Chapter Twenty-Three
Elizabeth clutched her goblet as she watched de Beauchamp open the missive that had come from the king. How long had it been since she’d had any word of Robert? So long that she could not count the days. Worry ate at her like a poison, making her feel as if it would kill her. De Beauchamp looked up at her, smugness in his eyes, and she almost wished news had not come. If Robert had fallen she would be lost. Lost. She had only survived the prolonged separation because of the surety in her heart that one day she would be reunited with him. With Catarine’s help and constant companionship as her lady’s maid, Elizabeth had managed to avoid de Beauchamp’s clutches, but now… He looked at her with open lust.
He folded the note, picked up his goblet, took a long swallow of wine, and then set it down. Devil take him, he was enjoying her torment. “It seems,” he said slowly, boastfully, “that our beloved king has stormed his way northward and left desolation in his wake. Nothing and no one is left to withstand him from land to sea.”
The news was like a sword in Elizabeth’s gut. In her mind, she screamed Robert’s name. She swallowed past a hard knot in her throat. Beside her, she could feel Catarine trembling. Under the table, Elizabeth squeezed her friend’s knee, a silent reminder not to show her true feelings.
“The only major stronghold where the Scots still hide is Sterling Castle,” de Beauchamp crowed.
Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath. The news was worsening with every foul word from his mouth. “What of Comyn?” she asked, thinking of the man her husband had not trusted.
“His northern strongholds have fallen, too. There are none left to rise in rebellion, save the Highland chiefs on the remote islands, and they care naught for what the English or the other Scots beyond their islands do.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together to keep from disagreeing aloud.
“Elizabeth, you don’t look happy.” De Beauchamp peered at her from over his wine goblet.
“I would be without heart to find happiness in the death of others and the destruction of nature.”
“I’m ecstatic myself,” he said, his mouth twisting into a smile. “And there is more news. Do you wish to hear it?”
Her heart hammered wildly. “Yes.”
“The fiend Wallace has fled to the woods, so we must still worry of him, but happy news has come from France and the Pope!”
Dread nearly choked Elizabeth. “What news?” she croaked.
“France and England have signed a permanent peace, and the King of France, who is indebted to our king as you know, has agreed that Balliol and his son shall never return to Scotland again. Is this not pleasing?”
Elizabeth gripped her wine goblet. It was not horrible news, as Balliol had stolen the throne from Robert’s family, but if France and England were at peace, there was no hope for the Scots to find an ally in France. “What of the Pope?”
“Ah!” De Beauchamp clapped his hands. “Pope Boniface has declared Scotland in wicked rebellion. Any who rise in arms against King Edward are damned to Hell. Lucky that your husband is now the king’s loyal servant.”
“Is there word of Robert?” she asked, her heart fluttering.
“Yes,” he said, smirking at her. “What will you give me if I tell you?”
She imagined her dagger plunging into the man’s heart. As the image was flittering through Elizabeth’s mind, though, Catarine said, “I will give ye a kiss. I have long wondered what ye taste like.”
Elizabeth swung her gaze to her friend, whose eyes widened, pleading. The notion that Catarine would make this sacrifice for Elizabeth meant the world to her.
“Bring yourself to me then, you sweet, fiery Scottish lady. I will be happy to give you a taste.”
Bile rose in Elizabeth’s throat as Catarine stood, moved past Elizabeth, and leaned forward to allow de Beauchamp to kiss her. The noise of guttural desire he made caused Elizabeth’s stomach to turn, and she saw the servants turn down their eyes. These were Catarine’s people, and Elizabeth had come to learn they loved Catarine.
When the kiss was finished, Catarine returned to her seat, her back to de Beauchamp, and wiped a hand across her mouth. When she sat, she drank the entire contents of her wine goblet, and a servant scurried forward to refill it. Silence had fallen over the hall. No one was close enough to hear what was said, but they all had seen the kiss.
“Your husband has met with much trouble, it seems,” de Beauchamp said, sounding all too pleased. “As have his brothers Bruce did his best to keep safely away from the fighting.”
Elizabeth gripped the table, the room spinning. “What trouble?”
“Bruce was ordered to gather men in the west to fight for Edward, and Bruce’s men refused to heed the call. He also had machinery that he provided for attacks that did not work and incompetent troops that lost their way and missed battles.”
Elizabeth wanted to laugh with relief. These were all strategies that she and Robert had come up with so many, many months ago so he could avoid truly aiding Edward.
“It seems, though, that the Prince of Wales learned how to be a successful commander from his father, our dear King Edward. The Prince captured two of Bruce’s willful brothers, and all the problems Bruce was having aiding the king smoothed out. I believe the king’s exact words were that he would kill Thomas and Alexander, if Bruce was not of more aid.”
Elizabeth’s heart twisted for Robert. What had he needed to do to save his brothers? She could not imagine.
“The king has ordered Bruce to come here to rendezvous with him. They will arrive tomorrow night,” de Beauchamp said, leering at her. “So this is our last night alone.”
Try as she might, it was impossible to steady her erratic pulse. The news that Robert would return to her left her dizzy, but the happiness was dulled by the fear of what de Beauchamp would try to do to her before then. She forced her gaze to meet his. “Sad news, indeed.” She rose on trembling legs. “I do believe I shall retire now.”
“I’ll attend ye,” Catarine said, rising.
“No,” de Beauchamp said. “Catarine, you will retire, but Elizabeth will keep my company.”
“As you wish,” Catarine said, then leaned toward Elizabeth. “Good night, my lady.” She squeezed Elizabeth’s hand, and something hard jabbed into her palm. When she stole a glance, she saw that it was a small vial of powder.
Catarine stood. “The two of ye should drink to Edward’s success,” she suggested.
Elizabeth had no doubt the powder was some sort of sleeping draught. But how to get it into de Beauchamp’s wine? As Catarine turned to depart the dais, she swung out her hand and knocked over de Beauchamp’s goblet. Wine spilled all over the table.
“You foolish wench!” de Beauchamp roared.
Elizabeth saw the opening that Catarine had risked herself to provide. As de Beauchamp yanked Catarine down to clean up the mess, Elizabeth put the powder in her own goblet, swirled it around, and then tapped de Beauchamp on the shoulder. “Take my goblet. I’ll have the servants fill yours for me.”
He gave her a wicked smile, snatched her goblet, and drank some of her wine. She waved a hand for the servant’s aid. Once his goblet was refilled, she raised it, hoping to get him to toast and drink the rest of the draught. But he grabbed her wrist, causing the red wine to slosh over the rim and down the front of her gown. “No more games,” he said, his gaze raking over her. “I will have you before your husband returns.”
The hand closed around her wrist may very well have been gripping her heart. It felt as if it had stopped beating. But she clenched the hand on her knee into a fist and met his disgusting gaze. “The king has forbidden you from touching me,” she hissed.
“I am one of the richest men in England, Elizabeth, and the king’s coffers are low. He needs me. He will get over his anger.”
The truth of his words made her tremble. “I won’t go willingly,” she said, feeling the press of her dagger against her thigh, where she had started wearing it for fear the guards would take it if they saw it.
“Look to the door,” he said, his voice cold.
She did so and inhaled a jagged breath. Catarine was there, with the guards on either side of her, each holding one of her arms. “With a wave of my hand they will have the permission they wish to ravage your friend. I hold them back. You hold her fate in your hands. What will it be?” He raised her wine goblet abruptly to his mouth, emptied it in one gulp, and set it down with a thud. He stood and held out a hand to her for everyone in the great hall to see. She understood then what he was doing. He was making it seem as if she were willingly leaving the great hall with him, that she was willingly betraying Robert.
Fury blazed in her so hot, she felt her insides shrivel. She would kill him. She thought she could, too; she was that mad and disgusted. She would stab him in the gut and then rid him of the part he wished to stick in her. Her stomach flipped at her own vile thoughts. Perhaps she would simply stab him in the gut, then. She rose, her spine feeling as if it would not hold her up, but it did, and she took his hand.
He pressed his mouth close to her ear. “Smile,” he said, stroking a hand down her cheek.
In the back of the great hall, Mar servants glared at her. Though the Earl of Mar had paid homage to Edward, the servants all likely knew he had done so only to save his head, his family, and his lands, including Kildrummy. But while the castle still technically belonged to the Earl of Mar, it was, in truth, in Edward’s control. Their hatred floated across the length of the room to choke her. She clenched her jaw and lifted her chin. She was now not only Robert’s hated outlander wife but she was betraying him. Yet, she had no choice. She forced a smile, her lips cracking with the effort, and then departed the dais with him. He walked her down the center of the great hall, all eyes upon them. It was the most humiliating experience of her life, but for Catarine, she would bear it. She prayed to God Robert would believe her when he heard of this.
All the way down the hall she thought of how cold and clammy de Beauchamp’s hand was. So unlike Robert’s strong, warm hand. She peered at her captor sideways, hoping for signs of drowsiness, but he appeared alert, for his unflinching gaze met hers. “I always knew you had a liking for me, Elizabeth,” he said, tugging her up the stairs of the Snow Tower. A great noise filled her head, which must’ve been her own fear, for de Beauchamp did not seem to notice a thing.
He pulled her farther up the stairs, one flight turning into two, then three, and four, and her mind planned the very best way to get her hands on her dagger to plunge it in his gut. Or perhaps his heart was better…
“We could have been married,” he said offhandedly. “At one time, I truly cared for you. Until he had you. Now you are little more than a Scot’s whore.”
“What does that make you, then?” she ground out, too furious to curb her tongue. She pulled back as they reached the last level, where her bedchamber was. No one would be rescuing her. Suddenly, the ground seemed to vibrate beneath her. By Christ, she was going mad! “You wish to lie with a Scot’s whore. Is it simply because you know in your heart that you are not the man Robert is, nor could you ever be.”
His released her wrist and grasped her neck. His thumb and index finger settled on either side, and he pressed hard. Black spots appeared before her, and she hissed, trying to slap his hand away, but he slapped hers away instead. “I could kill you,” he said, his voice dispassionate. “But I rather think that might irritate the king even more than I wish to.” He released her neck, grabbed her arm again, and twisted it back and up. She cried out. “However, if you get a tart tongue with me again, I will break your arm. They cannot always set it back correctly, you know. If I break it, it may just dangle there the rest of your life. Let us see if your proud husband wants you so much then. What is it to be? Will you curb your tongue?”
For a moment her mind screamed, No! Robert would love her regardless, but if they ever had to run, if there ever came a time when he needed her to help him fight, she would be much less useful with only one good arm. “Yes,” she spat out, now shaking with rage.
“That’s a clever girl,” he said with a chuckle. He jerked her the rest of the way down the hall and into her chamber. He slammed the door with his boot, dragged her across the room, and slung her onto the bed. She scrambled backward while yanking up her skirt to grasp her dagger. She pulled it out of the holder, and as she did, de Beauchamp stepped toward her. God help her, had he just swayed?
“You think you are fast enough and strong enough to kill me?” His words were slurred. If she could hold him there for a few more breaths, perhaps…
“I believe so,” she replied, edging farther back on the bed. “I have been taught to defend myself.”
“Then let us see what you have learned.” He lunged at her, landing on top of her, and causing her head to jerk back and bang into the wood. Stars danced in her eyes, and the arm she’d been using to hold the dagger tingled as the dagger flew from her fingers. He shoved his knee between her thighs, and she turned her head, seeing the gleaming dagger just out of her reach. And all the helplessness that she had felt for so long poured from her in a cry of impotent rage.
Elizabeth’s scream filled the silence of the Snow Tower. Robert pounded up the last few stairs, taking them two at a time. He had been weary beyond belief, having pushed himself to ride ahead to Elizabeth and get to Kildrummy before the rest of the party, but he’d shed it the moment he’d heard in the great hall that his wife had accompanied de Beauchamp out of the room moments before Robert had arrived. Her scream now confirmed his worst fear: de Beauchamp was ravaging her.
“De Beauchamp!” Robert bellowed. He had been broken, but by Christ, he’d not let them break his wife.
He came to her door, blind with fury, and kicked it open, stopping short at the scene before him. De Beauchamp lay face up, clothed, on the bed snoring, and Elizabeth was crouched on her haunches, her gown torn and her golden hair in wild disarray.
Robert swallowed and swallowed again, his tongue not working when he tried to speak. She stared at him blankly, as if she could not comprehend that he was there. What in Christ’s name had happened to her? Blood smeared the front of her gown, and she clutched her dagger in her hand, its blade red with blood. Robert scanned her, searching for the source of the blood and saw her hand had been cut.
“Elizabeth?” he forced out, willing his mind and heart to slow.
She frowned at him but did not answer. Instead, she pressed one hand to her bent knee and the other, still clutching the dagger, pointed between de Beauchamp’s legs.
“Did he—Did he ravage ye, lass?”
Her blue gaze snapped back to him and seemed to clear. Then her eyes widened, as if she only just realized who he was. She did not move from her crouched position, however. “No,” she said, her voice steady. “He planned to, though. He made it seem as if I came up here willingly with him, too.” Her voice broke mid-sentence. “Your people hate me more than they already did.” She glanced back at de Beauchamp and ran her blade lightly down his thigh, not even hard enough to make a cut.
“What are ye doing, lass?” Robert took a step toward her, but she did not appear to notice.
“I thought to cut off his wee willy,” she said, motioning between his legs with her dagger. “But I don’t think I can do it. Yet, if I don’t, I fear he will ravage me when he has me alone again. And then there is the king…”
“The king?” Robert asked, stepping close enough now that the side of the bed brushed his leg.
She glanced at him, frowning. “Well yes, the king. His coffers are low, and he needs de Beauchamp’s coin. The king may take me away from you forever if I cut off de Beauchamp’s willy.” She drew her eyes to him, and the tears that filled them almost brought him to his knees.
“Mo ghraidh,” he choked out between his grief and rage. He moved toward her on the bed, but she skittered away before he could grasp her. Tears slid down her face, but she did not wipe them away.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered.
He moved closer but held his hands up. “Why?”
“Because then I will know I’ve conjured you in my most desperate moment. If you keep your distance, you will stay here before me, and maybe, maybe I will find the strength to go on.”
“Ah, Christ, Elizabeth.” He pulled her to him gently, and when she tried to squirm away, he pressed his mouth to her neck and brushed a kiss along her smooth skin, which smelled faintly of heather and soap. “I’m here now. I’m nae a ghost.”
“Robert?” she asked on a sob, her lips coming to his chest, his throat, his jaw, and then his mouth. She pulled back and ran her fingers over the stubble on his jaw, her touch soothing the open wounds on his heart. “Oh, Robert! I want to cry!”
“Ye are crying, lass.” He brushed her tears away with his thumb.
“I am?” She swiped a hand across her face, a look of astonishment coming over her. “I swore to myself I would not shed another tear until you returned to me, and then they would be tears of joy.”
“Well,” he replied, finally taking the dagger out of her hand, and then kissing her palm, which had been cut, “I’m verra relieved to hear that ye would feel joy upon my return. I feared ye would nae.”
“No?” She gave him a bewildered look. “Why?”
He traced the length of the cut on her hand and then stole a look at the still-snoring de Beauchamp. There was much to discuss, but first they had to deal with de Beauchamp. Elizabeth was right that the king likely would not have taken her side, but Robert knew the perfect way to repay de Beauchamp for what the devil would have done to his wife.
He cupped Elizabeth’s chin. “I failed ye, that is why. But I vow de Beauchamp will suffer. Ye had a good thought, actually, but I do nae think we need to take it quite that far. Why does he sleep?” Robert asked, hoping she had given him something that would last for a while.
“Catarine gave me a draught to slip to him.”
“Excellent. Likely it will last, then. Ye wait here.”
“No!” she cried out and scrambled toward him. “I’ll not be separated from you when you only just returned. What are you planning?”
“One of the guards I traveled with has a reputation for being talented in causing pain.”
“Will the guard not be fearful the king will punish him?”
“Nay. He’s a Highlander. He does nae fear the king. He is a mercenary the king hired to keep guard over me.”
Horror stole across her features. “Did you learn of his reputation firsthand?”
“Nay.” He kissed the crease between her brows to ease her worry, though his own memories of the months gone by strangled him suddenly. “He demonstrated on some of my countrymen who were captured. One man in particular, I’ll nae forget. Dougall took one of the man’s bollocks. Sliced it clean off.”
She cringed. “And why would he help you now?”
“Coin, of course. But I also suspect, he may be turned to the Scottish cause. We shall see.”
As he rose from the bed, she came with him. “What if de Beauchamp awakens before we return?”
Robert glanced around the room for something he could use to tie up the man. All that would be helpful were the blankets de Beauchamp was lying on. He explained his plan to Elizabeth, and together, they rolled de Beauchamp over, removed the covers, tied the man to the bed, and gagged him so he could not call for aid. Once they were done, they took the stairs and then the back passages to the quarters where the guards slept.
Robert gently pushed Elizabeth partially behind him, as he knocked and waited for Dougall to answer the door.
The man threw the door open, his blue eyes flicking immediately past Robert to Elizabeth. “Is she a gift?” the man asked, a smile curving his lips.
“Nay,” Robert said, scowling at the man. “She’s my wife.”
“Wives can still be gifts,” Dougall said with a wink at Elizabeth.
Robert whipped out his dagger and set the point to Dougall’s throat. “Nae my wife.”
Dougall shrugged. “Understood. Why do ye seek me out, then? I’d have thought ye would be sick of my company.”
“I am,” Robert admitted. “But I have a particular problem I’d like to pay ye to take care of.” He quickly told the man what de Beauchamp had tried to do and how Robert wanted to give him a warning by taking one of his bollocks. When he finished, he said, “Well? Are ye willing to aid me?”
“Aye,” Dougall replied, his voice hard and menacing. “But ye dunnae need to give me coin, Bruce. I have a special dislike for a man who would take a woman unwilling.”
“I do, as well,” Elizabeth murmured at Robert’s shoulder, her head popping around from behind him. He brought her forward to his side and slid his arm around her waist.
“Dunnae fash yerself, lass. When it is over, the man will ken that if he so much as looks at ye again, he will lose more than just one of his bollocks. I’ve but one question.” Dougall’s gaze swung to Robert.
“Aye?” Robert asked.
“Why do ye nae do this yerself? She’s yer woman.”
“Ye misunderstand me,” Robert said, picturing de Beauchamp trying to ravage his wife. “I am going to do it. I want ye there so that I do nae kill him. I can nae be certain that I’ll control my anger, and Elizabeth is nae strong enough to hold me back.”
“Ah,” said Dougall. “Spoken like a true Scot. I’m yer man, Bruce.”
Robert made no noise when he entered the darkness of their bedchamber. She immediately felt his presence in the room, an intensity, a spark in the air that surrounded her. He and Dougall had departed the castle earlier to carry a half-conscious and very fearful de Beauchamp from her bedchamber to relieve the man of his bollock. She had opted not to watch.
“Are ye awake, Elizabeth?” The concern and love in his voice warmed her.
“Yes. Just lying here waiting.”
The air whispered as he moved across the room, and something dropped softly to the floor. Then the bed creaked, and he curled the full length of his body around her, flesh to flesh, pulling her to him, molding them as one. He must have rid himself of his clothing as he had moved toward her. She had done the same when she had lain down, in the hopes that if she did somehow miraculously fall asleep, he would take her nakedness as a sign to wake her.
Her belly clenched as he splayed his fingers across the sensitive skin there while kissing her shoulder. His scratchy whiskers caused gooseflesh to sweep her body.
“I called up yer smell when the stench of blood became too great in battle,” he said, burying his nose in her neck, his chest rising against her as he inhaled.
“Do you want to talk of it?” She slid her hand over his strong thigh, rounded his hip, and then found his backside. The muscles there were tensed—wanting, waiting.
“Later, aye? Elizabeth, I’ve a storm within me.”
She could hear the fear in his voice. Pushing her bottom into his groin with a moan, she said, “I’m not afraid of storms, Robert.”
“Ye’re certain?” he asked, his voice hesitant, but his hand was already between her thighs, searching, finding, parting.
She arched into him on a hiss of pleasure, and it was the answer he must have needed. He moved with swiftness, rolling her onto her back and looming over her. Desire and love lit his eyes as he clutched her by the hips, lifted her, and filled her. He groaned as he slid slowly in and out of her, the friction created nearly unbearable in its bliss. She grasped him by his upper arms, a desperate attempt to maintain a hold on some control, but as he moved faster, and the pressure and need inside of her built, her control slipped. Her thoughts centered on him, the way his body rocked within her, the bed creaking as they moved, how they were learning each other once more and filling the gashes on their souls with pleasure so great that the release made her scream with abandon.
Much later, after the storm within him had calmed and he held Elizabeth in his arms, he got out of bed to light a fire. The room had a chill to it, but the fire was as much to warm them as to see her expression when he spoke to her. When he got back in bed, they lay down on their sides, facing, fingers entwined between them. She had changed, both physically and emotionally, in the long span of time they had been separated. Her face had thinned, accentuating her cheekbones, and her eyes held a fathomless weariness. It was the latter that made him want to cry shamefully like a bairn.
“Tell me,” she demanded, her tone fierce. This also showed how she had changed. There was a steel within her that was no longer hinted at as before; now it was a prominent part of her. She had become hard, almost like a warrior. He could not be saddened by that, only by the truth that she would likely need it to survive.
He squeezed her hand gently. “What have ye become embroiled in because of marrying me?” The question was more to himself than her, but she laughed and pressed a soft palm to his cheek.
“As if I had a choice.”
“Do ye mean because of yer father and Edward?”
“No, foolish man. I mean because of you. I married you out of love. You did not embroil me in anything; I did so myself. Now tell me what has happened to you. You seem like the shore after a storm—still there but worn down and changed.”
“Ye seem the same,” he said rather than burden her with all the horrors he’d endured and all that were left.
Her narrowing eyes warned that she would not have it. “You cannot hold back from me, Robert. I must know what we face.”
“I want to protect ye.”
She nodded. “And when I need it, I will ask. But presently, I wish you to remove the wall you are putting between us.”
She had a particular ability to strike at his heart. It squeezed within him, though he had vowed after the day he’d let his emotions flood him in the forest at Edinburgh, when he’d seen the child, that he’d never allow emotion to overcome his control again. “I need a buffer, or I can nae do what I must.”
“Robert.” His name was a sigh on her lips. “I’m your buffer. Don’t you see by now?”
He did, and that was the problem. He could not use her so, but he knew she would not relent. Perhaps if he told her pieces of his pain, she would be satisfied.
“My own people think me a traitor. Edward made it seem so. He crowed in every village he conquered how I had aided him every step of the way. He has my brothers Thomas and Alexander, and he threatened to send ye from me forever unless I offered better aid to his cause.”
“Oh, Robert!” She reached for him, and he drew back, hating himself for hurting her, but the problem was he truly did hate himself now. He had tried to save his country, and he had failed.
“I’m in Hell,” he said, his words rougher than he had intended. But he found the more he revealed to her, the harder it became to hide all that hounded him. “I have all but failed, and Edward has all but won. Wallace is in hiding with his men. Comyn is defeated. One will nae ever surrender, and the other has surrendered to save his lands.” He laughed bitterly. “I do nae even find joy in my most bitter enemy being taken down, for with his fall goes Scotland’s. I intended to lift it with my hands, but I can nae, by Christ—” He slammed his fist between them. “I can nae find purchase to free my country from Edward’s chains. Would that I would ever be king, what a sorry king I would be.”
“That’s not true,” she said, her own tone harsh. “You would be a king for all kings. But you are also a man, Robert. You could not turn a blind eye to your brothers being killed or my being swept away to only God knows where, and you did as a man would—your best!”
She did not see, or she could not. He cupped her face, the storm within him roiling. “I can nae ever be king if I allow myself to think like a man, feel like a man.” He had realized it after the horror in Edinburgh, and the knowledge had grown every moment he stayed locked under Edward’s control. He had not meant to share this with her, but he could not hold it back now. “I have made decisions with my heart for the welfare of ye and my brothers, for the love of ye all, and for this, for allowing myself to feel, thousands upon thousands who have looked to me and my family to free Scotland have suffered. I can nae allow myself to be soft, or I will nae be as ruthless as I need to be to lead Scotland to victory. Do ye see now?”
“No.” The absolute conviction in her voice made him flinch. “No,” she said again, pressing her palm to his heart. “If you fail to feel with this, then you will be no better than Edward.”
He covered her hand with his own. “Edward’s lands are free,” he said, tortured. “His people are free.”
“He considers you and me his, Robert. Are we free?”
He did not answer, because she was right. Yet so was he…
He could not see the way. To be a leader meant to risk those he loved the most, but how could he do that?