary, too. Surprising then, how light of heart he felt now that he had Honor out of danger and home where she belonged. Or perhaps he was only light of head. By rights, he should be furious with her still.

  Nanette met them at the hall door. “You may not use a rod thicker than this against her,” she announced as he and the priest entered. She shoved an ell’s length of cedar at him. “Do so, and I shall bring charges of cruelty! I know of this law!”

  Alan flexed the switch, measuring its width against that of his thumb. He pursed his lips, fighting a smile. So Nan thought English law held any sway hereabout, did she?

  He tapped the side of his right leg gently with the knobby branch. “Too thin,” he judged. “Ye’d best bring me another more to size.”

  Ignoring her glare, he stuck the limb under his arm and walked around her, making his way to the table that had been set out with cold meats and bread. He slapped a slice of venison on a crust and wolfed it, washing it down with a half tankard of ale he’d snatched out of Morgan’s hand.

  All the while, his eyes roamed the room. “Where is my lady? If she’s gone off again, I’ll do murder.”

  Morgan jumped. “Solar, sir. Davy’s standing guard.”

  “Oh well, now there’s a real comfort,” Alan remarked with sarcasm. He set the tankard down and took the switch Nan had brought him in his hands again. Slowly he strolled toward the chamber where he had first met Honor.

  Memories of that meeting assailed him, renewing his feelings of disappointment and darkening his mood. He had believed her so faultless then, just as Tavish had described her.

  The only good thing to come of that realization was that he need not keep up all the tedious attempts to improve himself. She could damn well take him as he was. A dispirited sigh escaped him as he pushed open the door.

  Honor stood ready for whatever he had come to impart, lecture or beating. Her chin raised a notch when she spied the thick switch he had bowed between his hands. Her fingers clutched together so hard, her knuckles turned white. “Sir,” she greeted him.

  “Where is Kit?” he asked. He had not thought she would part with the babe for any reason, at least not for a while.

  “With Lady Janet,” Honor explained. “I did not want her to witness...any unpleasantness.”

  Alan noted the small cauldron hung over the fire, full of heating water. Another cold bucket wept rivulets on the hearth, waiting its turn. The tub had already been halffilled in preparation for a bath. Hers, obviously. His, now, however.

  Without further words, he laid the switch aside and began removing his clothes.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Taking a bath,” he replied. “I doubt I could rest whilst reeking of sword practice, a round-ride through the bogs, and exposure to Gray’s dung heap of a hall. Get my own soap, would ye? I dinna relish smelling flowers the night through.” Unless the scent came close up from her own person.

  Well, that was hardly likely unless he forced the issue. He knew he could, and she would submit. Honor would not dare refuse him after all she had put him through this night. But he still felt a bit too much anger at her to be a tender lover.

  Alan watched her scramble through his supply chest full of English booty. He rather liked the fact that she jumped to so quickly. Making amends for bludgeoning his pride, no doubt. Aye, he could deal with that.

  “Bring a larger length of linen, if ye please,” he added. She snatched one off the stack on the nearby stool and plopped it down closer to hand. Apology in action, he decided. Very good.

  He sank into the lukewarm water and leaned his head forward. “Scrub my back, would ye?” She did so almost savagely, but it felt satisfying to be obeyed, nonetheless.

  “Now wash my hair,” he demanded, war
ming to this order-giving mastery of her. He enjoyed the furious scratch of her short, rounded nails against his scalp. Stimulating.

  Lather dripped down his forehead and seeped over his face. He brushed it with a wet hand, making matters worse. She had complied thus far with everything he had told her to do. He could get to liking this.

  At last he understood. A man needed to take a firm hand, but do it kindly. All Honor had required was direction. Trouble was, he had been too in awe of her to provide that. No more, however. No cause for reverence now where she was concerned. Flawed he might be, but so was she.

  Wickedly, Alan considered having her wash all of him, but he knew exactly where that would lead given the day’s happenings and the fact that he already felt painfully aroused by only this casual touching. If he made love to her right now, he knew he would forget any quarrel he had ever had with her. And he was not ready to do that just yet.

  “Well? There’s soap in my eyes,” he announced with a sniff.

  Suddenly, icy water sluiced over his head and back. “Aarrgh!” he howled, slinging his head about. Still blinded by soap, he twisted around and grabbed for the bucket. Another freezing slosh blanketed his chest, chilling the warmth that engulfed his nether parts. “Damn!” he shouted, “Are ye tryin’ t’ freeze it?”

  A heavy wad of linen hit him square in the face. “Shall I dry you, sir?” she asked innocently, without a hint of remorse.

  “I think not!” he answered curtly as he examined the toweling, expecting stinging nettles or some such. Her sudden act of rebellion confused him. She had seemed so docile, meek as a lamb, eager to do anything he asked of her. Now this!

  He thought longingly of the stick Nan had given him, even knowing he could never bring himself to use it.

  “Get ye to bed!” he barked, unwilling to have her see him still erect and ready despite the chilly dousing. She would think him weak-willed indeed if he rose out of the tub, randy as a goat, and did not act on it. And he would not act on it, he told himself firmly. Not tonight.