Brides of Scotland: Four full length Novels by Kathryn Le Veque (34)

It had been an odd sensation, truly.

Atticus had never had to think of anyone other than himself and after he’d left Isobeau in her chambers to finish packing, he’d headed down to the stables to inspect the mare she had mentioned. He didn’t know why he should do such a thing, or even care, because the horse had brought her from Alnwick to Wolfe’s Lair with no problems, but she had seemed concerned about the endurance of the animal which spurred his sense of concern as well.

Atticus had never had to consider anyone else before – their safety or their comfort. He was a selfish man but that selfishness had kept him alive and safe all of these years. Therefore, inspecting the somewhat skittish mare with the strange look to her eye, he decided that he didn’t want Isobeau riding the beast for the long journey south.

He went on the hunt for a sturdy, less-skittish animal and came across a very big, very shaggy gelding that his father used. The animal was so calm that he had to slap it a couple of times, affectionately, to make sure it was even breathing. He was certain his father would not mind if they borrowed the animal and Atticus would feel much better with Isobeau on such a calm beast. His wife. He didn’t want to have to worry about her safety on an already-perilous journey.

But there was another reason as well, something he didn’t want to admit to himself because it sounded incredibly cruel and self-centered. He knew that Titus had given Isobeau the lovely mare and somehow, he didn’t want that reminder of his brother around. Titus had asked him to marry Isobeau and he had done that. But he was coming to realize that he had to make a life with her; nay, he wanted to make a life with her, and a constant reminder of Titus would make that difficult. Perhaps it was selfish or perhaps it was understandable; in any case, he didn’t want her riding the mare. He hoped that Titus, wherever the man was, would understand.

He had Kenton take charge of the great, hairy beast to prepare it for the journey as he checked on his own horse and completed other small duties that centered around their departure. As he was crossing the inner ward on his way back to Isobeau’s chamber, he remembered about Norfolk’s injured knight, a man who was now his hostage. Taking a detour, he headed into the great hall, the last place he had seen the man. He wanted to see the knight and to make his position, and the position of the hostage, abundantly clear. That was simply good manners in the complex and ruthless world of knights.

The great hall of Wolfe’s Lair was a long, slender room that could easily house a hundred men at any given time. It had a sharply pitched roof and a great fire pit in the center of the hall, with small holes in the ceiling for the smoke to escape. The fire was burning low in the big pit and a haze of blue smoke hung up towards the ceiling, ribbons of smoke filtering out through the vents. The hall, usually so cold and dark, was fairly warm and well lit. As Atticus made his way deeper into the hall, he could see Norfolk’s knight positioned against the wall nearest to the pit.

The man was tucked back in the shadows a bit and as Atticus came upon him, he saw his father’s physic from Hawick and an older male servant tending the man. The knight noticed Atticus right away and their gazes met through the haze of smoke. Emotionlessly, Atticus was the first to speak.

“How do your injuries fare?” he asked as casually as one would ask about the weather.

Alrik du Reims was as emotionless as Atticus was. A big knight with black eyes and shoulder-length hair, he glanced at the physic as the man wrapped his left ankle tightly.

“The right leg is not as bad as the left,” he told him. “The right one was only partially severed but the left one has been badly cut. The physic is attempting to straighten out the tendon by stitching it together with catgut. He is not entirely sure I will ever be able to walk properly.”

Atticus felt absolutely no guilt even though he had been the one to inflict life-changing injuries upon the man. His gaze lingered on the physic as he man wrapped up the leg before his attention drifted to the room, the roof, the chamber in general.

“Since you cannot run off, I will have you moved to a more private and comfortable chamber,” he said. Then, his focus returned to du Reims. “You understand that you are my hostage, insurance against anything Norfolk may attempt.”

Du Reims nodded his head, resigned. “I understand,” he said. “But I can tell you that my presence at Wolfe’s Lair will not hold off Norfolk. We have our specific orders to gain your fealty or lay siege if you refuse. Summerlin will see these orders through.”

“Then you will die.”

“That is always a risk in this vocation.”

Atticus had to admit that he was mildly impressed with du Reims’ logical assessment of his situation. There was no fear there, no pleading, only acceptance. That respect opened the door for a measure of guilt at what he’d done to the man, or rather what he’d had to do to the man, but Atticus fought it off. There was no room for guilt in his profession.

Without responding or reacting, he turned away from du Reims and quit the hall, heading for Isobeau’s chamber to see if she was ready to travel as she said she would be. Thoughts of du Reims were pushed aside as he crossed the cold bailey, now illuminated with the soft strains of morning, as his mind began to turn towards thoughts of Isobeau.

It seemed as if his mind was always very quick to think of Isobeau, no matter what situation he was in. As he mounted the steps to the upper floor, he couldn’t help but think of his reaction to her when he touched her earlier. Her hand in his had been exhilarating beyond words, flames of passion and lust licking at him like he’d never experienced. Even to think on it now made his heart race and he was eager to see her again, to perhaps touch her hand again, or even more. Was it wrong that he wanted to kiss her, to taste this woman he had married? He was nearly to the top of the steps on the third level, wrapped up in thoughts of Isobeau, when Warenne suddenly appeared.

“Good Christ,” Atticus hissed, putting his hand over his heart as he fell back against the door jamb. “You startled me.”

Warenne smiled weakly. “That is not a statement you make often.”

Atticus shook his head. “Not at all,” he said. Gazing into Warenne’s drawn expression, he sobered. “I am sorry for what I had to do to Summerlin earlier, Ren. I know that he is your wife’s brother but the man all but threatened Wolfe’s Lair and I had to assert my dominance. I hope you understand that.”

Warenne waved him off. “Of course I understand,” he said. “But Shaun’s appearance meant much more to me than it did to you.”

Atticus nodded, seeing the distress in Warenne’s eyes. “I realize that,” he said. “What did he say to you, Ren? Is there anything I can do?”

Warenne shook his head. “You know that I am related to Norfolk, of course,” he muttered, raking his fingers through his dark hair. “He is a distant cousin on my father’s side. My wife’s family, the House of Summerlin, is sworn to him now. That was not the case only a year ago, but according to Shaun, it is the case now. He told me that my wife has left Thetford and returned to the home of her father to live under his roof.”

Concerned, Atticus put his hand on Warenne’s shoulder. “I am sorry to hear that, my friend,” he said sincerely. “What will you do?”

Warenne lifted his eyebrows in resignation. “I must return home immediately,” he said. “I… I have been thinking, Atticus. Mayhap I have not been a good husband, after all. I have spent my time fighting wars for Henry when mayhap the real war I should have been fighting is the one at home. I should have fought to keep my wife. If what Shaun said is true, and I have no reason to doubt him, then Madeleine is back with her father who is now a supporter of Edward. I am not entirely sure how to get her back.”

Atticus’ brow furrowed. “She is your wife,” he said firmly. “She must come back to you. It is her duty.”

Warenne smiled weakly. “You do not understand women, do you?” he asked. “Do you think it will make her happy to return to a husband who is at odds with her family? She will be miserable returning to me, knowing that I will be going to battle against her brother and father. I do not want my wife miserable, Atticus.”

Atticus could see where the conversation was heading. He had a horrifying suspicion of exactly what Warenne was driving at. “Then what?” he asked, torn between disgust and sorrow. “Do you swear fealty to Edward?”

Warenne sighed heavily. “It may be my only choice.”

Atticus dropped his hand from the man’s shoulder. “So you compromise your beliefs to make your wife happy?”

Warenne gave him a pointed look. “You have a wife now,” he said. “Ask yourself that same question when you become fond of the woman. Judge me not, my friend, for you will find the same answer that I have.”

Atticus didn’t contest him, mostly because what Warenne said gave him pause. Ask yourself that same question when you become fond of the woman. God help him, he was already fond of her. But would he change loyalties in order to please her? Of that, he was not so certain. Confused, he turned away from Warenne but he didn’t leave. He simply lingered a few feet away, pondering the situation Warenne found himself in. The truth was that he understood it, or at least he was coming to, and that scared him.

“I do not judge you,” he finally said. “You told me once that I should come to know what Titus liked so well about Isobeau. In order to fulfill my promise to my brother and in order to make the marriage work, you told me that was what I had to do.”

Warenne was looking at him in the dim light of the entryway. “And you told me that you found it.”

Atticus nodded faintly, drawing in a deep and pensive breath. “Aye,” he muttered. “I found it. I am fond of her. In fact, I believe it is more than that but I cannot be certain. She is a duty, a promise to my brother, and nothing more… isn’t she?”

Warenne went to him, now the one to put his hand on Atticus’ shoulder. “If you are asking that question, then I suspect you are feeling much more for her than you will admit.”

Atticus let out a deep, pent-up sigh, as if all of his control suddenly left him. He slouched against the doorway. “It is not right,” he hissed. “Ren, this is the woman my brother loved. I feel as if I am debasing his memory if I allow myself to entertain thoughts about the woman that are more than simple duty. I am attracted to her and hating myself for it.”

Warenne squeezed his shoulder. “You should not,” he said quietly. “Look at it this way, Atticus; Titus is dead. He is never coming back. You must make a life with Isobeau, as your wife, and not as your dead brother’s widow. She is your wife now and she belongs to you. You are not debasing Titus’ memory by feeling attraction or even love for the woman. Don’t you think that is what he would want? Don’t you believe he would be very happy if he knew the two of you loved one another and were happy together? Why should you feel guilt for that?”

Atticus could see his point and it made him feel marginally better, but he was still wrestling with the inherent guilt that an attraction to his brother’s widow brought. But she was his wife now and that superseded everything, even the fact that she was Titus’ widow. He turned to his friend, forcing a smile.

“As always, you are the voice of reason,” he said. “But I cannot help the doubts that plague me. I hope they will go away in time, but at this moment, I am confused with what I feel and struggling to come to terms with it.”

Warenne patted him on the shoulder. “You will come to terms with it, of that I have no doubt,” he said. “But it is still too soon after Titus’ death for you to feel otherwise. Still, you will come to accept what you feel for her and the guilt will leave you. How does she feel? Have you even asked?”

Atticus shook his head firmly. “Nay,” he said. “I would not know what to say to the woman. I am sure she views our marriage as a duty and nothing more. She is fulfilling Titus’ last request, as I am.”

Warenne knew women a bit better than Atticus did. Moreover, he had seen the way Lady Isobeau looked at her new husband. He knew there was something there, something buried deep in the woman’s heart, but he would not tell Atticus for the man would more than likely not believe him. He would have to discover it for himself.

“Mayhap someday you will ask her and she will be truthful,” he said rather generically. “Meanwhile, I have some serious issues of my own to deal with, issues that are consuming me.”

Atticus pulled his attention off of Isobeau and his feelings for her, looking to Warenne and seeing how saddened the man appeared. He felt for his friend.

“Whatever happens, Ren,” he said quietly, “if I must face you in battle at some point because you have sworn fealty to Edward… know that I consider you my closest friend. I will not lift a sword against you, no matter what. Loyalties and politics cannot destroy the bond between us.”

Warenne forced a brave smile but his eyes were moist. “This is a painful situation for me.”

“And for me. But do what you must and I will not love you less for it.”

Warenne patted him on the cheek and dropped his hand. “Nor I, you,” he muttered. “I must go home now and see if I can undo the damage done. I want my wife back. I want my family back. I am willing to do whatever is necessary to achieve that.”

Atticus nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Family above all. Were I in your shoes, I would more than likely do the same.”

Warenne nodded, reaching out to grasp Atticus’ hand one last time. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, a thousand silent words of brotherhood and friendship filling the air between them. There wasn’t much more either of them could say but Warenne made one last attempt.

“I am sorry I will be unable to see your vengeance through with de la Londe and de Troiu,” he confessed tightly. “But when you face them, Atticus… when you face them and you punish them… one of those sword thrusts to their bellies will have my name on it. For me, you will do this. Even if I am not with you there in body, I will be with you in spirit.”

Atticus nodded, feeling sad and emotional at Warenne’s departure. “I miss you already,” he whispered. “Safe travels, my friend. I hope you are able to bring your wife back.”

“As I am.”

“If you need me, send word. I will come.”

“I will.”

Atticus let go of Warenne, watching the man head down the steps and down into the inner ward where he would collect his horse and belongings and be along his way. His heart was heavy for Warenne, knowing what the man needed to face. He had always been so proud of his wife and children, and now this.

When the Earl of Thetford faded from view, Atticus turned back for the darkened corridor and resumed his path to Isobeau’s chamber. Still, his heart was heavy for his friend. Would he ever love his wife so much that he would do anything for her, too? At the moment, he couldn’t discount anything and he labored to shake off the sorrows of Warenne de Winter.

Isobeau’s door was shut and he rapped softly on it, calling her name. She didn’t answer immediately and he knocked again, louder this time. He had to knock two more times before he heard the latch lift from the other side and the door slowly creaked open.

Atticus found himself gazing into Isobeau’s oddly flushed face. She appeared very sleepy and his brow furrowed with concern as he stepped into the chamber.

“Are you feeling well?” he asked her. “Did I wake you?”

Isobeau stifled a yawn, covering her mouth. “I laid down to rest for a moment and fell asleep,” she said. “But I am packed. I am ready to depart.”

Atticus looked at her dubiously; he didn’t like her pallor. She simply didn’t look well. Reaching out, he put a hand to her forehead only to discover that she was quite warm. Seized with concern, he put his hand on her cheeks to realize that they were searing.

“Good Christ,” he hissed. “You are on fire.”

Confused, Isobeau put her hand to her own forehead even as Atticus was dragging her back over to the bed. “I am simply tired,” she said, refusing to admit that she had a fever. “I will be fine. We can leave whenever you wish.”

Atticus shook his head firmly and pushed her down onto the bed. “Lay down,” he commanded softly. “I am going to fetch the physic.”

Isobeau bolted to her feet. “Not your father’s physic,” she said, almost panicked. “I do not like that man.”

Atticus was trying to calm her. “I know you do not,” he said evenly. “But he is skilled. He will know what is the matter with you.”

She frowned tremendously and tried to move away from him, but he grasped her by the arms. She tried to pull free. “He is a terrible, foolish man,” she said, quite unhappy. “If you bring him here, I will not let him look at me.”

Without even realizing it, Atticus tried to gently negotiate with her. He didn’t like seeing her unhappy. “Sweetling, you must,” he said. “I will be here the entire time. I will not leave him alone with you, I swear it, but you must let him examine you and discover what is the matter. You are running quite a fever.”

Pouting and ill, Isobeau allowed Atticus to drag her back over to the bed. He gently pushed her down to sit on it, kissing her forehead as he did so. It seemed like the most natural of actions, a tender kiss to her hot forehead. He smacked his lips.

“Christ,” he muttered. “’Tis as if I kissed a branding iron.”

She was deeply unhappy with his comment and her hand went up to her hot forehead. “I am not that hot,” she said. “Stop exaggerating.”

Atticus saw an opportunity to tease her, however gently. He slapped a hand over his mouth as he moved to the door. “I am burned,” he said, hoping he could at least make her laugh a bit. The truth was that he was extremely worried. “My lips will never be the same.”

As he’d hoped, Isobeau fought off a grin and looked away. “It serves you right,” she said. “Never kiss a woman unless you have her permission.”

He opened the door to summon a servant, his hand still on his mouth. “I am your husband,” he said flatly. “I do not need your permission.”

Isobeau turned her nose up at him. “Is that so?” she said, collapsing back on the bed because she was, in truth, quite exhausted. “If someone has told you such a thing, they were sadly mistaken. You must not kiss a woman who does not want to be kissed. You could come away missing an eye.”

He burst out in laughter, summoning his father’s elderly servant from down the corridor and sending the man scampering off for the physic. As the old man fled, he shut the door and faced Isobeau, now lying on the bed with her feet hanging over the side.

“Would you really gouge my eye out if you did not want me to kiss you?” he asked, rubbing his chin and pretending to be serious. “I may have to rethink my views on a husband-wife relationship if that is the case.”

Now that she was on her back, Isobeau was feeling extremely lethargic and tired. She did, indeed, have a fever and it was pulling at her, but not enough so that she wasn’t enjoying the gentle flirtation between her and Atticus. It was the first time for such a thing and she didn’t want to miss a moment of it, no matter how badly she felt.

“You have never been married before so you would not know,” she said. “There is a proper way to do such things.”

He put his hands on his hips. “You were only married a couple of months,” he said, cocking a stern eyebrow. “Do not think yourself to be such an expert.”

She tilted her head, looking at him. “I am more of an expert than you.”

Atticus frowned, unwilling to admit she might actually have more experience at something than he had. But it was all in good fun. “My father has had more experience than either of us,” he said. “I will ask him if I need permission to kiss my wife.”

“Why not just ask your wife and be done with it?”

He cocked his head, conceding the point. Then, he made his way over to the bed, standing over her as she lay upon his mother’s faded silk coverlet. The humor of the situation faded as he envisioned her spread across the silk, her blond hair splayed about her head and shoulders like angel’s wings. His heart began to race, fluttering oddly in his chest.

“God, you’re an alluring creature,” he murmured as his gaze drifted over her. “You are quite beautiful.”

Isobeau smiled at his words, warmed and thrilled by them. Hearing him speak made her think that perhaps he was seeing her as more than a duty after all. As she gazed up into his handsome face, she fervently hoped so. She very much wanted to be more than a duty to him.

“Are you saying that so I will give you permission to kiss me?” she asked softly. “If you are, it is working.”

He broke down into a grin. “I did not say it to coerce you,” he said quietly. “I said it because it was the truth. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

Isobeau was deeply flattered, feeling giddy. Something in his eyes glimmered, suggesting warmth and truth and… Sweet Jesus, could she even hope for more? Was it even possible?

“Then I give you permission to kiss me,” she said very softly, whispering the words. “You need not ask permission if you feel the need. I will allow it, for always.”

The smile faded from Atticus’ face. Before he realized it, he was bent over her, his enormous arms braced on either side of her slender body, his head hovering above hers. All he could see at the moment was the most alluring, sensuous woman he’d ever known. His wife. There were brief flashes in his mind of Titus, but flashes that were quickly pushed aside by whatever he was feeling for Isobeau. How he came to feel for the woman so quickly, so strongly, was beyond him. All he knew was that he had an attraction to her stronger than he could control.

With great tenderness, he bent down and kissed her on the forehead. When that wasn’t satisfying enough, his mouth slanted over her warm, dry lips, and suckled gently. Within the first few seconds of tasting her, however, lust as he’d never experienced bolted through him and his big arms went around her, pulling her up from the mattress and holding her against his chest as his lips devoured her.

She was soft, heated, and compliant in his arms, and he’d never tasted anything so sweet in his life. When her hands timidly moved to his face, clutching at him, that gentle motion drove him wild with excitement and he opened his mouth to her, his tongue snaking its way between her honeyed lips, now tasting her tongue as if it were the most delicious of morsels.

Isobeau whimpered, her body caving into him, and Atticus held her so tightly that he very nearly crushed her. Only when she pulled her mouth away from his, gasping for breath, did he realize how firmly, how powerfully, he was kissing her. He pulled back to look at her half-lidded eyes and kiss-swollen lips. Their eyes met and he felt something more than he’d ever felt, for anyone. Something within her green eyes reached out, grasped his heart, and devoured it.

At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to rip her clothes off and drive his swollen male member into her quivering, yielding flesh, joining himself with her until he spilled himself deep. And then he would take her again and again until this wild lust inside of him was satisfied.

But he knew he couldn’t do that, not now. The last shards of control that he possessed brought him back to his senses, reminding him that she was ill and, for the first time in his life, he could not do as he pleased with a woman. He smiled weakly, apologetic that he had lost control, but that didn’t stop him from kissing her one last time, gently, before letting her go.

“I suppose now you know what it means to give me permission to kiss you,” he said, trying to make light of his powerful reaction.

Isobeau was back on the coverlet now, her heart beating so forcefully against her ribs that she was positive it was about to shoot out of her chest and fly across the room. She put a hand on her chest, subconsciously, as if to prevent such a thing.

“I suppose,” she agreed, breathless. “Next time I shall be prepared.”

His eyes glimmered at her. “I hope not,” he said. “I rather like it when you are not prepared.”

All Isobeau could do was grin; a silly, foolish, unrestrained grin. All Atticus could do was mirror her expression. But the physic arrived shortly thereafter and put a stop to all of the foolish grinning, yet the mood, the joy, lingered.

Perhaps there was to be more to this marriage, after all, than just a duty.