The Warrior's Queen

by Cecelia Mecca

  “You youngins go. These old bones don’t take kindly to the saddle any longer.”

  “Then ’tis you and I, Morgan. Come.”

  The maid followed her into the courtyard and to the stables, and the boy that had made the comment about the English rushed to saddle their horses. The women had ridden just beyond the gatehouse when a rider approached from behind.

  “Malcolm?”

  “My lady, they say you’re headed to the village?”

  “Aye,” she said, wondering how the captain had learned of it so quickly.

  “Allow me to accompany you.”

  She and Morgan exchanged a glance. And then she realized why he’d made such a request.

  “To guard us.” Graeme had told her never to leave the castle walls without a guard. And while she thought it a reasonable directive—she’d been expected to travel with a guard back home too—she’d been so distracted she’d completely forgotten.

  “Of course, thank you, Malcolm.” It occurred to her that Malcolm, who was nearly always at Graeme’s side, might know what Fiona had not. “Do you know where my lord is by chance?”

  He looked beyond her and pointed, and Gillian turned her horse toward the horizon. Four specks, becoming larger each moment, rode toward them. No, not specks, men. Four men with the rolling green hills of Highgate End behind them.

  Graeme.

  The man always had an effect on her, whether she saw him from near or afar. As he rode closer with Aidan and two men she didn’t recognize, his brown-blond hair catching errant rays of sunlight, her heart thudded in her chest.

  “It appears he rode out to meet Douglas,” Malcolm said from beside her.

  James Douglas, Lord Warden for the Scottish, was one of the most feared men in all of Scotland. She’d known of him even before becoming the lady of Highgate Castle.

  The men slowed as they approached. Gillian could immediately tell which of the two strangers was Douglas by the way he sat on his horse. The man was powerful and fearsome, but her husband was even bigger and just as ferocious looking. Especially now, when he did not smile.

  They all appeared so serious.

  Until she smiled, and one by one the men did the same. All but one. So she addressed him first. “Greetings, my lord,” she said to Douglas. And then, “Husband. Aidan.”

  If Graeme looked at her oddly, it was likely because these were the first civil words she’d said to him in days. Not that she’d said much, of course, but it was an improvement from silence.

  “Gillian, may I present James Douglas, Lord Warden of the Eastern Marches, and his man, Darden. This is my wife, Lady Gillian, daughter of John Bowman, Lord Lyndwood—”

  “I know her father well,” Douglas replied, not very kindly.

  “But you’ve not had the pleasure of meeting his daughter,” Graeme said firmly, the rebuke not lost to anyone.

  Though Douglas did not reply, he did nod his head to her, a deference to Graeme’s retort.

  “We are headed to the village for supplies,” said Malcolm by way of explanation.

  Graeme looked pleased, likely because she’d taken an escort, and she silently reminded herself to thank Malcolm for offering his service.

  “Aidan, will you please escort our guests to the keep? I will be along in a moment. I’d like a private word with my wife.”

  The way he said wife sent chills up her arms. It was as if they were alone, and he’d caressed her with the word.

  Without further exchange, the men spurred their horses toward the castle. Graeme offered Malcolm a poignant look, and he and Morgan rode ahead, out of earshot.

  Gillian’s horse was becoming impatient, even more so when Graeme moved closer to her.

  “Are you speaking to me then?” he asked.

  She’d hurt him. How could she have missed that before? Maybe her husband wasn’t prepared to love her, but despite what he’d said the other night, he must care for her. His expression said so as clearly as if he’d spoken the words.

  “We need to talk,” she said, reminded of the last painful conversation they’d had in the woods. This time, she would not push him so hard. She would not ask for all of him, simply for what he was able to give.

  “Gillian, I would be glad to—”

  “I have a proposal,” she blurted out, before she lost her nerve. This wasn’t how she’d planned to share her idea with him, but she would feel so much better after speaking bluntly.

  “A proposal,” he repeated.

  “Aye.” She nodded. “Indeed.”

  His expression did not change.

  “What is my favorite meal?” she asked.

  Graeme looked at her oddly.

  “Spiced pears,” she answered. “I adore cinnamon-spiced pears.”

  “Gillian, I am glad to know it, but—”

  “What is the one thing you love above all others?”

  When his eyes softened, Gillian thought for one wild moment that he would say her name.

  “My brother,” he replied instead. “I still do not—”

  “We hardly know each other, Graeme. We were married so quickly.”

  He waited.

  “My proposal is that we get to know each other.”

  He smiled. “I thought we had been doing so already.”

  “Nay, Graeme. Not in that way. Getting to know each other’s pasts. And hopes and fears. Not”—she shrugged—“you know.”

  Graeme smirked. “I won’t make you say it.”

  “Thank you,” she said, belatedly realizing he teased her. “I believe we should make it our first priority. That we should get to know each other better without complicating our courtship.”

  “Complicating?” Understanding dawned and his eyes widened with alarm. “Nay, not that. No.”

  “Graeme, do you really think it wise for a man and woman to keep rushing into bed as they are learning about each other?”

  Graeme calmed his mount by rubbing him on the head. “Certainly, ’tis better for a marriage to be consummated. If the couple’s marriage is arranged, they might not know each other at all.”

  Oh, sometimes, she really did want to box his ears.

  “Graeme?”

  He heaved a sigh. “I will play along. Nay, a man and woman do not rush to each other’s beds as they are becoming acquainted.”

  Satisfied, she continued. “So I propose we do not have relations for a fortnight and instead take the time to . . . talk.”

  “Talk?”

  “Aye, Graeme, talk.” She held her breath, already knowing his response. Her husband was appalled by the idea. And she’d so hoped it would help bring them closer together.

  “Define relations?”

  Hope sparked in her heart. Might he actually agree?

  “You know . . . lovemaking, of course,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat. The blasted man. He’d made her say it despite knowing how much it embarrassed her.

  “But all else is permitted?”

  She suddenly had a vision of his hand inside her, and Gillian belatedly realized relations could mean many things.

  “Nay, nothing of the sort.”

  “Nothing?” He raised his brows.

  Mayhap she had pushed him too far.

  “May I kiss you?” he pressed.

  “Nay.”

  “Two days.”

  “What?”

  His smile was so slow and sensual, Gillian nearly relented altogether. “I will agree,” he continued, “but only for two days. It’s already been—”

  “’Tis ridiculous to think we could learn much of anything in two days.”

  He stuck out his chin.

  “One week,” she countered.

  “You will sleep in my bed. Our bed.”

  “Done.”

  With a parting wink, her husband took off in the direction of the castle. And she rejoined Morgan and Malcolm feeling more joyful than she had in days.

  Graeme had never been more miserable in his life.

  It had been
three days since his fateful discussion with Gillian, each more painful than the last. He rued most of all his stipulation that she sleep in his bed. Lying next to his wife, knowing he could not touch her, was excruciatingly painful.

  For some reason, Gillian had decided this was the single greatest idea in all of Christendom. Admittedly, they’d fallen into a mostly pleasant routine during the days. He would train with the men while she took exceedingly good care of household matters, and each evening he and Gillian would dine together. Their lives had slowly become intertwined in a comforting way. But everything fell together at night. She’d climb into bed, perfectly content to lie next to him and talk, and then fall asleep astonishingly easy. He, on the other hand, hardly slept at all. And when he did, it was a fitful slumber filled with dreams of his wife. His wife the vixen, not the version lying next to him in a shift.

  Four more days, he told himself as he ascended the stairs to their chamber. He’d started the countdown after the first painful night. When he entered their chamber this evening, Gillian was already dressed for bed. The trunks she’d wanted moved to the wardrobe sat in the corner of this chamber instead.

  Where they would stay.

  “Back so soon?” she asked.

  Graeme had gone after dinner to speak to one of the elders in the village—a discussion he should have had days earlier, after Douglas’s short visit.

  “Aye, it went just as I’d expected.”

  He poured them both a goblet of wine, part of their new routine, and handed one to her. She’d already taken a seat by the hearth, and he sat opposite her before taking a healthy sip from his own goblet.

  “They agree that either Aidan or I should attend at least the next Day of Truce, if not each one afterward. Since Douglas has given us leave to insist on Trial by Combat for any future charges of murder or kidnapping, he’s advising each of the border clan chiefs that they, or their second, be present in the future rather than sending a consul.”

  She stopped with the wine halfway to her lips. “Does that mean . . .”

  “It does.”

  She stared into the fire for a moment. Graeme had learned his wife adored a fire, even on warm days like today, and wondered if they’d be sitting next to one even during the summer.

  “But Graeme, you cannot . . . I cannot lose you.”

  “And what man, do you suppose, would pose a true challenge to me?”

  She considered the question only briefly. “Geoffrey Waryn.”

  “One man?”

  “And his brothers?”

  “Even the youngest?” he asked with a smirk.

  “Though Neill is yet young, they say he is proving to be the strongest and most powerful of all the Waryn men.”

  “I’ve heard as much. But thankfully all three of them are allies to Clan Scott.”

  “Lord Clave? He appears to be—” Gillian’s face whitened as she realized what she’d said.

  “Appears to be?”

  “I’m sorry, Graeme. I should not have said his name. I was not thinking.”

  He looked at Gillian, her soft cream shift nearly skimming the ground, her hair pulled back in a braid as it was each night, and tried to quiet his body’s response.

  “There is no need for you to be sorry.”

  “But Lord Clave . . . Emma . . .”

  Graeme took a drink and sighed, crossing his legs in front of him.

  “Emma Waryn is a beautiful woman,” he started. “And when I offered for her . . .” He stopped, not really wanting to continue.

  “Yes?” she pressed.

  He forged ahead.

  “I offered for her because she was here. And obviously saddened by Garrick’s betrothal. I thought . . .” He couldn’t believe he was saying as much aloud. “I thought perhaps she was sad because he was getting married. And unlike my brother, I was prepared to marry. I’d thought of myself as nearly married for years—”

  “Being betrothed to Catrina.”

  “Of sorts. Our families had discussed a betrothal before the rift occurred. After that, she and I remained good friends. We thought to change her brother’s mind.”

  “Which of them was against the marriage?”

  “Toren, mostly. Alex and Reid did not seem as impassioned to continue a feud started by our fathers.”

  Gillian shuddered.

  “You don’t care for Reid.”

  “Nay,” she said. “Not at all.”

  Graeme took another sip. “He is actually a good man. Though for some reason he tries hard, successfully at times, to hide it.”

  “Well, I do believe you are better off without him as a brother-in-law.”

  Graeme laughed. “Perhaps.”

  “You were speaking of Emma.”

  “Indeed.” As he talked, it became easier to get the words out. To put the thoughts he’d been mulling over into words. “I thought it would be as good an alliance as any. Although the clan elders may have felt otherwise, I’d never been against marriage to an Englishwoman. Especially one whose ties to the borderlands could provide further inducement to peace.”

  “Did you love her?”

  It was the same question his brother had asked. The answer came easily enough. “Nay, I did not love Emma Waryn. I only admired her.”

  “Catrina?”

  Now that was a more difficult question to answer. Graeme tapped the side of his goblet.

  “I did love her.” Seeing Gillian’s expression, he rushed to finish. “As one would love an old friend. Which is exactly what she is to me. A friend. I am glad she married Bryce.”

  And he was. He’d been telling himself that for a long while, wondering if it were really true. He’d avoided speaking about the two women who had spurned him, but he meant every word he’d said to Gillian. The rejection still stung, but he was happy they’d married other men.

  His glass empty, Graeme stood and held out his hand to Gillian. When she simply looked at it, he said, “We cannot break the agreement for such a simple thing? I wish only to hold your hand.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “That is all, I promise.”

  Though I very much wish it could be more.

  When she put her goblet on the table and took his hand, Graeme set his own goblet aside and led her to their bed. Climbing inside, he lay next to her and thought of their discussion. One of many that had left him feeling . . . exposed.

  But not altogether bad. In fact, he enjoyed these intimate moments with her and looked forward to them each day. He looked over to tell her just that, and not surprisingly, his wife was already asleep. The woman really did have an uncanny ability to fall asleep quickly.

  He took her hand once more, enjoying its easy warmth, knowing he was in for another long, uncomfortable night.

  And not simply because he could not ravish his own wife. But because, when she’d asked if he loved Emma or Catrina, the answer that had almost spilled from him was as frightening as it was exciting.

  Nay, he did not love either of those women in that way.

  But he did love his wife.

  27

  “My lady, come quickly.”

  Gillian had just been prepared to inspect the herb garden when Morgan called to her.

  “What is it?” she said, alarmed by her maid’s tone. Her cheerful friend had never sounded so morose.

  “’Tis Fiona.”

  Her hands began to tremble as she followed Morgan through the inner ward and toward the granary, the two of them almost running. “She isn’t talking or moving, just lyin’ there.”

  A crowd had begun to gather, but Gillian pushed her way through them. Just as Morgan had said, Fiona was lying on the ground. The young stableboy was leaning over her, his eyes wide.

  “She’s no’ yet dead,” he said.

  Please God, spare this woman. Please.

  Gillian knelt at her side and took Fiona’s hand. It was warm, but she did not look good. It seemed as if all of the color had drained from her face.

&
nbsp; “Did someone send for a physician?” she called, trying her best to remain calm.

  By the blank stares, Gillian surmised Highgate had no physician. “A healer then, get—”

  That’s when it struck her. The healer was dead. Killed on the orders of a man who now roamed as freely as the innocent.

  “Is there no one else?”

  She should have thought to ask before. Should have made arrangements for another healer to be found. But she’d been so consumed with her own problems she’d never taken the time to fully ingrain herself here. And now it may be too late.

  “Where is she?”

  Gillian had never heard such a sweet sound before.

  “Graeme,” she yelled, frantic. “Here. Fiona is here.”

  “Is she alive?”

  The crowd thinned as her husband pushed through them, none too gently. He knelt on the other side of Fiona, taking her other hand and leaning down to feel her breath.

  “Aye, but she does not look well, Graeme. Is there no other healer?”

  He looked up, his expression both grim and angry. “Grace was a stubborn woman. We’d told her many times she needed to show another her ways, but . . .”

  His silence was her answer.

  Please, no.

  “She must be moved. Graeme, get—”

  But he had already begun to lift the rotund woman, fitting her in his arms as if she were as light as a sachet of herbs. Gillian followed them, telling the others they would send word of her condition immediately. Everyone adored Fiona, and their resigned expressions only made Gillian more worried. It was as if they knew something she did not.

  Graeme carried her through the hall.

  “Bring her to my chamber,” she said.

  He looked back.

  “The lady’s chamber,” she clarified. Her place was now by Graeme’s side, and hopefully that was where it would remain.

  She opened the door for him, Morgan and Aidan rushing into the room behind them.

  “What happened?” Aidan asked.

  Morgan pulled down the coverlet as she answered. “We were walking to the granary when she fell.”

  “How did she fall?” Graeme asked, feeling her forehead.

  “Straight down,” Morgan replied. “As if she’d just fallen asleep right there as she walked.”