The Knight's Bride

Alan capitulated with a weary sigh. “Look ye, we have years in which to know each other. As yer priest said, the hour grows late and I’m fit to drop to the nearest pallet.”

She colored to a bright rose hue and glanced guiltily at the curtained bed in the corner. “Well, that is the problem, you see. I cannot... that is, we must not—”

“Lie together?” he said and laughed at the thought. “Lady, I’ve ridden four long days wi’ no rest or aught to eat but dry oats, dug Tav’s grave one-handed wi’ a broken sword, faced down the king and near lost my head to the bargain. All that, after herdin’ a hoard of lowland pikers through the bloodiest battle of the century. ’Tis not bed sport on my mind this night; so dinna worry on it.”

She shook her head and wrung her hands. “I must tell you, I am enceinte,” she blurted.

Alan frowned. Enceinte? Enchanting? In sin? What?

“Verra well, then,” he said agreeably, hoping she would elaborate so he wouldn’t need to admit to further ignorance.

She looked vastly relieved. “God bless you for your understanding, sir. This babe is all I have left of Tavish.”

“Babe?” The news hit him harder than Bruce’s fist had done earlier. “God’s truth, ye carry Tav’s bairn?”

Alan had not grasped until that moment how the thought of bedding her had wormed its way into his mind. He had not intended to do it this night because of the reasons he had just given her, but he certainly meant to do it soon. Guilt washed over him like a cold wave. Taking Tavish’s woman to bed ought not have occurred to him at all. Even with Tav’s blessing—and king’s orders—it seemed devilish wrong even to consider it, let alone do it.

“You will wait until after the birth?” Her fingers worried her lips as though she were frightened he would change his mind.

“Aye, of course I’ll wait,” he said gently, nodding, even as the import of his promise sank in. He had been celibate for nigh on a year, since just before he had joined Bruce’s army. Now he must needs delay until Lady Honor delivered of her child and recovered from the birth.

Easing himself with another woman after wedding Honor would be unthinkable. Even were she not breeding, Alan wondered if he could really allow himself to bed his best friend’s widow. But he would have to bed somebody. Eventually.

Ah well, his own discomfort was not the lass’s fault, and she looked nigh to collapsing from fretting over it. He smiled and reached for her hands. When she allowed him to clasp them, he squeezed her fingers with gentle reassurance. “Ease yer mind, my lady. We’ll share yer chamber for the looks of the thing, but ye need no’ worry I’ll risk Tav’s heir. ’Tis precious to me, too.”

A single tear broke over her lashes and trailed down one cheek. With a callused thumb, he brushed it away. “There now, dinna greet. Come, let’s go and give yer wee’un a foster da, eh?”

Honor sniffed and nodded. “We will need protection.”

“Just so,” he agreed as he placed one of her hands on his mailed arm and led her to the hall.

Three women surrounded her as they entered, the skinny one gabbling excitedly in French and shooting him wary looks. He kept an eye on Lady Honor as they led her away from him, noting the quiet reserve in her manner now that she had accepted her lot.

A pang of longing pierced him like a crossbow quarrel. What must it be like to win the heart of a woman like herself? Fairer than dawn, she was, so cool and clean, and sweetness itself until she thought something threatened her babe.

He blamed her in no way for her recent defiance. She did not know him at all, and had only sought to protect the child. Honorable as her name, she was. So brave, for a lass.

Tavish had known and appreciated her well. He had loved her dearly despite their short acquaintance and brief union. Two months of heaven, Alan did not doubt. Tav had declared as much, more than once. How proud he would have been of his wife’s courage, and to know of the coming child.

Alan knew Honor had led a sheltered life until now; born and reared in her mother’s castle in Loire Valley in France, a frequent visitor to the court. No doubt shamelessly indulged by her father, a Scots baron embroiled in the tangle of French politics. Coming to Scotland with naught but her women and one lone priest must have been a shock for one born into cultured splendor.

She had weathered it well, Tav said. The hall Alan stood in shone as proof of that. She had made this keep a home, a comfortable refuge and delight to the eyes. Tavish often had boasted of it and rightly so.

Now, newly widowed and pregnant, hardly more than a child herself, wee Honor risked the wrath of a rough warrior husband by denying Alan his marital rights even before they said the vows. All to protect Tav’s bairn. Her loyalty and courage stirred something inside Alan that pushed aside his dread of a loveless union. It would not be completely loveless, after all, if he loved her. For all he knew of the woman now, he believed what he felt might be more akin to worship.

“Ah, Tav, I see now. I ken why ye sent me here. She’ll be needing a strong arm and I’ll try to do ye proud,” Alan whispered. “Lady Honor has, and so shall yer son. I’ll see to it.”

Chapter Three

Honor only half listened as her women exclaimed over the news of Tavish’s death and this eve’s rushed nuptials. She barely noticed their comments on the hard-muscled warrior who stood alone in the midst of the hall. She just watched him.

He waited at his ease, as though he had nothing better to do. She supposed he did not. He just stood there, weight resting on one foot, arms crossed, and green eyes lively as they surveyed the gathering of castle folk.

“You should send him away, madame,” said Nanette, her trusted maid. The woman spoke in French so the others would not understand. “Even smiling, that one looks fiercer than your lord father ever did on his worst of days. You mark me well, he means you no good! No good at all. How can you marry such as he, especially now?”

Nanette’s dainty hands fluttered like crazed butterflies when she got excited and this Scottish knight certainly provided excitement if nothing else.

Honor ignored Nan then and stole another long look at Sir Alan. In a strange way, he appealed to her senses. However, handsome did not exactly describe him if one judged by court standards. No doubt many women swooned over him with a combination of terror and wild fantasy. Or simple lust. Not sensible women, of course. Not her.

His hair, a wild dark chestnut and probably combed with his fingers, escaped bit by bit from its tenuous tethering at his nape. A soft waving strand drifted over his high, wide brow and just missed covering one dark-lashed eye. Thick brows, a darker auburn than his hair, rose and fell, changing his expression from curiosity to satisfaction when Father Dennis approached him, Book of Prayers in hand. She liked the fact that he did not make the least attempt to conceal his feelings.

The knight’s full, mobile lips broke into an amazingly open smile, revealing two rows of even, unspotted teeth. He had good strong teeth, Honor noted, exasperated with herself for giving attention to that. One did not judge men as one did horses, after all. If so, Tavish might have been a fine, sleek Arabian, while this fellow looked a hell-inbattle destrier. But the teeth were fine, nonetheless.

Why had God seen fit to take her gentle Tavish and leave this warlike specimen to live? She could not help but question, though she knew it impious. Well, piety had gotten her nowhere.

Nanette pulled on her arm. “Listen to me! This man will be your undoing, madame. He will! Send him away and forget this nonsense.”

Honor tore her gaze from the knight and settled it on the old maid. “And then what, Nan? You know as well as I, someone would take his place. If not tomorrow, then the next day or the next, another will come. I cannot hope to hold this place alone. At least this chevalier knew my husband and cared enough to bring the body home. He promises to foster my child and protect us. Tavish knew I would need someone and he sent me this man. The king commands that we marry, so he surely trusts him. What would you have me do, forfeit everything I have to the Bruce and flee to France?”

“Oui!” Nanette said with an emphatic nod. “Just so! Let us go home.”

“Never!” Honor declared. “I would wed the devil himself before the comte de Trouville.”

“God help you, my lady,” Nanette whimpered. “This man may qualify! Look at those arms and fists. He might very well kill you should you raise his ire. And with your temper,” she said with a bob of her head, “I do not doubt me you will.”

Honor heaved a loud sigh and shook off Nan’s clutching hands. Her maid could be right, but life with her father held absolutely no hope at all. Honor felt reasonably certain she could handle this knight. He responded gently to her tears. She sensed an underlying compassion, concealed by that rugged warrior’s exterior. And surely there would be benefits in all that strength.

Chances were good that she might control the man and make him do her bidding. She had found a way with Tavish Ellerby and she would find a way with this one, though the two were different as a pigeon and a hawk. La! First comparing them to horses, then to birds. Consigning men to the level of animals stirred a bitter smile. Not so farfetched as all that.

“Go on, Nan, and order the women to prepare the solar. Take in some of the best wine and see to a tub for his bath. Father Dennis beckons me, so it must be time.”

She quit the group of women and approached the priest and the knight. This might prove the greatest mistake of her life, but thus far, her instincts had led her aright. She sensed Alan of Strode would wax tame enough if she kept her wits about her.

The father of her child lay dead now, unable to keep her past at bay, unable to secure their little one’s future. But perhaps he had, in his last moments, seen to it that someone else would. She thanked Tavish for that, for thinking of her, and for loving her as he had. Her husband had been a noble and admirable man and she would miss him greatly.

Despite her first stunned reaction and her grief at hearing that Tavish had died, Honor realized now that Alan of Strode offered her the only chance she had to hold what belonged to her and to Tavish’s child.

Unlike her first, this marriage would be real and binding for certain. Properly documented and witnessed. Tavish had arranged this union for her and wished her happy in it. She would comply with his plans, for his sake, her own and especially for their child’s.

“Sir Alan, Father Dennis, shall we proceed?” she asked, chin lifted and eyes bright. If the man respected bravery, she would pretend it. She certainly had enough practice in pretending.

“Well, ah, there are certain procedures,” said the priest. “There is the confession. You made your own just this mom, my lady, but—” He eyed the knight warily. “Sir Alan, if you would step into the alcove yonder, I would hear yours.”

Strode shook his head, his hands resting on his narrow hips. “Nay, I canna think of any reason to hide what I’ve to say. The lass should know what she’s gettin’.”

Honor perked up at that. A public confession? Unheard of.

“B-but, sir, ’tis always done in private!” Father Dennis gnawed his thin lips, glancing from one to the other several times. A titter of nervous laughter rippled among those listening to the exchange.

The knight stared them down with an arrogant look. When they fell silent again, he looked directly into the priest’s eyes. “Let her hear it. I’ll not lie.”

His brows drew together, this time in a thoughtful frown, as though searching his mind. Then he snapped his fingers and grinned. “Och, now I remember it! Forgi’ me, Father, for I have sinned!”

Father Dennis cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him, clutching his rosary and prayer book between them. “How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”

Strode flashed another frown, the tip of his tongue worrying the corner of his mouth as he rocked heel to toe to heel. Mental calculation apparently completed, he steadied. “Nineteen years, give or take a six-month. Aye, that’s right,” he said with a firm nod. “I was goin’ on seven.”

Nineteen years! There were murmurs of horror and a few giggles, quickly squelched with another piercing green glare.

“And what have you done since that requires forgiveness?”

Honor wondered just how long they would be standing here if he decided to list everything.

Strode seemed at a loss. He started to speak, snapped his mouth shut, then began again. “Well, what is it that matters here?”

“Do you believe in the One God, keep the Sabbath holy, honor your father and mother?”

“Aye for th’ most part, though I dinna like ’em all that much. The father and mother, that is. But I do give ‘em proper respect. ’Tis only right.” He looked triumphant. “Is that all, then?”

“Not all, but a beginning,” the priest said, looking askance at the penitent. “Have you killed anyone?”

“Oh, aye to that as well! Twenty or so, all English, mostly. Mayhaps one Welshmon. Before that, I recall only three. One, a thieving Cameron, and two nameless reivers what tried to steal my horse. All good, clean, righteous kills. Should be clear on that score!” His proud smile was blinding and totally guilt free.

A shocked silence ensued while the priest drew in a long breath and expelled it slowly. “And have you stolen?” he asked.

“Aye, all the cattle I could trod up for my uncle Angus. A few sheep here and there, but the buggers are devilish hard to herd!” He paused thoughtfully. “Did my part, but I’m thinking I coulda done a bit more had I put my mind to it. Aye, all right, then, I admit to a wee touch of sloth a few years back. Is there a penance for sloth, Father?”

Honor bit her lips together. Small wonder Tavish had liked him. The man was amusing, she had to give him that, though it seemed to be inadvertent.

She could hear Father Dennis’s teeth grind before he spoke. When he did so, he adopted a slow cadence, as though speaking to a half-wit. “These things—the killing, the stealing—are sins, Sir Alan. Sins! Not things you should do, but things you should not. Now then, have you lied?”

Strode clasped his hands behind him and hung his head, peering from under thick, dark lashes like a guilty child. There was something endearing about it, Honor thought. As though one could always depend on that very look every time he sinned. “I let Tavish Ellerby believe I could read, when I could not.” Then he went on the defensive. “But, mind ye, I ne’er said I could.”

“A lie of omission, the same thing,” the cleric declared in a stern voice. “Now, have you committed adultery?”

The answer accompanied a vehement shake of the head. “Nay, I would not! I never took another’s wife or betrothed.” A quick shadow of worry darkened his open features. “Unless... unless some of the lassies lied. Then that would be their own sin, eh?”

“Fornication!” the priest gasped. “You’ve had sexual congress with many women!” Father Dennis did not phrase that as a question.

Sir Alan grinned and combed a hand through his long waves, dislodging the frayed silk tie altogether. Honor never thought to see embarrassment and pride combined with such equality. “I’m hoping ye’ll not be asking for a head count there, Father. Guilty, wi’ damned little regret!”

The hall erupted into raucous laughter. Even Honor could not keep her face composed. She hid her mouth behind one hand and turned away. She was appalled, but God help her, wanting to giggle. What an outrageous scoundrel he was. Then her silent laughter faded to nothing. Tavish meant for her to marry this scoundrel. A killer, a thief and a womanizer. An unrepentant womanizer!

The priest waited until the hall quieted and then resumed. “Have you ever coveted another man’s wife or possessions?” he asked in a hushed monotone.

Alan of Strode answered in kind, looking directly at Honor with a troubled expression. “Aye, I have that.”

The admission and the man’s distress over it bothered Honor. He looked as though he meant he had coveted her. But the knight had never met her or, as far as she knew, seen Tavish’s lands or keep.

Father Dennis cleared his throat again and broke the spell. “Well, I should need a tally stick, mayhaps several of them, to tote up your penances. Will you repent for your sins?”

“Aye, certainly,” Strode answered. “Could we settle up later, d’ye think? I’m good for it.”

Father Dennis blew out an exasperated breath and shook his head. “Fine. Consider yourself absolved for the nonce. Go and sin no more.” Then he threw a surreptitious glance at the waiting tables. “Shall we get on with the ceremony?”

Honor stepped forward. She could see little point in postponing the inevitable—and what she now believed necessary—event. The more she thought on it, the more she appreciated Tavish’s idea. He could not have known the trouble she would encounter, but somehow had managed to send her a solution of sorts. She hoped.

While the priest’s words droned on, she let her gaze rest on Sir Alan’s hand, which supported her own. Rough calluses and broken blisters covered his broad, square palm. His nails looked recently pared, the fingertips scrubbed almost raw. He did not tremble as she did, Honor noticed. Strong, steadfast, supportive.

Hands told much about a person. She thought of Tavish’s hands, slender, well-groomed, agile, like the man himself. By comparison, this knight standing beside her looked a rough-and-tumble piece of work, the kind of man she dreaded. And needed.

“I will,” she responded when Father Dennis prompted her.

“You are man and wife together. Tate, the marriage lines, please,” the priest called to the tall young crofter he had selected to assist him. Spreading his brief document flat on the nearest table, he motioned Sir Alan forward and placed a slender finger on the bottom of the parchment. “Make your mark here, sir.”

Alan dipped the quill Tate provided and laboriously scrawled his name. Honor noted the pride with which he did so in spite of the awkward, all but illegible results. He then handed her the plume and she signed with a scratchy flourish.

“So, it is done. Felicitations, sir, my lady. May God bless and keep you both. The kiss of peace, if you please?”

Honor turned her face up to the knight, who blushed dark red. His wide-eyed gaze darted everywhere but at her. She smiled. Good lord, the man was shy? After all those women he had bragged of bedding? This seemed too much to hope for.

Honor reached for his face and pulled it down to hers, planting her closed lips squarely on his as was customary. Just as she relaxed her hold, she heard it; a soft, almost inaudible sound of yearning mixed with denial.

Their eyes locked at close quarter and she felt trapped in a green sea of anguish. Slowly, the lashes dropped over the emerald orbs and his lips descended again, this time open and probing. Here was a kiss, not of peace, but of raging need and dark promise. Her insides melted like butter on a hot scone.

Honor stumbled back, breathless, when he released her. At least he was not gloating. In fact, he looked as astonished as she felt. Her mouth throbbed, tingling with the taste of mint and something wild and uniquely him. Unsettling did not begin to describe how she felt.

Thoroughly disconcerted, Honor looked away, unable to face him longer. The crowd around them seemed stunned, or scared to death for her.

She was frightened for herself. What in the name of heaven had she done, wedding this wild Scotsman? She could as soon control the tides, or a tempest force wind as to order this knight about.

Honor jerked back instinctively as he lowered his mouth near her ear. He only meant to speak, she chided herself, gathering false calm like a cloak around her. “What is it, sir?” she whispered.

“Could we eat now, do ye think? I’m fair starved.”

She laughed a little, as much with relief as at his earnest inquiry. His kiss had shocked her, but perhaps he meant no harm by it.

Upon reflection, she realized Alan of Strode had done nothing underhanded, nothing sly at all since the moment he had arrived. So far as she could tell, he said what he thought, made clear his needs, and did what he felt was right even when it went against his own wishes. Could any man be that simple, she wondered?

Only time would reveal his true nature. At least she grasped a fighting chance to keep what Tavish had left her. More of a chance than she’d had yesterday.

Pushing aside her worries, Honor nodded toward the dais. “Our feast, such as may be, awaits. You must understand, rations are shortened with winter coming, and we had not expected a wedding. Roast hare is the best we can offer this night.”

“Tomorrow I’ll hunt,” he promised with a grin. “Have ye neeps?”

She rested her hand on his as they stepped up to the dais and took their seats in the carved chairs. “Turnips? We do, and in great supply. Also mutton for slaughter when the weather cools more. Our location was protected from the armies, thank God.” But not from the neighbors, she thought. Time enough later for him to realize that burden. Pray God he proved as fierce to her enemies as he had first looked to her.

The meal revealed that what few knightly virtues she had credited to Sir Alan of Strode did not extend to his eating habits. Honor fair lost her appetite watching him devour everything within reach.

His pleasure in the meal seemed almost wicked in its intensity. Little groaning noises of pleasure escaped his throat as it worked to swallow with gulps the steamed turnips. She looked away to hide her reaction.

Honor heard the slurping of ale go on as though he never meant to stop. The tankard thumped down on the table accompanied with a tremendous belch. “God, ’tis good brew, that!” he exclaimed.

She ventured a sidewise look and saw him rubbing his flat stomach with both hands. “Just how long since you last ate, sir?”

He grinned and pushed away from the table. “Like this? Oh, nigh on a year. Not since I left Malaig. Afore that, I canna say. On the march, we made do wi’ oats, most times dry when we couldna light fires to heat water. Some small game, half-cooked and wi’ no salt. Grubbed up wild tatties when we found ‘em. Picked a few greens here and there. Fish when we could tickle ’em out.

“Ahh,” he crooned, stretching one arm full length above his head. “Nothing like a full belly! I’m for bed an it please ye, lass. Sore tired, I am.”

He rose and held out a grease-filmed hand.

Honor took it gingerly. “Your bath awaits, husband.”

He threw his head back, affronted. “I had a bath this day!”

“You need another!” Honor retorted, risking his wrath. “You reek like—”

“Soldier?” he offered with a wry twist of his lips. He plucked at the surcoat. “Aye, ’tis this garb here. English. The gambeson was a bit gamey when I donned it, I will admit.”

Honor snapped her mouth shut and appraised what he wore with a careful eye. “English?”

He nodded, wrinkling his nose. “Took at Bannockburn. ‘Twas this,” he ran a hand down the front of his chest, “or m’ breacan. That’s still wet from th’ wash I gave it in the burn.”

“Come,” she ordered, feeling much like a mother with an errant child in tow. “We’ll see you to rights.”

Aside to Nanette who stood waiting, she instructed, “Unload his packs and have all the clothing cleaned.” Then she called to Tate, the priest’s assistant. “You, come and help Sir Alan off with his hauberk. Sand scrub it and dry it well so it does not rust.” To Father Dennis, she bade good-night and tugged her new husband into the solar.

So far, so good, Honor thought with satisfaction. He followed her suggestions like an overgrown lamb. Would he always be so docile? Dare she push him further? Not tonight, she decided. Tomorrow would prove the true test. When he had rested and realized that he, by law, ruled where he roosted, she would know the full extent of her folly.