The Knight's Bride. Lyn Stone

of helplessness over the top of her head. “Father Dennis, a posset to soothe?” he suggested, hoping to stir the befuddled young fool into action. Some priest, this one. Unmoving as a standing stone and about as much use. “Th’ lass is overset! Bestir yerself!”

      “No! No posset!” she said, shoving away. “I’ll hear this now. All of it.” Savagely, she wiped her face with the edge of her linen undersleeve and sniffed loudly. Within seconds, she had composed herself and raised her brave wee chin. Large, luminous eyes brimmed with more tears, which she refused to let fall. Her braw courage near cracked his heart in twain.

      “Come you,” she ordered briskly. She grasped Alan’s wrist with both hands, guided him to the padded window seat and pushed him onto it. She remained standing so they were near eye to eye. “Now you will tell me. Father Dennis, would you see to—” She paused to draw a deep breath. “See to my lord’s remains?”

      Alan shook his head, looking from her to the priest. “I did that already. He bides little more than a league away, ’twixt the Tweed and a wee burn. That’s what he wished.”

      The winged brows drew together in a scowl. “Not home to Byelough? Why?”

      “He didna want ye seeing him as he was. I promised.”

      She gulped, touching her chin to her chest. “How...how was he, then?”

      “Met death as he met life, head up and leanin‘ forward. ’Tis all ye need know.”

      “Devil curse you, sir! I would know it all. Everything. I must!” she demanded, biting her lips and wringing her hands together. A visible shudder ran through her, but then she braced up like a soldier.

      Alan drew her to the wide seat and pulled her down beside him. Looking directly into her tear-brimmed eyes, he gave exactly what she asked for. “Toward the end of the fight, an English blade took Tav’s leg ‘twixt knee and hip. I tied it off and put fire to seal it soon as I could strike one up. Then I found an English baggage wain to cart him home. He died four days ago. I gave him what solace I could, my lady. Ye gave him more, I’m thinking, if ’tis any comfort at all. He loved ye well and worried for ye.”

      She absorbed the words in silence, her fingernails biting his palms, her eyes searching his. Suddenly she nodded, released his hands, and stood, dismissing him. “Stay to sup and sleep in the hall. Tomorrow you may take me to him.”

      “Aye, and glad to,” Alan agreed. Then he reached into the lining of the English surcoat and pulled out the folded message from Tavish. “He sent ye this.”

      She thumbed the broken seal and frowned. “You have read it?”

      “Nay, I swear not. The Bruce did so agin my wishes, but he strongly approved the words. Made them his own command and bade me tell ye to obey. Immediately, he said.”

      The lady seemed not to hear as her gaze flew over the message. Disbelief dawned on her face, then contorted the fair features into something approaching horror.

      The troubled gray eyes flew to his and narrowed with suspicion. “You wrote this! Oh, it bears Tavish’s name and is signed by his hand, but you made the rest. Foul! And you call yourself his friend? Shame on you to use a dying man for your own gain!”

      “Lady, I did not...could not,” Alan protested, looking to the priest for help. “I swear!”

      “You did! See how the lines waver, not his fine, steady letters at all!” Her forefinger punched viciously at the crinkled parchment.

      “Pain and fever racked him as he made the marks,” Alan explained. “On my soul and all that’s holy, Lady, I canna write! I canna even read! God’s truth, I dinna lie. I never lie!”

      Lady Honor turned away from him, dropping the letter as though it were filth. The priest picked it up and read. Alan heard him gasp. “You are to marry!” Father Dennis exclaimed.

      So that was all. Ah well, Alan understood now. The poor lass hated being dished out like a treat to whomever Tavish wanted to hold his lands. He could not blame her in the least.

      Marry, indeed! Why, she needed time to accept Tav’s death. He would see she got her time, and no mistake. All the time she wanted. The hell with Bruce.

      He laid a hand on her back and patted gently. “I’ll bide and protect ye, my lady. I’m certain Tav only wanted to—”

      She rounded on him with her hands on her hips, leaning forward with her chin up. “What about what I want? I have no wish to wed anyone. Especially not you!”

      “Me?” Alan heard the word croak out of his mouth, leaving a bad taste behind. Then another followed, more in the nature of a groan. “Marry?” He backed up and dropped to the window seat, his knees too weak to hold him. “Oh, shite!”

      “Just so!” Lady Honor snatched the letter from the priest’s hand and, crumpling it under Alan’s nose, assaulted him in rapid French. Still shocked by Tav’s orders and unable to grasp more than the occasional word, he simply stared at her until she switched to English.

      “Saints! He has commanded us to wed this day! This very day! He swore that he loved me and now he demands that I marry a—”

      . “A what?”

      “A highland savage,” she retorted, shaking a finger under his nose. “Mais oui, I can tell by your speech that is what you are in spite of that fine mail you wear! And ignorant, as well, by your own admission!”

      “Unlettered, Lady. ‘Tis not the same as ignorant. And de’il take ye wi’ all yer plaguey French airs! Ye’re still a Scot yersel’!”

      “Praise God, only half!” she shouted.

      “Then I wish to God ‘twas th’ upper half wi’ th’ mouth!”

      She gaped. Her chest heaved up and down like a bellows. Alan wrestled with his anger until he had a firm grip on it. Surely ’twas only her grief speaking here. Shock had undone her, and him carrying on as if she were to blame for it all.

      “Why would my husband do this to me?” she demanded, turning to the priest.

      “Well, how d‘ye think I feel, eh?” Alan countered. “Trapped, is what! Bound by a stout chain of friendship reachin’ inta th’ verra grave. Hist, I’d as lief fall on my dirk as surrender my freedom, but my word’s my word, by God!” He slapped his forehead and groaned toward the ceiling. “Och, Tav, what’ve ye wrought us here? What have ye done?”

      He fumed. She paced. He could hear the scuffing of her feet through the rushes, the rustle of skirts about her legs. The sounds were near as loud as the thudding of his heart.

      Alan realized Tavish had no way of knowing the words he had written to his wife had gone unread that night. And just who bore the fault for that misunderstanding? Alan himself, none other. Tav had asked whether Alan agreed to the missive and got a ready answer for his trouble. Aye, braw advice. Ha!

      That had been as near to a lie as Alan ever uttered, and it troubled him sorely. Everyone he knew remarked on his word and how he could be trusted to speak nothing but the truth in all matters, never mind the consequences he must suffer for it. That was a thing of great pride for a man who had little else in the world to recommend him. His departure from honesty—even in such a small way—had brought on disaster.

      Lady Honor spoke truer than she knew just now, he thought. He had acted as ignorant as the barmiest village idiot in this. How stupid to agree to a thing when he had no idea what it was. Just proved what he had always known. A lie, even a near lie, led to one sort of perdition or another. This one had cost him his freedom. And the poor lady, her peace of mind.

      Oh, he admitted he might have imagined himself lolling about a castle with a well-born woman now and again, especially when Tavish had waxed poetic about his own, but Alan knew very well such a life did not suit him. He had been thrust out of that sort of existence and into a rugged bachelor household too early on. But not so early that he did not know what he had lost