Tempted by the Border Captain

Tempted by the Border Captain

Blythe Gifford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Copyright

Chapter One

The Dowager Queen’s Castle near the Scottish Borders

Spring, 1529

Five days. Mon Dieu! How was she to have all in readiness for the queen’s visit in only five days?

Mary Betoun gazed up at the massive stone house and towers as she rode into the courtyard. The Dowager Queen had not been to this Borders property since Mary had been in her household, but now that the queen had remarried, she had embarked on a tour of all her properties.

Mary was glad to see the queen happy again. She was well rid of her second husband—the Border lord who had made her life, and that of her son, the king—so miserable.

Savages, all of the men from these hills.

Yet, Mary had been given the challenge of bringing comfort and culture to this retreat in the rudest, most treacherous part of the country.

Well, at least it would keep her so busy she’d have no time to think of Oliver Sinclair.

Where was he now? she wondered, as the page helped her dismount. With that woman? That new bride of his?

“Mary? Wee Mary?”

She turned toward a vaguely familiar voice. “Jamie? Jamie Davison?” She had to lift her chin in order to meet his eyes. “You’ve grown, you have.”

He grinned. “And you’ve grown not at all, Wee Mary.”

Yes, that was Jamie Davison. Rankling her just as he had when he’d been Long Jamie—a tall, young squire she met when she was new in the Queen’s service. Everyone called her Wee Mary, but he said it with the lilt of laughter on his tongue.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. She had no time for foolish distractions this week.

“I’m captain of the castle guard.”

No way to avoid him, then. “And I’m here to insure all is ready when the queen and her new husband arrive next week.”

“Oh?” Jamie’s tilt of the head and his sideways smile were just as she remembered. “Are you, now?”

Incroyable. His words seemed to mock her, just as they had when she’d been a maid of twelve and he had teased her before he stole a kiss.

She no longer deserved his teasing. She was a woman grown and had danced with Scotland’s king. “I am a lady-in-waiting to the mother of the king.”

“Not waiting on a husband of your own?”

She felt her cheeks flame. Cruel reminder that she was pining for a man she could not have. “And have you a wife to wait on you, then?”

Suddenly, she hoped the answer was no. Immediately, she scolded herself. She had known Jamie as a young squire, an awkward lout of fourteen, new to court, new to everything. He had made her laugh, then, and when he did, she forgot to worry about pleasing the queen or perfecting the steps of the Pavanne.

When he made her laugh, just being Mary was enough.

But nine years had passed since then. She knew how to please the queen and dance the Pavanne, and she knew many men infinitely preferable to this rough-edged Borderer. He interested her not in the least.

Though he had grown much taller and his brown eyes twinkled.

“No wife,” he said. “Do you think it’s time I married?”

She turned her back and started toward the low building that must house the kitchen. “I don’t think of you at all, Jamie.” And she hadn’t. Not in years. “But if I did, I would think that you’ve not married because no woman would have you.”

He gave quick instructions to the men to care for her horse and belongings then fell into step beside her, impossible to ignore.

“Ah, Mary, a cruel taunt for an old friend.”

She swept him with her eyes. Strong, good looking, though she would never tell him so. “I spoke in haste. When you want a wife, I’m sure you’ll find one.”

Oliver Sinclair certainly had.

A smile, edged with sadness, flickered across his face. “Ah, Mary, I hope you are right.”

“I’ve no time to waste with you. I must speak to the cook.” She swept into the kitchen and shut the door.

And found herself in a dark, windowless storage cellar.

Outside, she heard laughter.

Chapter Two

Wee Mary Betoun was just as he remembered her, Jamie thought, laughing at the door she had closed in his face.

Only one thing was different.

Something, or someone, had hurt her.

She was a woman who needed to laugh again. And he was just the man who could make her do it.

He pushed open the door to the cellar. “Lost?”

Inside the dark storage area, she faced him, pouting in furious frustration, small and fierce as a warbler, reminding him of the young maiden he’d stolen a kiss from all those years ago. Yet now, eyes flashing, hands on her hips, she looked all woman. And vexed.

She swept out the door and past him. “You might have told me that this was not the kitchen!”

“And miss the laugh?” He motioned to the left. “Up the stairs.”

She looked up and muttered. “Comment puis-je…?” Her question faded and a frown creased her brow.

She was right to worry. It was no royal palace, but this Border castle had five towers, four cellars, stables and mews, and acres of forest surrounding it. Without his help, Mary would barely find her way before the queen arrived.

She turned pleading eyes to him. “In five days, all must be parfait.”

“Nothing is ever perfect.” He had learned that lesson. And how to make the best of every situation.

And he was definitely going to make the very best of Mary’s unexpected return to his life. In fact, he might have the perfect plan. “I’ll help you, but I need your help, too.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? How?”

“First, do not order me about like a page.”

Her cheeks turned the most beautiful shade of rose. He couldn’t hold back a smile.

“S’il vous plait,” she said. “I mean, please.”

“I know what it means.” Did she think he spoke no French? Clearly her disdain of the Borders had not changed. “Second, I would ask you to prepare me to be a man that a maid might wed.”

Her eyes widened. “You want to marry? Who?”

“Anyone!” Not the truth, but all he would say for now. “If I’m not to be rejected out of hand, I must prepare.”

“Has a woman refused you?”

He smiled. “I am hoping to forestall that.”

“Well, if she asks my opinion, I’ll tell her the truth.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Mary. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She glanced toward the nearest tower. He had kept the castle in good repair and collected the queen’s rents, but without his help, Mary would scarcely be able to find local serving girls in five days, let alone train them to serve a queen.

She faced him again. “Can you dance?”

Better not to admit all or he’d have no excuse for her to teach him. “I have not been much at court. There must be new dances.”

“Sing?”

“No.”

“Recite verse?”

“No.”

“Distinguish a claret from a malvery or a procras?”

“One of them is drinkable.”

“Five days?” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Begin with the kind of man you would want to marry.”

There was the sadness in her eyes again. The look that said she had found the man and lost him.

Still, she did not speak.

He clung to his smile and shrugged. “The queen has high standards. And it’s a large castle.”

Her pout returned. “Your blackmail is as blatant as a reiver’s.”

“Don’t worry, Wee Mary. Say yes and in the end, we’ll both have what we want.”

And what he wanted was to know what Wee Mary Betoun wanted—in a husband.

Chapter Three

Mary studied Jamie’s face, wondering what he was plotting. “You used to tease me.” Unmercifully. “Do you do so now?”

“No,” he said without a smile.

A breeze shoved a cloud across the sun and in the shifting light of the courtyard, he looked as if he were thinking of someone. It must be how she looked when she thought of Oliver.

Who was she, this woman Jamie cared for? Jealousy pinched her.

“Well?” Jamie held out his hands, presenting himself for her approval. “What must I change?”

She cleared her throat, finding her heart was beating faster. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” The grin again. “Then I am perfect as I am.” He folded his arms, as if the matter were settled.

“No!” She could not let him think that. “You are most assuredly not parfait. “

“Then what do I need to change?”

Suddenly, she could think of nothing about him that needed changing.

Mary stared at him, nursing her temper back to life. “Even if I teach you dancing and poetry, women will not find you attractive.”

If she had thought he would be dismayed by that, she was mistaken. “Why not?”

“Your eyes, for example. Women prefer blue eyes.”

“Do they now?” He crossed his eyes as if he were trying to see them.

A giggle escaped before she could stop it. “Well, some do.”

“Do you?” No laughter now. Just his brown eyes, holding hers.

She hesitated. She had pined for Johnnie Brunson’s blue eyes once. Then she had preferred Oliver Sinclair’s greenish ones. Right now, brown seemed infinitely preferable. Jamie’s eyes held at once a twinkle and a smolder, as if he were looking at her and thinking…

Goodness. What was he thinking?

Quickly, she glanced away. “I suppose some women like brown eyes.”

Her words restored his smile, but she could not let his smug expression stand. “But you are too tall! That, I can do nothing about!”

“Too tall?” He bent his neck to meet her eyes.

“Oui.” She hoped her voice held the proper conviction.

He tilted his head, as if considering, then put his hand on her shoulder. “Come, stand by me.”

He pulled her closer, and the closer she came, the taller he seemed. She reached only so high as his heart and had to tilt her head back to see his face.

His heart, now so near she could feel the beat of it.

And of her own.

“Yes,” she said, disguising the shake in her voice with annoyance. “You are most certainly too tall.” She stepped back. “That cannot be fixed.”

“Most women are not so short as you,” he answered. “Perhaps I could wed a taller woman.”

She fought an unwelcome twinge of regret. Let him wed who he would. She cared not. “No,” she said. “I can do nothing. Rien.”

He grabbed her hand, still within easy reach of his long arms. “You would force me to live my life alone?”

“Why not?” she said, fighting tears for Oliver. “I will live my own life so.”

She bit her lip. Too late to take back the words.

Chapter Four

Jamie forced himself not to smile. He was not too late, then. Whoever the man she longed for was, he was no longer in her life.

“You mock me, Mary. You’re a wee thing, it’s true, and you’ve a bit of a tongue on you, but I’m sure some man will have you.”

She snatched her hand away. “And some witless fool of a woman might have you.”

But you are the one I want, Mary.

Aye, the memory of his sweet Mary’s smile had stayed with him through all the days and miles since he’d seen her last. Now, as if he had waked from a dream, he knew why.

Because he was going to marry the woman.

She’d run away from him once. He’d not lose her again.

She smiled, and he saw again the dimple on her right cheek. He had dreamed of that dimple for years. He would kiss her there first, and then….

Patience. Patience. “It seems,” he said, glad his voice did not fail him, “that I must find a woman who fits me as I am. Clearly she must be taller than you, wee thing.”

A small pout popped onto her lip. He kept his inner smile hidden. Aye, a bit of jealousy would be good for the lass.

Jamie was not by nature a patient man, and he could tell he would need every stitch of his patience to coax Mary into his arms.

“Come. Show me,” he began. “Without your cap, your head comes up to…” He put a hand atop her head, knocking her headpiece askew.

“Stop!” She reached for it and her fingers hit his hand instead.

He squeezed them, then, just as quickly, let them go and swept off the cap altogether. “I must not be fooled by a hat.”

She snatched it away, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. “Tis a French hood, not a hat.”

He was gaining the upper hand. Good. “Now, what about your feet?”

She looked down, but neither of them could see what lay beneath her skirt. “My feet?”

“Your hat might lift your head, but so might your shoes.”

She lifted her skirt and pointed her toe. “My shoes are as flat as any woman’s.”

He swallowed, ignoring the glimpse of her ankle and the thought of exploring higher. “Then let’s see what height a woman must be if she is to match a man as tall as I.”

Before she could protest, he grabbed an empty bucket and overturned it. “Stand on this.”

She stamped her foot. “You mock me because I am sae wee.”

“And you mock me because I am so long!” He tried to look offended. “I ask for your help and all you do is complain of things I cannot change.” Without a pause, he grabbed her about the waist and put her atop the bucket. “Now. Could I kiss a woman who is this tall?”

He leaned closer. Her lips were almost within his reach. Just an inch more and…

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