The Knight's Bride
For safety’s sake, Honor allowed Tate to complete the knight’s disrobing and get him settled in the tub of steaming water. Meanwhile, she retired behind her dressing screen to ready herself for bed. When the splashing stopped, she reappeared wearing her long woolen robe. He was asleep in the tub, his knees drawn up to his chin and his wet head lolling forward.
She ventured a soft prod to one heavily muscled shoulder. “Sir? Sir Alan? Wake up. You cannot sleep in the bath. The water cools. Come now!” She poked again, this time harder.
“Hmmph,” he grunted, sitting bolt upright and sloshing water over the edge. “Och, sorry, lass! Stand away.” Hefting himself to his feet, he stepped out and fumbled for the toweling draped over the stool.
Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to force her eyes away from the massive body that looked twice as large unclothed. Smooth sun-browned skin reached to just below his waist. Resuming downward at knee level to include his huge, well-shaped feet. His nether cheeks gleamed almost white, as did the muscled thighs, which were dusted with golden hair.
Honor thanked God he was turned away from her. If he proved anywhere near as generously proportioned in front, she was not ready for a glimpse of that! A shiver of apprehension rippled through her middle.
With an industry to make any housewife proud, Honor busied herself turning back the coverlet and shaping the pillows. Anything to keep her eyes from straying near the bath.
“I’ll take th’ floor,” he said, so near her shoulder, she jumped with fright.
“No, do not!” she shrieked before she could stop herself. The words were meant to stop his advance, but he obviously misconstrued.
“All right, then,” he said. “If ye insist. I only thought ’twould make ye a mite shivery to sleep beside me.”
Still not daring to look at him, Honor heard the rustle of the mattress stuffing as he climbed into bed. She finally ventured a peek and saw about a third of the wide bed vacant and waiting. His strong back glistened with droplets of bathwater.
What should she do? Take to the floor herself? Were she more spritely and not heavy with child, she might. But there was nothing to sleep upon unless she rolled up in her robe and lay on the hard wooden boards. The cold window seat boasted only a few thin cushions. Where would she rest?
Soft, intermittent snores drifted up from the pillow, drawing her attention to the man in her bed. Honor quirked a brow. He appeared harmless enough for now. All she had to do was lie down and then wake before he did. He would never even know she was there, fatigued as he was. Gingerly, Honor stretched out beside him, carefully not touching.
After a few tense moments, she relaxed. What an exhausting day. But sleep eluded her as she reviewed the happenings. First Ian Gray had ridden up to her walls and offered—insisted, rather—on giving her his protection. His unruly gaggle of reivers frightened half the occupants of the keep into hiding and the rest to gathering makeshift weapons.
Honor had paid no mind when Gray loudly expressed his desire to wed her. She had called down that she already had a husband. Her men issued a shower of arrows over the visitors and cut short his next exchange. No marksmen, her small troop of defenders, but their hail of missiles pricked some few. Thusly treated, and probably given the lateness of the afternoon, Gray rode off, laughing and shouting promises to return anon. His keep, Dunniegray, lay nearby. She knew that from questioning her men.
Honor had to wonder now whether Ian Gray came because he had known she was already a widow. It stood to reason he did know it, else why would he have come here offering marriage?
Honor had barely seen the last of his men disappear into the wood when this rackety knight rode in with the shocking orders from Tavish and the king.
As wedding days went, this one left a lot to be desired. But it could have been worse, she admitted. Much worse. Ian Gray probably would not have been so kind as Alan of Strode in announcing her loss of Tavish. Or in waiting on a consummation.
She balked at the very thought of a marriage to the deranged Ian Gray. The man laughed and thumbed his nose at everything, even the threat of death! Sir Alan might not be the deepest of thinkers, given his rather amusing confession tonight. But at the very least, he did seem capable of an occasional serious thought.
Honor stole a glance at the broad back not half an arm’s length from her face. Light from the single bedside candle threw dancing shadows across the tanned expanse left uncovered by the sheet. The muscles, even in repose, appeared formidable. His skin, still damp, gleamed bronze like a statue after a soft rain.
An absurd longing to touch it proved almost irresistible. She closed her eyes against the impulse. What a foolish thought, prodding a sleeping giant. Still, against her will, her hand stole out and the pads of her fingertips pressed lightly against his shoulder blade.
Warmth suffused her as she allowed her palm to rest flat against the indentation of his spine. How different he was from Tavish, the only other man whose body she had ever willingly touched. The skin felt smoother, more finely grained, not downed and lightly freckled as Tavish’s had been. The padding over these bones felt solid, dense, in no way soft. Honor flexed her hand.
Huge muscles quivered, tensed, and then moved like flash lightning.
Chapter Four
Honor shrieked and snatched her hand away as the huge knight turned, almost rolling on her as he shifted to his back. Dark green eyes, heavy-lidded with fatigue, regarded her with a sleepy, unspoken question.
“Pardon,” she muttered, nearly nose to nose. “I did not mean to wake you. You are wet. I worry for your health.”
He gave a little grunt of a chuckle. “Lady, I’ve slept wet on th’ ground for nigh on a year now. This be my first night in a real bed since I turned seven years. Should I sicken, ’twould be from too much comfort, not lack of it.”
“You jest!” she exclaimed, subtly inching away from him to the very edge of the bed.
“Aye, betimes, but not about this. Dinna look afeared. I recall my promise and the bairn ye carry. ’Tis grateful I am ye let me share this much.”
He arched his back and sighed, wriggling out a comfortable niche in the soft, feather mattress. “Sheets,” he crooned. “I forgot how sleek they be.”
Honor inhaled sharply, her trepidation increasing with every shift of his overly large frame. His chest fairly commanded her attention. She could not seem to pull her gaze away from it. Mounds of muscle, crowned by small, flat nipples, heaved with every sensuous breath he took. An intriguing mat of springy curls lay in between, beckoning her hand. Tavish’s chest had been pale, flat and almost hairless. She clenched her curious hands into fists.
He moved again. Then Honor saw that what she had first thought a large patch of dirt he missed washing was a huge bruise surrounding an ugly, poorly stitched cut on his shoulder. “Sir! You’ve taken a wound! Why said you naught of it? Let me see!” She scrambled to her knees and leaned over him, touching the skin near the injury to see whether it felt feverish.
Sir Alan glanced down at it and winced. “I tended to it again today. Mayhaps my sewing’s not so dainty as yer own would be, but ‘twill hold this time. ’Tis on the mend.”
“I have herbs to aid that,” she offered, gently probing the area around the awkward stitching. How could a man sew his own flesh together? It did not bear thought. “It looks reddened.”
He cocked a brow, grinned, and looked straight at her nipples, which were beaded and quite visible through her bedgown. “So will yer face if ye don’t get off me.”
Honor flung herself back to her side of the bed and groaned with embarrassment.
“Are ye ill, lass?” he asked with what sounded like real concern. He rose up on one elbow and peered down at her. “Ye look a bit fashed. Does the child make ye sick?”
“No,” she replied quickly, forcing a smile. “I am past the time for that.”
“Ah well, I know naught of such things,” he admitted in a conversational tone, turning to his side and resting his head on his left hand. “But I should learn now, should I not?”
Honor shot him a wary glance and tried to scoot farther away. The very idea of his touching her made her shake with need. He would surely misunderstand her if she allowed his nearness. A plea dammed in her throat, but she feared what she might plead for if she let it out. She badly needed holding this night, but simply for comfort.
He looked quite willing to do that, but Honor knew he might insist on more. Saints, but she felt ridiculous! Looked ridiculous, as well, she supposed, this far gone with child.
“Will the babe come soon?” he asked as though he read her thoughts.
Honor let out the breath she was holding. “Next month.”
“Ye seem verra small to be so far gone,” he remarked, frowning at her mounded middle, which the covers hardly concealed.
In truth, she was. Nan had told her the babe would be a mite of a thing, given Honor’s own tiny size and Tavish’s slender build and lack of height. “I am fortunate there. Some women become quite unwieldy and have trouble getting about the last few months of confinement. Everything goes well, however. He is quite active, you see.”
“He? Who?” Strode asked, his brow wrinkling as though he had missed some part of their conversation.
“The child,” Honor said, laughing in spite of herself. The man must never have known a pregnant female. “The babe turns and kicks in the womb. Did you not know this?”
The look of surprised wonder on his face almost undid her. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and his eyes widened in delight. Then he laughed. “Truly? Do you tweak me?”
“No, it is true!” Honor declared, feeling quite superior and not at all afraid of him now. A gentle giant, she thought, smug in her newly confirmed assessment of him. Harmless.
He laughed again, softly this time. “I wonder what that must feel like to ye. Passing strange, I’d think.”
Without aforethought, Honor reached for his right hand, recalling its comfortable strength from the wedding ceremony and even earlier when he had delivered the awful news about Tavish. “Would you like to know?”
“To know what?” he asked, again a quizzical frown marred his brow.
“How it feels,” she explained as she dragged down the covers and placed his palm on top of her abdomen.
He uttered an exclamation of absolute awe when a tiny limb rolled against his hand. He shifted his palm. “There! Again! This is wondrous!” His ready laughter rang out around the chamber and he rolled closer to her, warming to the event as though it were a fascinating game.
Strong fingers undulated gently against the soft fabric that separated his touch from her tightly stretched skin. “Ah, Honor, how do ye bear such sweetness all the day and night? Can ye no’ wait to hold him in yer arms?”
His excitement like that of a small boy, the big knight’s features grew animated. “I cradled a babe once! The mother had a case in the laird’s court—stolen pig or some such—and she thrust the bairn at me to hold when she was called up.” A wistful expression softened his features even more. “I ne‘er forgot the trust in those wee lights. The smile. No fear or worry atall,” he said, recalling the incident with a faraway look. Then he pulled himself back to the present and beseeched her, “Could I hold yers when ’tis small, do ye think? Would ye mind?”
Honor felt tears rise at his question. How could she ever have feared a man who wore his feelings so near the surface, who felt such wonder at tending a peasant’s babe? She touched his face with her fingertips. “Tavish was wise to trust you, I think.”
Surprisingly, he retreated from her then, his smile dying as he withdrew his hand and lay back with a sigh. “Mayhaps not so wise.”
“You had other plans for yourself, did you not?” Honor guessed.
He smirked. “Oh aye, I did. Planned to chase the English right out of England and inta the sea, soon as we finished routin’ them from Scotland. There’s a right ambition, eh?”
Honor toyed with the edge of the coverlet, feeling even more at ease now that the conversation turned to politics. “You hate the English so much?”
“Nay, not all of them. My father’s English. I dinna hate him, though I feel no great liking for him, either.”
“What!” This one, half-English? Nothing he could have said would have surprised her more. She would have sworn Strode was a woven-in-the-wool highlandman.
He elaborated with a negligent wave of one large hand. “When my father was a young mon, a minor baron with a prosperous estate in Gloucester, he swore to King Edward. He rode under Gloucester’s banner in the war against de Montfort. Longshanks rewarded him with the post of sheriff at Rowicsburg and had him wed a MacGill lass for her dower lands. An Englishmon wi’ property in Scotland is apt to fight the harder to keep it under English rule, y’ see? Da’s land in Gloucester would be forfeit if he did not. So there he was then, a foot in both camps.”
“Your mother left him and took you north?” Honor guessed, since Alan was obviously reared in the Highlands and Rowicsburg a border castle. What other explanation could there be?
“Da sent her to her old home and me with her. What with our barons, Wallace, and Old Edward all scrambling for power, Da said we’d be safer well away from the border. King Edward was not above taking hostages to insure loyalty.”
Honor sensed his anger. “How old were you then?”
“Seven,” Alan replied.
“You hated leaving him, did you not?” She knew she ought to leave well enough alone, but he seemed to need to speak of it.
Alan smiled sadly, his profile clear, even in the near darkness. “Aye, I missed him, missed the family I took for granted, missed my friends. Especially Tav.”
“You knew Tavish even then? I assumed you just met on this last campaign.”
“He fostered a while at Rowicsburg before I left. Did he not tell ye? His mother married an English knight when she was widowed of Tav’s father. Old Beauchamp sent Tav to Da for training up in the English way. We were like brothers, though Tav was four years older than I.” A moment of silence hung between them. “When I had to leave, Tav stayed on. I hated him for it then, not knowing that he left as well soon after. We only just met up again when he came to fight fer th’ Bruce.”
Honor wanted to comfort that young lad torn from his home and friends. “At least you had your mother with you when you went away.”
He laced his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Aye, for a whole fortnight. Then she returned to Da.”
“Mon Dieu! She left you there?” Honor could not imagine a mother abandoning her child. “How could she!”
Alan smiled at her, apparently amused at her belated defense. “I was seven, after all. ’Tis the usual age to send out for fostering. Mam told me her brother Angus would treat me as the son he never had.”
“And did he?” Honor found herself caught up in his story, worried for the boy he had been.
“Aye, he did that. Beat me every day thereafter!”
Honor moved closer without a thought but to comfort. She cupped his face with one hand. “Beat you? Oh—” Tears streaked down her cheeks, but she made no effort to stop them. Her memories of swinging slaps and harsh accusations rose up and broke free.
A huge arm encircled her and drew her close. “Well, dinna greet over it!” She felt his laughter as much as heard it since her head rested against his bare chest. “Ah, Honor, ye have too tender a heart. I’d ne‘er have told ye had I known ye’d weep.” He drew away a little and caught her tears on one rough finger. “Here now, ’twas not so bad as all that.”
Honor knew how bad it was. She found it near impossible to stop crying long enough to speak. He made light of what had happened, his only defense against it. His pride would not allow him to admit the true horror of it to her, but she knew. God, how she remembered. “Only a base, mean coward raises his hand to his child! I hope you killed him when you grew old enough!”
“Killed him? What a thing to say! He’s my uncle, Honor.”
“He beat you! Called you foul names! Locked you away in the dark!” she accused. “You should kill him!”
“Nay, sweeting,” he soothed. “He didna do all that, I swear. He only strapped me when I cursed him and tried to run away. My own hardheadedness caused it. I acted the hellion on every waking hour for nigh a year. I earned every blow and more, believe me.”
Honor grasped his arm and drew him close, frantic to let him know she understood in spite of his denial. Better than anyone in the world, she understood. “You lie to soothe me, husband, but I know what you feel inside. You hurt still, but it’s over now. He cannot hurt you now. I will never let him beat you more!”
“Stop this!” he ordered, his voice brisk. “I tell ye ‘twas naught more than my uncle’s caring to make me behave as a mon and not some snot-nosed weakling. Ye make yerself ill wi’ all this weeping. Now cease!” He shook her gently.
Honor caught herself in midsob, aghast at her mistake. Her body lay flush against him, her heart thundered with grief for a much abused child. But Alan of Strode was not the child she wept for, she realized suddenly.
“I would sleep now,” she whispered, horribly embarrassed and at a loss as to how she might explain away her foolishness. Surely he would guess why she had taken on so.
“Aye,” he agreed, tenderness softening his voice to velvet as he smoothed her hair with his hand. “Sleep, mo cridhe.”
She almost missed his vow, hushed as it was. “No mon shall ever raise a hand to ye again. Not whilst I draw breath. I swear it on my life.”
Exhaustion stole over her as she lay within his arms. Did she dare believe he would keep such a promise? She feared she had already revealed too much of herself, far more than she had ever let Tavish see. Great danger lay in admitting one’s fear and vulnerability. No, because of all she knew to be true of men, Honor dared not take him at his word. She could not possibly give this knight her full trust after only a few short hours’ acquaintance.
For all his seeming straightforwardness and honorable promises, Sir Alan of Strode would bear watching. And her subtle direction, as well, in order to keep the upper hand in this alliance. This new husband of hers seemed entirely too good to be true. And if she had not learned anything else in her twenty-one years, Honor knew that what seemed too good to be true, was. Always.
Alan feigned sleep until he heard the slow, steady breathing that marked Honor’s slumber. Poor angel, he thought with a frustrated sigh. Her defense of him against his uncle told a clear enough tale of her own poor treatment. How long had that rogue father of hers tormented her?
Alan’s blood boiled with an eagerness to kill the man. Slowly. Painfully. Muscles tensed and trembled with the need of it. Red bursts of fury clouded his reason. He fought the tremendous urge to leap from the bed and head for France. Sorely tempting, but impossible, of course. Alan sucked in a steadying breath.
Hatred proved an unfamiliar and unsettling emotion for Alan. Even the opposing forces at Bannockburn had not engendered this feeling. That had been war, an impersonal conflict in which he understood the enemy’s motives. Greed and lust for power, he could fathom well enough in a man. He could not hate his uncle Angus just for being what he was, or his parents for their neglect. They were his blood and he loved them despite what they had done. But for a parent to attack a defenseless girl-child? Hatred might be new to Alan, but it had a name now. Lord Dairmid Hume.
Tavish had told him of the man, wondering why Hume laughed in his face and threw him out that summer in Paris when he had asked for Honor’s hand. Then, before the snows came, Honor had arrived in Scotland with the marriage contract in hand and her priest in tow. Perhaps Hume ran mad on occasion. Still, that did not excuse cruelty to one’s own get. The man sorely needed to die. God help the wretch if he ever set foot on Scots soil again and Alan heard tell of it.
He turned his head and examined Honor’s sleeping profile. A draft in the candlelight sent shadows dancing across her perfect features. God’s own jest, this faultless lady was his wife.
She had been right about one thing. Tav must have been caught up in the devil’s own fever to have wished her such a fate. Alan knew if he lived to be one hundred, performed all manner of charity, gave up all his sinful ways and prayed every hour on the hour, he would never deserve her. Not that he was likely to do all that. He was what he was. But even Tavish had not been good enough for Honor and had been quick to admit it.
Sadly, Alan closed his eyes and denied himself the pleasure of regarding her tranquil beauty. He would not impose himself on her, he decided firmly. Not ever. Such a gentle one as she must not be sullied by his rough touch.
He would husband her in his own way, then. With his life would he protect her. With all the wits he possessed he would try to amuse her and keep her content. He could guide her through life’s trials and train up her son to be an honorable man. All this he would do and gladly, he vowed fervently to himself. “But I will not touch her wi’ lust,” he whispered vehemently. “I will not!”
Next he knew, it was morning. Alan woke without the usual need to assess where he was. Long months of lying on a different spot each night engendered that in a man. This day he opened his eyes to a place that must be home. Alan had felt a peace creep through his very bones the moment he set foot inside Byelough Keep. So Tavish must have felt, he thought with a twinge of the guilt that had made itself a part of him the moment he set eyes on the lady Honor.
His heart had opened and enfolded the woman and this place immediately, before he ever heard the words Tavish had written to Honor. Even had his friend not bequeathed him the right to claim both, Alan knew he would have stayed on in some capacity. Mayhaps steward, guard, or crofter. Anything. He seriously doubted he could have made himself leave had the lady ordered it so.
For a long moment, he lay there, eyes closed, savoring the warmth of the small body curled next to his. Behind his lids, pictures of her teased him, Honor angry, Honor surprised, Honor smiling as she laid his hand against her middle, so generously offering to share her joy in the child.
Her sweet scent clung to the pillows, comforting his weary soul even as the down-stuffed linen cradled his head. The cadence of her soft breathing barely broke the silence of the dawn. A man should not ask for more than this, he thought. This perfect golden moment would he keep and hold forever.
She stirred and stretched, uttering a small groan. Alan lay still, watching her beneath his lashes. In the weak light from the window, he could see little more than the outline of her form. Still he did not move when she carefully rolled to her edge of the bed and stood with some effort. Without her usual grace, one hand pressed against her back, she moved behind the screen that partially blocked his view of the bathing tub.
He counted the sounds, most of which he identified. Intimate sounds he felt no right to as yet. Sounds a husband would hear as his wife readied herself for her day. There now, the soft splash of water poured from pitcher to bowl. The squeezing of a soaked cloth into it. A louder breath, just short of a sigh. Rustling fabric as she dressed herself. Alan smiled. Here was home.
Patiently he waited, feigning sleep so as not to betray his fascination, until she emerged to locate her comb. It lay on the table near the bed. Only when she took it up and began to draw it through her long, dark tresses, did he pretend to wake.
“Good morn,” he muttered. She only jumped a little. “You rise early,” he commented as he sat up and ran his hand over his face, stopping at his mouth to stifle a yawn.