Chapter 13
Eyes narrowed with fury, Gwendolyn swept past Aiden. Sunlight shimmered on her hair as she stormed across the encampment, the tumble of soft, golden waves at odds with the hard set of her face. He caught up to her, kept pace, ached to slip his hand around her elbow and pull her to a stop.
Need churned in his gut as he remembered his fingers sliding through the silky length, of the heat in her eyes as she’d turned to him, and of how, if only for a short while, she’d wanted him.
With each step she took, the burn of his deception ate through him, their passion-driven intimacy and her gasps of pleasure clear in his mind. God’s teeth! He couldn’t forgive himself for having allowed such; why should he expect her to?
“King Robert is a fair man,” he said, hoping to ease her worry.
“He is my enemy, or have you forgotten?” she ground out, her pace lengthening.
Aiden widened his stride to keep at her side. “He is the rightful king to Scotland, and one who seeks to unite our country. Unlike Lord Comyn, who consorted with the English.”
A gust rich with the scent of earth and a hint of pine tangled in her hair; she remained silent, her look fierce. Blast it! He halted before his sovereign’s tent. “Inform King Robert that Sir Aiden and Lady Gwendolyn are here.”
The sentry ducked inside. A moment later, he emerged and stepped to the side. “The king bids you to enter.”
On edge, Aiden nodded. Had the Bruce selected a lord high within his ranks to wed her? He grimaced, too aware she would never comply with such a command, one he’d intended to prepare her for. Or at least try.
If given the opportunity, he’d offer for Gwendolyn’s hand himself. A foolish thought. Aside from the fact that he was untitled, after his deception, she’d rather drive a dagger in his heart than agree to marry him. ’Twas best to pray that whatever fate the Bruce chose for the spirited lass was one that kept her safe.
* * * *
Smoke from the fires and a mixture of meats and vegetables lingered in the air as Gwendolyn stepped inside the king’s tent.
The flicker of torchlight illuminated numerous chests stacked against one side. A portion of the other was shielded by a ruby drape of velvet, behind which she suspected lay a bed. A rug of deep gold embroidered with a lion rampant in red on each corner lay before the sturdy, unadorned wooden throne. Poised upon the seat, as handsome as he was powerful, Scotland’s ruler watched her, his eyes sharp with intelligence.
She fought for calm as she halted before the king.
Power radiated from the monarch, a man confident in his command and determined to achieve his goal, regardless the cost.
Aiden stepped up to her side, bowed. “Sire.”
The hint of nervousness in Aiden’s voice had her glancing over. Taut lines marred his face, and his eyes, dark with worry, rested on the king. Had something occurred since he’d spoken with her?
On a shaky breath, she focused on the king, curtsied. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Gwendolyn, ’tis with regret that we meet under such circumstances,” the Bruce said, his voice grim. “Given the situation, ’twas unavoidable.”
Unavoidable? Fury trampled the nerves in her mind, and she scowled. “Sending warriors to spy on my home in preparation for an attack is hardly unavoidable.”
A fierce brow raised, then the ruler glanced toward Aiden. “Lady Gwendolyn isna a weak-willed lass.”
“Nay, Your Grace,” Aiden replied, his words tight. “As I mentioned, she speaks her mind.”
A whisper of a smile touched the Bruce’s mouth. “An admirable trait, is it not?”
“’Tis, Sire,” Aiden replied.
“I am standing right here, Your Grace,” she said, insulted that they talked about her as if she was not there.
The king’s gaze narrowed on her, and the lightness of a moment before faded. “You are indeed.” He stood, strode over.
Muscles rippled with his every step. The power exuded by this royal warrior was palpable, yet Gwendolyn found herself unafraid.
Accounts of his intelligence, determination, and forthright way of speaking were well known, traits that had caused King Edward I, and now his son, Edward of Caernarfon, immense misery. From their first meeting, ’twould seem the claims she’d heard about Scotland’s sovereign were true.
A pace away, he paused, towered over her with a measuring look. “You are afraid of little?”
She held his gaze. Regardless of the escalating thud of her heart, she held his gaze. “I say what is on my mind.”
An intrigued smile curved his mouth. “Indeed? I bid you, my lady, to share your thoughts. I find myself curious to hear them.”
Aiden stiffened at her side, but Gwendolyn ignored him. Any influence he’d had in her life was past. Once she’d trusted him, no longer. As for repercussions for her words, the king could order her killed at any time. She had little to lose.
“I want Latharn Castle returned to me.” She angled her jaw. “’Tis my birthright.”
The king grimaced. “One seized by the English.”
Heat swept her cheeks. “Through treachery.”
“Deceit they are well familiar with. Nor,” the Bruce said, loathing tainting his words, “was their duplicity uninvited. Edward of Caernarfon’s forces sailed to Scotland in a plot conceived with Lord Comyn. He will learn, as I did years ago, that the Sassenach canna be trusted.”
The king’s use of the disparaging term for the English indeed fit their despicable acts. “Once my liege lord discovers their betrayal, he will ensure ’tis a decision they will regret.”
“Lady Gwendolyn,” the Bruce stated, “there is little he can do to avenge their treachery. Had Lord Comyn been able to raise sufficient troops, he wouldna have sought Edward of Caernarfon’s support.”
The enormity of his statement smothered any remaining belief and forced her to face the truth. Regardless whether Latharn Castle was held by the English or the Bruce, any hope of reclaiming her ancestral home was gone.
“With Comyn’s weakening force,” the Bruce continued, “and without England’s support, in time, all of Scotland will be beneath my rule. Which, as its king, is my right.”
Hurt, anger, the memory of how the Bruce had murdered his rival, the Lord of Badenoch, at the church of the Greyfriars to ensure he received the crown, erupted in her mind. Then faded as quickly at the way, over the past months, since the Bruce was crowned at Scone, he had begun to unite the clans. Against the odds, he had raised an army, a growing force now methodically storming the Highlands, devastating the opposition to claim a country that was indeed his.
She stiffened against a surge of anger, the frustration of her country torn. Gwendolyn shot a cool glance toward Aiden before facing the king. “Aye, Sire, ’tis your right.”
“Yet,” the king said, “I am not without sympathy for your cause. Well I understand your wanting to recoup a birthright wrongly seized.”
“Indeed,” she agreed. “Your grandfather, Robert Bruce of Annandale, claimant to the crown after King Alexander III’s death, was denied the throne most believed was rightfully his.”
Though in public many would fervently disagree, in private few doubted the facts. If King Edward I hadn’t insinuated himself as an arbitrator in deciding the true claimant for the Scotland’s crown in 1292, instead of John Balliol, Bruce of Annandale would have been crowned as Scotland’s king. A title that eventually would have passed to his grandson.
For a long moment, the monarch studied her. With a sharp exhale, he strode to his wooden throne and sat. He stroked his jaw. “Rarely do I meet women of such strength, or one who dares push against my will.”
At his soft tone, she stilled. What was she thinking to challenge the king? “Sire, I—”
“Though you overstep the boundaries of convention,” he continued, “’tis from passion for your beliefs, a strength I admire.” He lifted his goblet in a silent toast, took a sip, then lowered his chalice. “Lady Gwendolyn, I have decided to entertain your request to be mistress of Latharn Castle.”
Disbelief swelled in her chest. Mary’s will, he was returning her home!
The powerful ruler narrowed his eyes, his gaze piercing, and unease twisted in her gut. A strategist…of course he wouldn’t return the significant stronghold without conditions. “What are your terms, Your Grace?”
He set aside the goblet and leaned forward, braced his elbows on the arms of his chair, and steepled his fingers.
Gwendolyn held her breath. ’Twas as if she stood upon a precipice, the Bruce offering the only hope of seeing her home restored.
“You must agree to two stipulations.”
She swallowed hard. “They are…?”
“First, you must swear fealty to me.”
Given the situation, an unavoidable request. However she despised the king’s plotting to seize her castle, for her home, her people, she would support the Bruce.
In fairness, however much she loathed this turn of events, King Robert was a man who had fought many adversaries and had proven himself more than only a warrior to trust but a noble intent on uniting Scotland. Gwendolyn nodded. “I will, Sire.”
At her side, Aiden’s body relaxed.
The powerful king stood. “Kneel before me.”
Legs trembling, a swath of blond hair slid over her face as she knelt, a curtain to shield her tears.
The slide of steel against leather filled the silence as he withdrew his sword.
Her breath eased in shallow gasps.
He stepped forward, lay the end of his blade upon her shoulder.
The cold steel weighed heavily upon her soul.
“Do you, Lady Gwendolyn, swear fealty to me, forsaking your allegiance to Lord Comyn?”
Gwendolyn damned Aiden as the faces of her tenants swam before her as she prepared to give a vow she thought she would never make. “I do, Sire.” He touched the sword upon her other shoulder before removing the pressure of the forged steel, but not the weight of her regret.
He sheathed his weapon. “Stand.”
Heart pounding, she pushed to her feet, met his gaze. “And the second condition?”
The king’s eyes darkened, yet she could swear she saw the hint of a smile. “Sir Aiden gives you high praise, approval that has swayed my decision to allow you to return to your home.”
Confusion rippled through her. Even after she had treated Aiden with such disdain, he’d commended her to his sovereign? She looked over, but the knight kept his gaze straight ahead. What had he told the king? The hunger she’d witnessed in Aiden’s eyes that night beneath the falls stormed her mind, capturing her breath.
Smothering the unwanted thought, she shifted her gaze to the king. “How so, Your Grace?”
“Among other things, he explained how once your word is given, ’tis one I can trust.”
She stiffened. Aiden had claimed he’d never meant to hurt her. Did his intervention with the royal prove his sincerity?
Regardless of his motive, his words had swayed King Robert. For that she would be thankful. “Aye, Sire. I am a woman of my word.”
“In addition, Sir Aiden’s insistence that Latharn Castle needs a formidable warrior who will keep the stronghold safe is a belief I share. Do you not agree?”
“I do, Sire.”
A smile curved Robert Bruce’s mouth. He nodded to Aiden. “For your loyalty, you will be charged with the duty of protecting the stronghold.”
Eyes widening, Aiden’s gaze fell on her before shifting to his king. “I am greatly honored, Sire, but mayhap Lady Gwendolyn’s home would best be served by—”
“Someone with your expertise,” the king finished. “We are at war. I need my best warriors well placed.”
Aiden gave a low bow, straightened. “I swear to you that I will keep Latharn Castle safe.”
Pain sliced through her chest. Loyalty to the damnable king was one thing. But this… Her outrage grew. No, ’twas asking too much!
“Your Grace,” she forced out as she struggled for a way to sway the king, “Sir Aiden is but a knight. Given Latharn Castle’s strategic location, the stronghold doesna need a castellan but a noble, a formidable leader with a large contingent to ensure the fortress is kept safe.”
“Lady Gwendolyn,” the king said with soft warning, “I admire your passion and your forthright manner, but I willna tolerate your advising me in my royal decisions.”
Indeed, instead of allowing her to return to her home, he could have locked her in the dungeon or worse. “Forgive me, Sire.”
“Sir Aiden is a man I deeply respect, one who has earned my complete trust,” the Bruce said, his voice cool. “Latharn Castle is fortunate to have a warrior of such caliber to protect it.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, ’tis that I am confused,” she said, fighting to keep her mounting frustration at bay. “Moments before, you said you would entertain my request to be the mistress of Latharn Castle. If given a large contingent to keep the fortress safe, I would have no need of him.”
* * * *
Dread descended as Aiden awaited his king’s reply. Aye, he’d recommended a strong force to protect Latharn Castle once seized, but never had he expected the Bruce to select him for the task.
King Robert stepped before Aiden. “You have served me faithfully since we met at Urquhart Castle almost a year ago, a time difficult for many.”
Fighting back the wash of fury at how King Philip IV of France had betrayed the Knights Templar, Aiden focused on the Bruce, remembering his surprise to learn Scotland’s king was a Knight Templar as well. “Aye, Your Grace,” Aiden rasped. “I pray for those still beneath King Philip’s harsh rule.”
“As do I,” the Bruce said, his voice weary, “but now isna the time to discuss a topic of such distress, but to right a wrong.”
Aiden stilled. A wrong?
“Kneel before me.”
Confused, Aiden complied.
The soft slide of steel against leather again sounded. As with Gwendolyn, his sovereign lay his sword upon Aiden’s shoulder. “Be it known that from this day forward, I award you, Aiden MacConnell”— he moved the blade to his opposite shoulder—“the title of Earl of Lenox.”
On a sharp breath, Aiden jerked up his head and met the king’s proud gaze. “Earl of Lenox?”
The king arched a brow. “I am well aware of the details of your lost nobility. ’Tis your father’s title I now bestow upon you. In addition, once Latharn Castle is seized, you will be awarded the previous noble’s title, Earl of Hadington.”
Gwendolyn gasped.
“And after Latharn Castle is seized,” the Bruce continued, “you will lead a contingent to seize Thorburn Castle. Once captured, your home, lost to the English years ago, will again be yours. You will then be charged with keeping both strongholds safe, and as necessary, supporting my cause.”
Aiden struggled to breathe against the enormity of this moment. After his family had died and he had returned home to find Thorburn Castle captured, never had he believed that one day he would reclaim his heritage.
“Lord Lenox,” the king boomed, “rise.”
Humbled, Aiden stood, bowed to the man who had resurrected his dream of reclaiming his home and, incredibly, returned his legacy. “My deepest thanks, Sire. I swear that I will serve you with the utmost faith.”
With a satisfied nod, the king sheathed his sword. His gaze moved to Gwendolyn. “’Tis settled. You have stated your desire to be Latharn Castle’s mistress, and to have the stronghold protected by a noble, a formidable warrior with a large contingent to ensure the fortress is kept safe. A request that will be fulfilled upon your marriage to Lord Lenox.”
Marriage! Still reeling from the generous promise of a prize beyond which he had ever dreamed, the Bruce’s words exploded in Aiden’s mind.
He vaguely registered her sharp intake of breath.
’Twould seem that, like her, the king’s decisions came with conditions.
Warmth slid through him at thoughts of her as his wife, of having a lass whom he admired, and a woman who made him want. A look at her crushed his foolish thoughts. The icy paleness of her face underscored her revulsion at the idea. How could she not feel otherwise after his deception?
Mayhap there was something he could say to spare her such a fate. “Sire, before—”
“I find the match between you and Lady Gwendolyn beneficial in many ways, Lord Lenox,” the king stated, his shrewd gaze watchful, “do you not agree?”
Aiden searched for a reason to avoid the king’s dictate to wed, his sovereign’s earlier inquiries about the lass now making sense.
At the time, exhausted and injured, thankful to have arrived safely, and proud of Gwendolyn as he had stood before the king, he’d painted her as a woman of strength, fortitude, and determination. An admission given in the hope that instead of being treated with disregard as the enemy, she would be awarded protection.
God’s sword, why hadn’t he considered the real possibility of such a decision, more so with his friends’ teasing? The Bruce’s fascination with such women was well known. Weren’t his friends, Stephan MacQuistan and Thomas MacKelloch, who were now married to equally spirited women, proof of such?
Though neither had asked for this marriage, and however much she detested him, if he refused to wed Gwendolyn, he couldn’t be sure that whoever she did marry would treat her with the respect she deserved.
Though she loathed him, he still cared for her deeply. “I agree, Your Grace.”
With a nod, the king faced her. “And do you, Lady Gwendolyn, consent to the match?”
A slow pounding filled Aiden’s chest as her eyes darkened with distress, the dismay he’d caused. Bedamned, never had he meant to hurt her, to cast her into a life wed to a man she despised.
Her lower lip trembling, she lifted her jaw, her words a rough whisper. “I agree, Sire.”
“Excellent. Now let us celebrate.” The Bruce walked to the side table, refilled his goblet with wine, and poured two more. He handed one to each of them. “A toast to you, Lord Lenox, and to Lady Gwendolyn, for achieving your heart’s desire.” He raised his cup and drank deep.
Aiden downed the spiced wine, noted she took but a sip. Considering her upset, his elation at his liege lord’s generosity faded.
For a second time they would wed, although this marriage would be real. She would have a husband to govern her people, her castle. Gwendolyn had fought for her independence, and he knew part of her would fight this union for that reason alone, not to mention the betrayal he’d served her.
His being away on campaign would allow each of them time to adjust to their marriage, distance she would welcome.
“Your Grace,” the guard at the door said.
The king glanced up. “Aye.”
“The priest has been sighted and will arrive shortly,” the guard said.
Priest? Aiden’s heart pounded. They couldn’t wed now, they needed time to—
“Once the priest reaches my tent,” King Robert said to the sentry, “ensure he is escorted inside.”
“Aye, Sire.” The guard bowed, and then departed.
“Y-Your Grace,” Gwendolyn rasped. “Our wedding can be performed at Latharn Castle once ’tis seized.”
The king’s eyes narrowed. “Nay. The marriage will be done this day.”