The Warrior's Queen

by Cecelia Mecca

“Good eve,” her father said in his typical gruff tone. Gillian had hoped her acquiescence on the matter of Covington would have put him in a better disposition, but it mattered not. She’d resolved herself to enjoy the day, and enjoy it she would.

  “Father.”

  They sat when their hosts had done the same. She told her parents about her day, omitting everything about the Scot, of course, and the jittering in her stomach that refused to go away whenever she looked at him. She could not seem to stop thinking of what she’d seen in the garden last night and finally allowed Allie to take over the conversation.

  He was seated not far from them. When he looked at her, the urge to look back warred with her instinct to turn away.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  “Nay,” she said, much too quickly.

  Her father’s eyes narrowed.

  “Nay, I am simply in awe of how the hall has been transformed. Are you not as well, Father? It was quite enjoyable to help make the wreaths earlier.”

  He grunted and picked up a piece of meat off the trencher he shared with her mother.

  “John,” her mother said. “Your daughter asked . . . is it not lovely?”

  “Aye,” he mumbled, clearly distracted.

  And so it was. A lifetime of her mother’s wasted efforts.

  “Dear,” her mother said, wiping her hands on the linen cloth that was being passed down. Had she even eaten anything? Likely not. There was little dignity in consuming a meal. “Have you met the earl’s sister? Her husband seems quite . . . zealous.”

  Gillian looked up to where Emma and Lord Clave sat on the raised platform in front of them. Under the guise of whispering something to her, it appeared as if the earl was actually kissing his wife’s neck.

  Scandalous.

  “She is lovely,” Gillian defended her. “Her husband loves her very much.”

  Her mother’s tsk was not unexpected. “That is hardly relevant.”

  “Yes, Mother,” she said obediently, feeling her heart sink in her chest.

  Allie opened her mouth to argue with her mother but closed it again at Gillian’s glance.

  “They say Clave Castle can only be reached two times a day, at low tide. That it becomes an island all other times of the day,” her mother said.

  “You’ve not been there?”

  Clave was only one day’s ride south of Kenshire. And while she’d never been to the castle, she was surprised her mother had not visited it either.

  “I have,” her father said between bites. “The 5th Earl of Clave was quite a man.”

  He must have been for her father to speak on his behalf. He trusted few nobles and liked even fewer.

  “And the son?” her mother asked.

  As the conversation continued around her, ever so proper and ever so boring, Gillian attempted to divert herself by watching as course after course was delivered to their table. Cook had promised a feast like none other, and she had certainly delivered on her promise. Even Gillian’s mother nibbled on fritur emeles, a rare sight indeed.

  Finally, when Sara and Geoffrey stood, the excruciatingly long meal was officially ended. Gillian excused herself and her sister, eager to escape, and made her way to Sara and Emma.

  “I’m sorry to have abandoned you,” Sara said.

  Seeing Emma’s confused look, Gillian explained. “My parents can be . . .” She looked at them, still sitting, neither of them speaking.

  “Polite,” Sara finished.

  “Quite so.”

  “Pardon me a moment,” Sara said, leaving them and making her way to the musicians.

  “This is so exciting.” Allie strained her neck to see where Sara had gone.

  “What . . . oh, the crowning of the queen. I’d nearly forgotten this part.”

  When the music stopped, conversation did as well. Eventually, with the hall as quiet as it could be given the remarkable attendance, Sara, her husband beside her, addressed the crowd.

  “The Earl of Kenshire and I extend our fondest welcome to you on the fine first day of May.” She waited until the sudden outburst of cheers faded away. “And we are grateful for any opportunity to celebrate. All of our guests have endured many hardships in this rugged, beautiful land. Sometimes your struggles go unnoticed, so we would notice them here and now.”

  This cheer, different than the other, was one of respect. For the woman who represented hope, as her father had done before her, for those living along the border.

  “We celebrate life.” She gestured toward the balcony, and everyone looked up to where Faye stood with Hayden in her arms. “We celebrate the rebirth of our land, the warmth of spring, which will envelope all of us in its glow, and each and every person who has made this day possible.”

  A chill ran through Gillian to see Sara this way. She was every bit the countess. Gillian had always known her friend was special, and now, so did everyone else who was here tonight. Some said Northumbria would never see a man like Richard Caiser again, but Gillian disagreed.

  They saw tonight something even better.

  “My lady,” Geoffrey said. “A beautiful speech, but you’re forgetting one thing.”

  Of course she was not, but it was customary for the lord to announce the winner of the May Day Match and the man who would crown its queen.

  Geoffrey did so with a grin. “Our winner today is a son of Scotland and friend to Kenshire, Graeme de Sowlis, chief of Clan Scott and second of that name.”

  Though some rumbles accompanied that announcement, most accepted it with the grace that would be expected of Kenshire’s guests.

  Gillian watched Graeme as he made his way through the crowd and came to stand next to the earl and countess, his posture implying he belonged there. He accepted the chapeau de fleurs that would soon adorn the head of one of the women in the crowd, which he then lifted into the air.

  “My revered guest,” Sara said to the Scot, “who is the fairest maiden in attendance? The one you will crown May Queen?”

  “Oh my Saint Rosalina. He’s looking at you,” said Emma.

  Indeed, he was.

  “And she seems to be looking back,” Allie whispered.

  Gillian swallowed.

  “Lady Gillian, if it pleases you?”

  She’d not heard his voice before but wasn’t surprised by it. He spoke every word as low and deliberately as the last. His deep, manly voice crawled into her chest and settled there.

  Emma pushed her forward.

  The crowd parted, and she reached him much too soon.

  “My queen.” He bowed as deeply as if she were truly the Queen of England. When he stood, towering over her, Gillian had to look up. “Will you accept?”

  He looked straight into her eyes, and she willed herself to do the same.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  She hardly had to bend her head for him to reach it. Though the light touch she felt was, of course, from the chapeau, she imagined instead it was his hand caressing her hair.

  The dance!

  It was only when the musicians began to play a lively tune and the crowd parted that Gillian remembered the tradition—the first dance was to be theirs. When he held out his arm, she had no choice but to rest her own arm, and hand, atop his.

  Her father would most certainly be watching. But there was no help for it, and he could hardly complain of her behavior.

  Despite her jumbled thoughts, her training had been such that she nonetheless glided effortlessly through the hall as people moved to allow them space.

  “You’re quite a dancer,” she said. She’d never danced with a Scotsman before. He dressed much the same as his English counterparts except for the lack of a coat of arms on his surcoat.

  “You’re quite a woman.”

  She stumbled.

  Gillian never stumbled. She could dance with her eyes closed. Had been trained to do so. But he made her feel as if she’d forgotten how to use her feet.

  “Yet you know nothing of me.”

  Th
ey switched arms, and the other dancers finally joined them, breaking some but not all of the tension.

  “Not true,” he said.

  Ah, so the man thought highly of himself. As well he should.

  “I know you are the most beautiful woman here.”

  She stumbled again.

  “Though your dancing skills are a wee bit lacking.”

  “Lacking? I—”

  His grin, so easy and comfortable, told her not to be offended. It had been intended as a harmless jest, a way to calm her.

  “I know you are a friend of Sara’s. And that you’ve been coming here since you were a girl.”

  “Everyone knows that,” she said. Her shoulders relaxed. Though he was large and undeniably handsome, the Scots chief was also surprisingly easy to talk to.

  “But they don’t all know how curious you are, do they?”

  She would have stopped dancing had he not continued to lead. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to pretend he’d not seen her—and she’d not seen . . .

  She pinned her stare on the floor, refusing to meet his eye or to defend herself.

  “Did you like what you saw, my queen?”

  Gillian couldn’t speak if she had wanted to.

  The song found an opportune time to end.

  “May I?” another man said, reaching for her hand. She gladly took it.

  As May Queen, Gillian would not stop dancing for the remainder of the evening. Which suited her well. What better way to spend her last eve of freedom?

  At least she had no time to think about him. How he looked at her. How his strong hand felt against her own. What he’d said to her.

  That his eyes were green with specks of brown and not at all like she’d imagined. That he smelled of woodruff—a mixture of hay and honey.

  Another dancing partner. Another dance.

  No time at all to think of him.

  6

  Though he had to get out of the hall, Graeme should have chosen a better refuge. He would have done better to avoid the garden where he’d first seen Lady Gillian if he’d cared to get the woman out of his mind.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Was it because she’d watched him? Was the idea of a very proper noblewoman spying on such an improper rendezvous that tantalizing?

  Aye. It was.

  His purpose served, Graeme would leave in the morn. And after the way she’d danced through the night—and likely still was—he doubted the lady would break her fast before he left.

  A good thing. He’d resigned himself to romps with widows and serving maids whose virginity had long since been taken. Women like Catrina and Emma and Lady Gillian? Not for him.

  He’d watched her sit with her parents at dinner, looking miserable for one so beautiful, and he no longer wondered where she’d learned to stand so straight. It was a wonder her mother deemed Kenshire Castle worthy of her presence.

  And her father. Graeme shuddered. So that was the kind of man who could give his daughter to the Earl of Covington. Little wonder. He had as much life in his body as the pheasant served at dinner.

  “Oh!”

  Lady Gillian herself had just entered the garden. With the folds of her gown flitting behind her in the soft breeze and the flowers in her hair glimmering in the moonlight, she fit the part of a May Queen perfectly.

  Was God truly so cruel?

  He bowed. “My queen.” Though of course she couldn’t be—he knew that. Just his luck that the only ladies who caught his eye were either betrothed to someone else or nearly so. “Pardon me, my lady.”

  He began to move past her, but a tentative hand on his arm stopped him.

  “Nay, I will go.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait,” he called, suddenly unsure of himself.

  She stopped and turned, blinking and obviously nervous. “I just wanted a brief respite—”

  “From the leagues of suitors clamoring for a dance?”

  Lady Gillian raised her chin. “Not suitors. I am to be wed.”

  He looked beyond her and, seeing no one about, pursued the question he’d been most curious about since hearing that very same piece of news from Geoffrey. “To Covington. Why?”

  She looked as if he’d asked her a difficult question, when it was anything but.

  “Because my father wishes it, of course,” she finally said.

  So damn proper.

  “Do you wish it?” The devil in him wanted to see the curious girl from last eve, the one who had thrown propriety to the wind, rather than the noblewoman who stood with him here now.

  “It does not matter what I wish.”

  “Yet sometimes”—he took a step toward her—“it does.”

  When she licked her lips, Graeme’s cock hardened, reminding him, as if he needed reminding, of what he wished. Or, more precisely, what he wished to do with her.

  She shook her head. “Mayhap for you it matters. But for me—”

  “Tell me, my queen.” He treaded in dangerous territory but, as usual, would not heed even his own warnings. “What do you wish?”

  She opened her mouth, and from the look in her brown eyes, it was to argue with him.

  “Nay, do not argue. You are a queen tonight. And a queen’s wishes do come true.” He took one more step toward her.

  They stood much too close for propriety’s sake, but he could not bring himself to care.

  “What”—he lowered his voice—“do you wish?”

  When she pulled her hair to the front, he reached up and pushed it back. He’d done so without thinking, but that simple, intimate touch could not be reversed.

  Nor did he wish it to be.

  “One wish.”

  He was a fool.

  A fool who was being pulled into a spell stronger than his good sense.

  He could see the battle in her eyes. She wanted to flee. She wanted to kiss him. It was no less intense than the war he had waged within himself, but he’d already succumbed. She had not.

  He waited.

  “I wish . . .”

  In that moment, Graeme’s life flashed before his eyes. His clan, his family. The responsibility heaped on his shoulders so young. The raids, the battles. Catrina, Emma. In that moment, all of it seemed so insignificant and small compared to the answer this one woman would give him. For if she turned away, he’d never see her again. He knew that.

  “I wish . . . for you to kiss me.”

  Graeme grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the garden’s entrance, intent on granting her wish . . . and his own.

  He pulled her into his arms and lowered his head. When she placed her closed mouth against his lips, a desire unlike anything he’d ever felt swept through his body.

  Her kiss was so innocent, so eager. She’d never kissed a man.

  He cupped her head in his hands and used his lips to open her own. It took his very proper queen the briefest of moments to understand, and when she did, she opened for him like the petals on a flower eagerly awaiting spring. When he touched his tongue to hers, she gasped against him. But instead of giving her time to be shocked, he swept it inside and showed her what to do.

  When she finally responded, Graeme released her face, put her hands behind his back and did the same to her, enveloping his May Queen against him.

  He would not relent.

  Instead, Graeme breathed in her sweetness and passion, pressing against her and wooing her mouth as gently, and firmly, as he could. Her soft moan encouraged him, and the creamy white mounds pressed against him proved too tempting to ignore. He slipped a hand between them and cupped her breast.

  When he ran a trail of kisses from her mouth to her neck, and lower, Graeme thought for sure her innocence would stop him. He counted on it. Because, God help him, if he didn’t step back from her soon, he’d take her right here in this garden.

  “I . . . had no idea.”

  Breathless and unsure, his English queen arched her head back, exposing even more skin below. He lifted his head, to
ok one look at her half-closed eyes, the flower wreath, now askew . . . and he lost it.

  He kissed her neck, then lower, her moans encouraging him as he pulled the fabric down to give him even greater access to—

  “What the devil?”

  The man’s voice behind him, so unexpected, put him immediately into a protective stance. Graeme pushed Gillian behind him and reached for his sword.

  “No! ’Tis my father. No!”

  A fact he had realized the moment before she spoke. When the man reached for Graeme, he allowed it. The sting that followed his punch was well deserved.

  “Stop. Father, stop it,” Gillian screamed behind him while voices yelled from the other direction.

  Her father wasn’t alone, it seemed. They had an audience. And a rather large one at that.

  It was the last thing he remembered.

  “Father, please . . .”

  “Lord Lyndwood.” Geoffrey continued to restrain her father, who refused to listen to reason.

  “That bastard defiled my daughter. Unhand me, Waryn,” her father yelled, the words spitting from his mouth like venom.

  “I will not allow you to assault my guest.”

  “Assault your . . .” He tried to shrug out of Geoffrey’s grip. She’d never seen her father this angry.

  “Father,” she tried again. “I’ve not been defiled. I—”

  “Be quiet,” he yelled at her.

  Which was when Graeme opened his eyes and stood. His expression, venomous. And directed at her father.

  “I deserved that,” he spat. But she”—he nodded toward her—“does not.”

  “Unhand me,” her father repeated, though Geoffrey continued to hold him back. Everyone, it seemed, was here. Her mother, Allie, Sara . . . how had they come to her so quickly? How could they have known? Her cheeks burned with shame. This exposure was her worst nightmare.

  “You will not tell me how to handle my own daughter, Scottish scum.”

  “Father!”

  The skin around the chief’s eye was starting to swell. Not surprising since he’d not even defended himself. Gillian suspected if he had, her father would be the one with the burgeoning black eye instead.

  “You would marry your daughter to an old man, one with a more than questionable reputation, and yet I am scum?”