17
I’D WAGER IT has been some time since the nuns and the residents of St. Mary’s have been treated to such a beautiful recital,” Elizabeth said as she left the almshouse with her cousin and Randolph. “I can’t say I’ve ever enjoyed the Lenten hymns as much. But I didn’t know who to listen to; it seemed that as soon as Izzie took a breath, you filled it right in, my lord.” She tried not to smile, pretending that she didn’t know what they’d been doing. But after Izzie forced him to sing upon mentioning how good he was to their audience, it had been obvious that they were waging some sort of battle. “Perhaps you might consider singing a chanson together sometime for a feast?”
Izzie’s eyes narrowed, aware that her cousin was needling her. “What an extraordinary idea, Elizabeth.” She smiled sweetly at Randolph. “But I would never think to compete with such prodigious talent as the earl’s.”
The ever-chivalrous knight gave a short bow of his head. “It is I who would be honored, Lady Isabel. Your cousin did not exaggerate your talent, you have a beautiful voice.”
It was simply stated without his usual grandiosity.
Izzie seemed taken aback, whether from the compliment or from the sincerity with which it was given, Elizabeth couldn’t tell.
Truth be told, Elizabeth had been grateful for the distraction they provided. Though her visits to almshouses and lazar houses were important to her, they could sometimes be difficult, evoking memories that she would rather forget of how close she came to one herself. She’d felt the cold shadow of memory before Randolph and Izzie’s war of song had reminded her of where she was.
They continued down the wynd, proceeding down the high street to the abbey located at the bottom end. The morning mist had yet to lift off the hills to the east, and although the day was off to a cool start (she and Isabel had both worn their warmest fur-lined cloaks), she sensed it was going to be another beautiful day. At this time of year, anything that didn’t involve ice, snow, or rain was reason for celebration.
Once through the gate, they paused opposite the massive facade of the abbey entrance. She turned to Randolph. “Will you be able to join us in the refectory to break your fast, my lord?”
The first meal of the day was eliminated during Lent except for on Sundays.
He shook his head. “I wish I could, but I must return to the castle to see whether any progress has been made.”
“Progress?” Izzie repeated with a frown. “At night? Do the English like to parley in the dark, my lord?”
Randolph’s smile turned brittle. The détente between them was apparently already at an end. “I meant in general,” he said dismissively. But Elizabeth sensed rather the opposite. Did they have something planned at night? An attack on the castle perhaps? But given what he’d said before, it didn’t seem likely. “My uncle will be waiting—” He stopped suddenly, frowning. “That’s strange.”
“What’s strange?” Elizabeth asked.
“He should be at camp. Excuse me for a moment.”
Both women turned as Randolph started off in the direction of the gate. It was then that Elizabeth saw the man who’d caught his attention: Thom.
Her heart jumped, obviously having not quite recovered from yesterday’s overworking.
She hadn’t thought to see him so soon. He’d seemed eager to be rid of her, marching her down the hill and watching stoically from the trees as she made her way safely through the gate. He hadn’t even waved; she’d looked.
They’d said little on the way back down the hill. Thom once again wore that blank look he’d perfected in his youth when facing an angry Jamie, and Elizabeth had been, well, angry. At herself, at him, maybe it didn’t matter.
When she thought about how she’d touched him . . .
She didn’t think about that—couldn’t think about that—especially standing outside an abbey with her soon-to-be betrothed only a few feet away.
Don’t lie to yourself . . .
Her mouth pursed at the memory of the challenge he’d tossed down at her feet like a gauntlet. He had a lot of nerve, thinking he knew her better than she knew herself. Elizabeth knew exactly how she felt. She cared for him—deeply—and wanted him—irrationally—but she did not love him. At least not in the way he meant.
She wasn’t Joanna. She didn’t think with her heart. She was far too practical to fall in love with someone she could never marry. She’d been exiled from society and treated like a leper once before; she would not go through that again—at least not willingly. She had a secure future in her grasp, she wasn’t about to let it go.
So what if she dreamed about the way he kissed her and touched her, and wanted him to do it again? It didn’t change anything. And there was nothing to say she wouldn’t feel the same way about Randolph . . . in time.
But how long will it take? Shouldn’t there be at least a tiny spark by now?
“I wonder what they are talking about?” Izzie said thoughtfully. “What exactly is it that MacGowan does in Bruce’s army?”
Elizabeth was wondering the same thing herself as she watched the two men converse intently. “Jamie said the king had some special missions for him in mind.”
“And those missions involve Randolph?” Izzie made a face. “Makes things rather awkward, doesn’t it?”
Elizabeth stared blankly at her cousin. “Why would it be awkward?”
The implicit warning didn’t deter her cousin one bit. Izzie laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, like maybe having the man you claim you don’t want show up to see you right under the nose of the man you say you do?”
“I’m sure Thom isn’t here to see me,” she said primly, but her cheeks were blazing.
What if he was? Would he be so bold (and foolish!) as to pursue her right—as her cousin had said—under Randolph’s nose? Not to mention her brother’s. Surely he would be more circumspect?
“Don’t look now,” Izzie whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Your Thom and Sir-Too-Good-to-Be-True are headed this way. But don’t worry, I’m sure this won’t be awkward at all.”
Right now, Elizabeth was finding it difficult to remember why she usually found her cousin’s dry sense of humor so amusing.
Seeing the men walking toward them made her heart start to race. Despite the cool air, she could feel a distinct sheen of perspiration on her brow. She had nothing to feel guilty about—which didn’t explain the frantic drumming of her pulse.
If only Thom wasn’t so handsome. She couldn’t seem to look away.
He met her gaze and nodded. “Lady Elizabeth, Lady Isabel.”
Before she could catch her breath to respond he moved off. Apparently he wasn’t here to see her. She was relieved. Of course she was. It only felt like disappointment.
“Is everything all right, my lord?” Izzie asked Randolph, covering the admittedly awkward moment, as Elizabeth stood there with her mouth agape.
“Fine. I thought MacGowan might have been here for me, but it seems he is on a personal mission.”
“He is?” Elizabeth asked in what was intended to sound disinterested but came out as something of a squeak.
Personal as in a woman? There were many staying at the guesthouse—most of them were the wives of the men in Bruce’s retinue, but there were a handful of unmarried ones—like Lady Mary—as well.
“Aye,” Randolph said. “To see Douglas’s wife.” Joanna? “But I have some good news. It seems there is no reason for me to rush back, so I will be happy to join you for the meal after all. Assuming the invitation is still open?”
The roguish smile and charming twinkle in his eye were undeniably calculated to make her knees weak. But hers didn’t shake—not even a little.
Joanna?
“My lady?” he asked.
Elizabeth snapped back to attention. “Of course the invitation is open, my lord. We are delighted. Aren’t we, Izzie?”
“Thrilled,” her cousin said, her tone making Randolph’s mouth tighten.
He ignored Isabel for most of the meal, which was rather inconvenient, as it forced Elizabeth to do more of the talking than she would have liked.
It was strange. She could talk for hours about Paris with Thom, who’d never been there, but with Randolph, who’d spent time there over the years, she struggled to keep the conversation going. Only when they returned to the subject of music did she finally have a reprieve. Izzie couldn’t resist interjecting her opinion, and an enthusiastic discourse—which sounded better than argument—between her and Randolph followed, for which Elizabeth was blissfully excluded.
Her gaze, however, kept sliding to the door.
When the short meal finally ended and Joanna still had not appeared, Elizabeth gave up any pretense of not wondering why and went to find her sister-in-law.
Thom’s plan worked better than anticipated. He knew Elizabeth wouldn’t be able to resist seeking him out, but he underestimated her irritation.
Thus, when she materialized in camp less than two hours after he’d left Joanna at Holyrood, he was caught by surprise and suffered an unpleasant blow to the ribs from Sutherland’s hammer as a result.
He swore and grimaced with pain but didn’t let it stop him. Ignoring Elizabeth, who stood near the edge of the practice yard with Helen MacKay doing a horrible job of pretending not to watch him, Thom gave his full attention to the contest with Sutherland and returned the blow with one of his own.
Sutherland grunted from the strike and the battle intensified. Blow after blow was exchanged and blocked, the exertion and effort it took wearing the combatants down to the point of exhaustion. But both men were too stubborn to yield.
The hammer was by far Thom’s best weapon, and his most comfortable with on the practice yard. He could hold his own against the elite warriors—even Sutherland and MacKay, who vied for title as the best.
Thom couldn’t say he was disappointed that she’d caught him with the hammer in his hand rather than the sword. Compared to most men-at-arms, he was good with a blade—maybe even really good—but compared to MacLeod and the elite warriors of the Highland Guard he had a long way to go.
But training with the Guard had given him a new perspective. The Guardsmen were strong with most weapons, but unlike the training he’d undertaken with Edward Bruce to become a knight, where the focus was on his skill with the sword, these men focused on their individual skill and were valued for it. Each warrior had been picked for what they excelled at, whether it was seafaring for MacSorley, archery for MacGregor, or scouting for Campbell. Thom was being recruited not for his skill with a sword (or a horse, thank God), but for his ability to climb. If he won a place among the vaunted warriors, it would be because he was the best.
Who would have thought that when he was climbing rocks as a lad and his mother was yelling at him to get down, it would someday be his path to greatness?
He had no doubt he qualified, but unfortunately he hadn’t yet been able to prove it. The nighttime forays at Castle Rock had failed to identify a possible route up the cliffs. He thought he might have found a way last night, but after spending hours trying to figure out a way to span a twenty-foot section that didn’t have useable foot- or handholds, he’d been forced to admit defeat.
It wasn’t something he did easily, as the current battle with Sutherland demonstrated. Sweat was dripping from every inch of Thom’s body, his muscles felt like jelly, and the hammer seemed to weigh three hundred pounds, but knowing Elizabeth was watching him gave him the added strength to keep fighting, and the edge he needed to win.
In the end it was Sutherland who raised a hand to yield after Thom took him off his feet with a well-timed blow and twist of his foot.
Thom nearly collapsed beside him, but managed to reach down and help the other man to his feet.
“Nice move, Rock,” Sutherland said with a wince as he rubbed his neck. “I see you’ve been paying attention to Raider’s lessons.”
Thom’s mouth twisted. “Maybe a few.”
The man with the war name of Ice laughed. “I’d say more than a few, but well done.” He clapped him on the back. “Of course, you’ll have to best MacKay tomorrow or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Thom grinned; the fierce contests between the two brothers by marriage had become legend in the Guard. “I’ll do my best.”
“Aye, well, just to be sure, I think I’ll speak to Lady Elizabeth and make sure she plans to be in camp tomorrow as well.”
Thom’s smile fell. He was glad none of the other men were close enough to overhear.
“Don’t worry,” Sutherland said. “I know all about the added incentive of an appreciative audience. If my wife had been watching, I would be the one helping you to your feet.” Suddenly he frowned. “Damn.”
“What is it?”
“Saint knows as well,” he said, referring to MacKay by his war name. “I’ll have to make sure Helen is away from camp when you fight him.”
The two men looked at each other and laughed.
Thom would have given three months’ wages for a warm bath before a fire, but instead he went to the stream to wash before seeking out Elizabeth, who had headed into the infirmary tent with Helen.
Although Thom was glad Elizabeth had sought him out so quickly, he wished she’d done so in a more circumspect fashion. Having her come to him in the middle of camp, surrounded by men who would be very interested to know why she wanted to see him—MacLeod, Douglas, and Randolph, to be specific—wasn’t exactly what he had in mind when he’d sought out Joanna.
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to keep his wooing of Elizabeth secret without help, he’d gone to Joanna, who’d been only too eager to agree to his plan, despite the fact that she’d be going against her husband’s wishes. She seemed to think that Jamie—like his sister—was being willfully stubborn about the matter and would “come around.”
Thom wasn’t so sure.
But he did have reason to hope that MacLeod might eventually understand and perhaps soften his stance. Although it was hard to believe by looking at the fierce, seemingly emotionless warrior, MacLeod had married for love. From Hawk—MacSorley—Thom had heard the story of the rogue mission MacLeod had led to rescue his wife from English hands—an act that launched the first strike in Bruce’s war eight years ago.
Still, Thom didn’t underestimate the risk in what he was doing. MacLeod had been damned clear about what was at stake. He didn’t want another Alex Seton. Thom had learned of the warrior whose discord with the others (Boyd, in particular) had caused him to leave the Guard. In deciding to pursue Elizabeth, Thom knew he was jeopardizing his future as a knight and his place in the Guard. He was also jeopardizing whatever chance he might have with the widow Rutherford—if she hadn’t gone tired of waiting for him.
But he couldn’t let Elizabeth go again. What they had together was worth fighting for. He realized what he was asking her to give up to marry him. Nor did he underestimate the difficulties they would face. But he had to make her see that he was worth it—they were worth it.
But he also knew he was waging a losing battle against time. The betrothal could be announced any day.
The very thought sent rage surging through his blood. He almost regretted not giving in to their passion on the hill yesterday. It sure as hell would have sped things up. But he wouldn’t give her the excuse he knew she was looking for. He didn’t want her to marry him because he’d taken her virginity, he wanted her to marry him because she realized she loved him.
Moving quickly, he removed his clothes and walked into the small, knee-deep stream that the men were using to wash. Unable to fully dunk himself, he used his hands to splash the icy water over him and rinse away as much of the grime and stench of practice as he could. It was cold as hell, and he made short work of it, getting in and out in a couple of minutes. Which was fortunate, as he’d barely finished tying his braies when Elizabeth came bursting through the trees that provided privacy from the camp.
“You can’t—” She stopped, seemingly unable to find her tongue. She gaped at him, eyes widening to take in more of the chest she was so blatantly admiring.
He’d been about to pull on his shirt but instead he picked up the black leather chausses he’d been wearing earlier.
“I can’t what?” he asked calmly.
She blinked a few times, tearing her gaze from his chest long enough to meet his eyes, only to slide it back to his chest again.
He fought a smile. The lass was clearly flustered.
Good. He liked her flustered.
Finally she shook her head and returned her gaze to his. Remembering what she’d been so eager to tell him, she held up the scrap of parchment he’d left with Joanna. “You can’t make this.”
He lifted a brow, pretending not to understand. “Jamie won’t know it’s from me.”
“That isn’t why.”
“Jo said there is a forge near the abbey that I can use—there will be no chance of Jamie discovering what I am doing that way. The sword she wants me to make for him will be a surprise. It’s all arranged. I spoke to the smithy earlier, and he’s agreed for a small fee to let me use his tools after he is done for the day. I should be able to work for a few hours after my duties are done before retiring for the evening. I will have to clean the forge, but it isn’t anything I haven’t done before.”
She narrowed her gaze, as if she suspected he was purposefully reminding her of all those late afternoons she’d sat and watched him do the same.
Guilty.
“It’s not the forge.” Her eyes fell to his chest again, but this time her mouth tightened. “Will you put on your shirt?”
Amused, he crossed his arms and gave her a lopsided smile. “Why? It’s not like you haven’t seen me before. More of me, in fact.”
Her cheeks heated at the memory and her eyes seemed to dip against her will.
Hell. Despite the cold, he started to swell and almost regretted teasing her—almost.
More determined this time, she clenched her fists and forced her blazing blue eyes back to his. “The design for the sword is all wrong. It’s far too simple. Don’t you remember all those discussions we had about design and embellishment?”
“I like simple. What does it matter what it looks like as long as the sword does its job?”
She groaned with the weary frustration of generations of women who’d tried to make a man see something that was obvious to them. “We’ve talked about this before. You can charge more, for one, and by making something special—something unique—you will create an object of desire and increase your reputation. You need to make a sword worthy of your skill and of Jamie’s position. A sword that people will envy.”
She’d been preaching the same message to him for years—which is exactly why he’d left the crude drawing for Joanna to show her. Just as he’d known she wouldn’t be able to resist finding out why he’d come to see Joanna, he’d also known she wouldn’t be able to resist finding him to complain about the design he’d come up with.
She came around to stand beside him, holding the drawing out for them both to see. “There needs to be scrollwork on the crossguard and hilt, which should be covered in silver gilt, with maybe a large ruby here”—she pointed to the tip of the pommel—“there should be a design etched on the blade, and the scabbard should be inlaid with gold and more precious stones.”
She looked so outraged he had to fight not to laugh. Instead he acted as though he’d barely heard her and continued putting on his clothes—finally donning his shirt.
“Draw something up if you like,” he said, as if it didn’t matter to him one way or the other.
She glared at him angrily, clearly annoyed by his indifference. “I will!”
She started to stomp back off toward camp but he stopped her. “Wait. I’ll take you back. You shouldn’t be walking around camp by yourself.”
She shook her head. “Someone might see us. I’m just supposed to be fetching . . .” Her voice dropped off, and she looked around. “There it is! I must have dropped it when—”
She stopped, her cheeks heating again. She quickly ran back to the edge of the trees where she’d first seen him and apparently had dropped the excuse she’d given for heading down to the stream. “I’m fetching a fresh bucket of water for Helen. I volunteered to help her look after the wounded men today.”
He lifted a brow, impressed by her resourcefulness. Although he probably shouldn’t have been given how often they’d devised ways of being alone when they were young. She also seemed to understand the risk.
“I’ll watch you from the trees all the same.”
She nodded and hurried back to the infirmary tent, the bucket of water jostling back and forth at her side.
He smiled, wondering how long it would take her to show up at the forge with the drawing.