Beloved Stranger (33 page)
Authors: Patricia Potter
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Scottish
Brother of the Maclean laird. Not just a Maclean but the chief’s family. He would be safe now. “And myself and Audra?”
“I want you wed because ye need the protection.” His eyes searched hers. “Ye did not answer my question. Do ye love the Scot?”
“Nay,” she lied. It was over in any event. He would leave for his own home, his family. Most likely a wife. “I just saw so much death, and felt I had to try to save one. English or Scot.”
“Ye are too soft for the border, Kimbra.”
“Nay. I love the border.”
“Ye do not care to see him then?”
She hesitated a moment too long.
A gleam came into his eyes. “Ye and Audra can have a few moments.”
“I would like to see him alone first. I . . . there’s something I need to tell him.”
He nodded. “Do not lie to me again, Kimbra. I will not be so soft next time. If he had not saved my life, I would turn him over to the crown, ransom or not.”
She backed away before he changed his mind.
In minutes she was outside the room the Scot had previously occupied. There was no dungeon in the tower. No cells. But it would be impossible for one to leave.
The door opened, and Jock, who had brought her, stepped away as she entered. The door closed behind her.
The Scot was standing. She imagined he had probably been pacing the floor. His eyes were difficult to read. There was no ready smile.
She had not expected one. It had been terrible of her to keep his brooch from him. He had lost days when he might have remembered. Remembered and escaped.
She wanted him to take her in his arms again. She wanted to lean against him and forget everything that had happened since they’d made love next to the stream.
“The Charlton said he will ransom you,” she said.
“My brother will pay it.”
“He is the Maclean?”
“Aye, unless my older brother returns. But he has been away more than seven years now.”
“And your wife?”
“There is no wife,” he said with a hint of a smile.
Relief flooded her, though she had no right to it. She had no right to him. “You . . . mentioned a brown-haired girl?”
“My brother’s wife. She died a long time ago.”
Something in his eyes changed. She had been more than his brother’s wife.
“It is all back then? Your memory?”
“Not all. Not the moments during the battle. I do not know what happened to my king or to my best friend or the man who was a second father to me.” His voice broke slightly.
“But you will go home.”
“Aye for a while. I canna’ stay here, not as a Scot. Having a Scot in residence might try my host’s hospitality.” There was a ghost of a smile on his lips.
They were talking like strangers. It was the first time since he’d discovered the crest. There had been, of course, those few moments after the wolf attack, but that had been pure emotion. Now he’d had time to think about what she’d done, how she’d kept away something that might have helped him piece back his life. Now he knew what she was.
She shivered.
He touched her shoulder then. “Will you go with me?”
She looked up into his face. She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted that. But how could she—an English reiver’s widow—be accepted into his life, into his family? She was not only an enemy but a thief who robbed the dead.
She knew only too well that the Charlton had disowned his daughter for marrying a Scot of equal class. How would Lachlan’s family view this liaison, even marriage, with a reiver’s widow? An enemy and a thief.
She could not do that to him, even though her heart was breaking. She looked up at him. “My home is here. I am an Englishwoman.”
“I thought you feared staying here.”
“The Charlton has assured me I can marry who I wish,” she countered, fighting back tears.
“Then wed me. I have no wife.”
“You are a Scot, and I am English. You are of a fine family. I am a reiver’s woman. The Charlton disowned his daughter when she married a Scot. Your family will disown you. I could not bear that.” She hesitated, then added, “You are grateful now, and I am grateful that you saved Audra. But gratitude is not enough for a marriage.”
“Is that all you believe it is? Gratitude?”
“We are . . . drawn to each other. But that does not last. If you lose everything else, you will come to hate us.”
He leaned down, and his lips touched hers, softly at first, then demanding as she responded. She stood on tiptoes as his arms tightened around her until she thought she could no longer breathe.
She could feel the blaze where their bodies touched, their lips met, and their eyes caressed in such intimate ways. She knew she should tear herself away, but she wanted this last kiss. This would not last, but for the moment she would embrace it. Never to know again the singing in her heart, the flight of that part of her soul that so craved him.
The kiss became frantic, a greedy fire needing fuel. A terrible thirst demanding relief. Their kiss turned searing, full of need, and she knew an ache so deep in her body, she wondered how it could ever be relieved. She memorized every second, and never wanted to let go.
He was the one who drew back, his blue eyes searching hers. “Drawn? Lass, I think it is far more than that.”
She was numb, yet she knew what she had to do. No matter the intensity of their need for each other, it could not last.
He touched her face. “Do you not know I could never hate you? I could do naught but love you.”
“It is impossible.” She heard the words but didn’t know who was speaking them. Mayhap someone bleeding from the heart. But she had to be wise for all of them. She could not destroy three lives. Possibly more.
His eyes grew still. “My family will love you,” he said. “My brother would not care if you are English or Scot.”
“How could they not?” she said in a voice that was all pain. She moved back from his touch. “All the Scots dead at Flodden.”
She opened the door and almost knocked down Jock in the process. She saw his startled look, then her eyes glazed over and she almost stumbled.
Jock caught her. “If he hurt ye . . .”
“Nay.” Then she fled back to her room.
L
ACHLAN watched the door open and then close behind her. She did not look back.
He wanted to go after her, but he could not. Even if he had not heard the key turning in the lock, he could not. His body still thrummed from the passion that erupted in him. But she had no faith in him. And the two—or three—of them.
Mayhap she had reason. The circumstances of her birth had made her wary. But he had hoped she would come to believe in him.
He picked up the brooch from the table where he had laid it. He had meant to give it to her when he saw her. He’d had no chance. He looked at it now and thought about the doors it had opened in his mind. It had once meant everything to him. Now it meant nothing.
The sun suddenly hit the crest, and it seemed a live thing in his fingers.
He remembered the day Rory had given it to him.
They had returned to Inverleith after exposing a traitor to the crown, and Rory had won the right to marry a Campbell.
Three weeks after returning, Rory had found him looking out over the sea.
“Would you like to go to sea?” he asked. “Take my place as owner?”
“I know nothing about the sea.”
“You will learn quickly enough. I have a good shipmaster. You would be doing the buying and selling. You have a head for books and numbers.”
“You would trust me?”
“I already have trusted you with my life.”
Nothing could have pleased Lachlan more. Neither the last declaration nor the opportunity to leave a place full of bad memories.
He nodded. “I will try it.”
Rory then took something from his pocket. It was wrapped in rich velvet. “I commissioned this in Edinburgh. It just arrived.”
He had taken the piece of velvet, opened it slowly, and saw the crest. A large lump lodged in his throat. He had never felt accepted as a Maclean. He’d always been the odd outsider, the strange one who preferred books and music to weapons and training.
This brooch said that, at last, he was a true Maclean.
It had been his most prized possession.
When he had seen it in Audra’s hand, the memories had flooded back. All the emotions connected with it. Pride. Belonging.
Now it burned his fingers.
R
ORY Maclean, Jamie Campbell, and an Armstrong had glasses of ale in a tavern on the English side of the border. The Armstrong ordered for them, and they took a table distanced from other patrons so their words would not be heard.
Rory knew he smelled of sweat and horses. The rough material of his clothes chafed skin more accustomed to the fine wool of his plaid. His beard had grown, and he disliked that as well. But it made him far less conspicuous.
They waited. Mary Armstrong was also traveling with them. She had been given money to go to the village merchant for oats. And information.
This, according to the Armstrong, was Charlton land.
Three days had passed since they had left. The Armstrong had left word of the route they planned to take, just in case there was word of Lachlan. Everywhere they went, they asked about a lad and a black hobbler, as horses were called here. They also asked if anyone had heard about a ruby and diamond brooch.
So far all of their efforts to find Lachlan had met with failure. He had been generous with his gold, and now it was rapidly declining. If Lachlan or Hector still lived and ransom was demanded, he would be hard put to meet it.
Rory stretched out his long legs and mournfully contemplated the cup of ale. If it had not been for the lad and the church at Branxton, he might have given up. He’d had high hopes for this village, and his gaze had gone to every man and lad they passed. None brought back that fierce start of recognition he’d felt during the fight days ago.
That scene continued to haunt him.
It had seemed like a sign to him. God’s promise.
He’d wanted to come directly here, but there had been other small villages on the way, and it did no harm stopping in them first. But now he wondered whether the journey was a fool’s errand. The Charlton raider the other night could not have been Lachlan.
They were just finishing the tankards of very bad ale when the door opened and two reivers entered. They went to the proprietor, obviously full of important news. “That soldier staying with Mistress Charlton. They say he is a Scottish noble. A Maclean, ’tis said.”
In moments the tavern was buzzing with questions. Rory had to force himself not to join in. He allowed the Armstrong, whose accent was similar to the ones he was hearing, to make queries.
“He is alive?”
“Aye. Kimbra Charlton, Will’s widow, apparently found him, thought he was English, and nursed him back to health. The physician said it was a miracle he lived. Either that or black arts. Given the fact he is a highborn Scot, it was most likely the latter.”
Snickers broke out.
“Maclean, ye say?” someone asked.
“Aye, but pretending to be English. He even took part in that raid against the Armstrongs. He was the one who saved the Charlton’s life.”
“Probably set the ambush up hisself,” one listener muttered.
Rory tried to hide his elation. So it
had
been Lachlan. God help him, what if he had killed Lachlan? Why had his brother not said anything? Why hadn’t he turned and left with them? Why was he fighting the Armstrongs at all?
had
been Lachlan. God help him, what if he had killed Lachlan? Why had his brother not said anything? Why hadn’t he turned and left with them? Why was he fighting the Armstrongs at all?
Loyalty.
A Charlton lass had apparently saved Lachlan’s life. Mayhap that had something to do with it. But surely Lachlan had recognized him, even though his own face had been partly covered by the steel helmet. Why had he not followed?
A Charlton lass had apparently saved Lachlan’s life. Mayhap that had something to do with it. But surely Lachlan had recognized him, even though his own face had been partly covered by the steel helmet. Why had he not followed?
None of it made sense.
He and Jamie exchanged glances, rose, and left the tavern. It was filling fast, apparently to hear and discuss the news. They were strangers, and now that a Scot had been discovered in their midst, the villagers might ask questions of other strangers.
They saw Mary Armstrong walking rapidly toward them. Apparently she’d heard the news as well. They mounted their horses and rode from the village.
When well away, they stopped and exchanged information with Mary.
“He is at the Charlton tower,” she said. “I know it. It is much like the Armstrong tower. Ye cannot get into it.”
“What do they plan to do with him?” Jamie asked.
She shrugged. “Some say hand him over to the English. Others want ransom.”
“Who decides?”
“The Charlton. Thomas Charlton. He leads the family.”
“The one they say Lachlan saved?”
“Aye.”
“Do you know where this woman lives, this Kimbra?”
Mary smiled. “Aye. I asked. It seems that she has a black hobbler as well.”
He gave her one of his precious gold pieces. “My thanks. You can give me directions to her dwelling, and I’ll decide then what to do. You can return home.”
“I would rather stay, milord. I might be able to help.”
“It could be dangerous. I doubt the Charltons care for Armstrongs at the moment.”
She acknowledged the danger with a bob of her head. “I will go with ye,” she said.
Chapter 24
HER heart crumbling, Kimbra returned to her own chamber.
As promised, Audra sat next to Bear, petting him. Bear’s huge tail beat a tattoo on the rug that covered the stone floor. At seeing her, Bear rose to his feet and stood there, tongue lolling in front, tail wagging in back.
She kneeled and very carefully gave him a big hug.
He licked her face.
It was all right, though. She needed that affection.
“How is Mr. Howard?” Audra asked.
“It is Maclean,” she said.
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