His Border Bride. Blythe Gifford

these walls.

      ‘Alain is back now,’ she said. ‘We’ll be able to resolve our future.’

      Only the war had kept him from asking for her. She was certain.

      Her father tossed back the rest of his drink. ‘Well, if it’s the lily-livered Frenchman you want, I won’t stop you.’

      ‘Alain was the one who wanted to fight the English honourably, by the rules of chivalry, as war should be fought.’

      ‘Daughter, we’ve chased Edward back over the Border, whether Alain likes the way we did it or not. The enemy is out of the country. But you need t’know something. I made an agreement with Lord Douglas.’

      The set of his chin made her uneasy. ‘What kind of agreement?’

      ‘Something that will secure Carr’s Tower for my grandchildren.’

      ‘What’s that?’ She cared nothing for the tower and the lands. While as the only child, she might hold them after her father’s death, she had assumed that once she left for France, Lord Douglas would award them to some distant cousin of the clan.

      ‘Well, it began the night we almost captured Edward near Melrose.’ He sat forwards, launching into a tale. ‘We had the trap all set. We would have caught him, too, if William Douglas had listened to me. I told him not to wait for better weather, but he was listening to no man and—’

      ‘Da! What have you done?’

      ‘Well, we broke into the ale and I got William good and bungfued and reminded him of the promise he made to your mother as she lay dying on her bed.’

      ‘What promise?’ Her father was well on his way to being bungfued himself. ‘You’ve never said a word of this before.’

      ‘He promised that her wee daughter, only child of my poor darlin’ wife, could keep Carr’s Tower when she married and that I could choose the man.’ He leaned back, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘I’ve got William’s word, and witnesses.’

      She blinked, searching for her tongue. Difficult to imagine her French-born mother forcing such a promise. ‘I’m sure Alain will be glad of that.’ He would appreciate the income, at least, meagre as it might be. A steward could see to things. ‘We’ll certainly visit every few years.’

      ‘No! Ye canna protect the border from France! If it’s Alain ye want and who wants ye, you’ll have to stay here, or I’ll not approve the match.’

      ‘But he has his own lands, his own responsibilities.’

      ‘So do you. Your husband must be here to hold it. Himself.’

      She closed her eyes in dread. Surely her mother, no lover of Scotland, had not foreseen this. ‘I’m sure Mother never meant to tie me here.’

      ‘Ye don’t know everything, daughter. She trusted me to do what was best for you and for Carr’s Tower.’

      Clare bit back further protest. If Lord Douglas had made a promise to her mother and her stubborn father had his way, her wishes would have little sway. She must think of one thing at a time. First, Alain must speak for her. Then, she would raise the conditions with him, and find a solution.

      But now, the one thing she craved from this marriage appeared to be the one thing she could not have. Instead of leaving this place behind, she’d be trapped here for ever. She tried to picture sitting with Alain in front of the tower’s hearth instead of in the chateau’s hall. Suddenly, her life with him looked strangely different.

      And not nearly so appealing.

      As word of his identity emerged, Gavin’s easy camaraderie with his fellows evaporated.

      Men who had shared a trencher with him only a day before shunned him. He sat alone at meals. Spent his days in silence.

      A few nights later, Gavin approached two of them after dinner in the hall and held out his dice. ‘A wager?’

      Dark eyes, sullen, met his. Inglis. Fire-raiser. The man did not have to speak it. ‘You’ve nothing I want to win.’

      ‘If I lose, I’ll take your duty while you take your ease.’

      ‘And if you win?’

      ‘You’ll come with me on a trip across the top. There are cattle that need help to find their way home.’

      The suspicion on their faces melted just enough for him to sit down and trace a circle for the dice.

      He did not intend to lose.

      Several nights later, Clare lay restless and warm in her bed. Alain had not yet spoken of their future. She tried to imagine it, what he might say. How he might ask.

      How a lady might raise the question if he didn’t.

      Instead, Fitzjohn crowded her thoughts. The twist of his smile. The darkness behind his eyes. The fire he had raised in her body.

       Would you like to be burning in your bed?

      She flopped from one side to the other. It should be Alain that filled her dreams.

      She threw back the covers and went to the narrow opening in the tower wall, letting the damp breeze cool her face. Drizzly darkness hid the moon. The hills, one softly nestled against the next, offered only shades of black, this one tinged with green, that with blue, the next shading to grey.

      A sound, subtle as the shadings of black on the hills. Muffled.

      A man on a horse.

      Fear stopping her breath, she stared into the darkness. It was late in the season for a raid, but the Robsons never cared much for the calendar.

      No. Not horses coming. Someone leaving.

      She strained her eyes and saw the dark outline of a man, cloaked. He rode a small, black horse with blanketed feet, stepping as quietly as if the mount could see the loose stones and avoid them.

      She recognised the man. His height, his shape, the way he sat.

      Fitzjohn.

      He had sworn on his knight’s honour not to harm them, yet he crept away in darkness. To rendezvous with the Inglis? She turned away from the window. She must tell her father, raise the men, stop him.

      The tread of a second horse drew her back. Another man.

      Finally, a third.

      Silent, she watched the darkness swallow them as they rode towards the hills. A smile tickled her lips.

      Perhaps Fitzjohn was a Scottis man after all.

      The baron flopped over in bed, snoring like the devil.

      Murine sat up. ‘Wake up, ye piece of horseflesh. I hear something.’

      He snorted. Murine sighed. He could be a lout, but she loved him, for all the good it would ever do her.

      She shook him. ‘Ralph! Wake up and listen.’

      He snorted awake then, and closed his mouth to let his ears work.

      ‘It’s a horse.’ She didn’t wait for him, but left her bed and went to the window of her small cottage. ‘No. Three of them. Someone is leaving.’

      He didn’t bother to get up. ‘Come back to bed, Murine. It’s the boy.’

      She turned. ‘The boy? Fitzjohn? How can ye be sure?’

      He turned on his side and patted the mattress for her to come back. ‘Because I sent him. Thought he would take the bait. Three horses, ye say?’ He nodded, smiling. ‘He’s done well already.’

      She put her hands on her hips, bigger now than those years ago, when he had first taken her to his bed. ‘Ye’re a thieving rascal. Did ye send him after the Robson’s cattle?’

      He grinned, eyes still closed. ‘Well, if I did,