His Border Bride. Blythe Gifford

was home.

      She slowed her steps before he saw her, remembering she must walk as a lady instead of running like a child or, worse, an over-eager lover. A lady worthy of her knight’s devotion must set an example.

      But she could not slow her heart. How brave he looked, the French comte on his horse! Straight, dark, strong. The epitome of knighthood.

      And she felt a moment’s gratitude that she had managed to stretch and shape the banker after Fitzjohn’s abuse. Alain would barely notice the damage.

      Her father swirled Euphemia as if she were ten instead of sixteen summers, their breath making clouds in the air. Then, he turned his eye to Clare.

      ‘Da.’ Her word was a breath of joy. He enfolded her in his arms and she snuggled against him like a child, safe, for the moment, back in his arms.

      Then, she leaned away to look at him. New lines weighed the corners of his eyes. ‘Ye broke nae rules, did ye?’ She asked in the Scots way, as she did every time he returned. It was her prayer of thanks.

      ‘None I’ll tell ye about,’ he answered, as he always did.

      She shook her head. She refused to think of the dangers of war when he was away, telling herself the rules of chivalry would protect him. Even when he was safely beside her again, she could barely admit to herself he risked death every time he faced the enemy. ‘I’m glad you’re home.’

      ‘Ye may not be so glad when I start pestering ye again. I’ve a new reason to want ye married, daughter.’ He said it in his best Border burr, knowing it would irk her.

      ‘I know the old ones well enough.’ He wanted grandsons, that she knew. Well, the time had come to make plans with Alain.

      ‘Ah, Demoiselle Clare.’

      She turned to him, beaming, and extended her hand, as she had learned to do. He took her fingers and brushed his lips near them, his moustache tickling her knuckles.

      ‘I wish I had known you would return today,’ she said. ‘I would have prepared a meal in your honour and worn my finest gown.’

      He dropped her hand and she smoothed the wool of her shirt. It was cheap, local cloth, woven of wool not fine enough to send to the Low Countries.

      ‘Ridicule! You are a lovely flower in this wasteland, as always.’

      ‘Prepare what food we have.’ Her father’s voice boomed. ‘I’ve a hunger a whole deer couldn’t fill.’ He had his arm around Euphemia again, as if she were a real daughter. ‘Where’s Murine?’

      ‘Here!’

      Her father’s lover ran out of the tower and into his arms. Clare turned away, refusing to witness their embrace. This woman had moved into his bed after Clare’s mother had died. Not lady enough to be a wife, she had been his companion ever since.

      Murine had tried to mother his daughter, too, but when Clare was fostered in France, she had seen women who looked like her memory of her own mother, women who wore silk gowns and spoke with sweet scented breath. Murine would never be one of those. Gradually, she stopped trying.

      Now, they stayed out of each other’s way.

      Clare moved closer to Alain and turned him towards the tower to shield him from their display. The comte knew the code. And held to it.

      Unlike the stranger.

      ‘Ah, demoiselle, what a breath of fresh air you are amidst the stench of Scotland.’

      He offered her his arm and she saw dried blood on his sleeve. ‘You’re wounded!’ Fear shook her again.

      ‘It is but a scratch. But your touch makes it feel comme neuf.’

      ‘Let me see.’ She pushed up the sleeve, gently, and ran her fingers over the skin of his arm. An unwelcome memory of Fitzjohn’s bare chest made her hand tremble.

      Alain was right. The wound did not look serious. ‘Come. I’ll clean and bandage it for you.’

      She revelled in the words. They sounded like something a wife might say.

      He gently put her hand aside, holding her fingers no longer than propriety dictated. ‘You are kind.’

      Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Murine pull her father towards the tower. ‘Food first,’ she said, laughing, removing his hand from her breast.

      Clare knew what would happen next. After the midday meal, she would not see them for hours.

      Embarrassed, she turned back to Alain. ‘I’m glad you are safe. Tell me of your battles.’

      ‘Battles? Ah, I wish we had seen battles! Edward is a monster, but Douglas is a coward.’

      ‘A coward?’ No Scot would call Lord Douglas a coward. Not if he wanted to live.

      ‘Instead of forcing a fight, Douglas kept us always away from the English. Then, by God’s mercy, Edward’s ships were destroyed.’ He crossed himself with muttered thanks to the Blessed Virgin. ‘He had no supplies. He had to retreat. But still Lord Douglas would not fight, only chased him, like a dog after the deer, instead of confronting him on an open field of battle. We could have delivered the coup de grâce.’

      She murmured a supportive sound. Douglas would take the field with the bravest, but when a Scot waged war, he thought only of the end, not of the proper way to reach it. ‘So they are gone now, the Inglis?’

      He nodded. ‘And left the land laid waste, just as they did in France. Burning, looting, even during the holy day of Candlemas. And it was not just the rabble. The worst was the King’s bastard nephew. He burned the monastery church in Haddington to the ground, full of innocents who had sought sanctuary.’

      Stunned, she crossed herself. ‘I did not think the Inglis so devoid of honour.’ Murder. Sacrilege. No knight would commit such acts.

      Alain offered his arm as they walked towards the keep. ‘Alas, it is so. I was told the man who held the torch was the son of John of Eltham, who did the very same twenty years ago. And the Edward who rules today was so angry when he heard of it that he killed him. His own brother.’ He shook his head. ‘Such murderous blood, the English. This Edward must kill for pleasure alone if he would murder a man and then encourage his son to commit the same sacrilege.’

      She glanced across the yard to find Fitzjohn’s eyes on them. We don’t see much chivalry in war, he had said. As if he had seen such acts.

      As if he could have committed them.

      She stepped closer to Alain. Her men were home and safe. Fitzjohn could answer to her father now.

      After he had eaten his fill, her father spent the afternoon in Murine’s cottage. Clare closed her eyes to what the two of them did there.

      Late in the day, he emerged to sit with her by the fire in the Hall, his third cup of brogat cradled in his palms, asking of all that had happened while he was gone.

      He said little of the campaign. Edward had retreated, yes, but he had burned everything in his path. In the end, it seemed, both sides had lost.

      ‘I saw a strange face on the barmkin,’ he said, finally. ‘Who is he?’

      ‘A knight separated from his fellows.’ Did she sound unconcerned? ‘I gave him a meal and a roof and work to do. He wants to stay on, but I told him you would have to decide.’

      Her father’s eyes narrowed. ‘We lost James in a skirmish last month. I could use a new man.’

      ‘He’s said little of himself. I’m not sure of the nobility of his line.’

      ‘That’s nae something to bother a Scot.’

      She wondered why she was holding her breath. ‘And he hasn’t the comte’s sense of chivalry.’

      Her father’s