Kitabı oku: «The Brunson Clan», sayfa 3

Chapter Four

Carwell was puzzling over her when he woke the next morning.

He did not like puzzles.

Problems, yes. Problems could be solved. Warring Brunsons could be persuaded to observe a temporary truce. The King could be convinced to return the warden’s post to its rightful owner.

The English could be induced to secret negotiations concerning the fate of the Earl of Angus.

These problems he could solve, though the solution might be imperfect. The trick was never to reveal your aim. To stay flexible and circumspect and let each side feel as if they had won.

But women could not be dealt with that way. Fragile, delicate and even irrational, a man could only accept them and protect them. At any cost.

For if he could not, the price would be much too high.

I’ll hold you responsible, Bessie had said. And he had failed. Betrayed by the betrayer, he had allowed an outlaw to escape.

A pale reminder of larger sins.

But Elizabeth Brunson? He did not know who she was or how to deal with her. She was silent more often than she spoke and when she looked at him with that damnable calm, he wanted to shake her.

He could deal with hot-blooded, quick-tempered Borderers. Was one, though he hid it well.

But he was accustomed to a woman who wanted to please, to bend, to mirror your wants in her smile. This woman took in your desires, ignored them and went on to do as she pleased.

Sure as the stars, they sang of the Brunsons. Immovable as a rock, they should have sung of her.

Well, such stubbornness might have been welcomed on the Borders, but at Stirling, it would serve neither of them well.

He was going to have to protect this woman, too, but in a very, very different way than most.

He rose to start the day. He must reach Stirling and convey the secret English offer to King James before official treaty negotiations reconvened. And as for Elizabeth Brunson, he would get her safely to Stirling and back.

What happened to the woman after that was not his affair.

For the first moments after she opened her eyes, Bessie thought she must still dream. Where were the walls that sheltered her? Where was the ceiling that had protected her from wind and rain for all of her eighteen years?

She had been away from home before, of course. Since her mother’s death, she had visited every scattered Brunson household. But she had never been so far away.

She had never been out of sight of the Cheviot Hills.

Now, she was on the edge of a strange landscape with a strange man, going to a place that might as well have been across the sea.

She sat up and shook her hair down her back. Well, here she was. She would do her duty. At least she had slept well.

She cast an eye towards the stream. This morning, shielded from the rest of the camp, she had easy privacy. When would she have water and seclusion again?

She grabbed her plaid and slipped out of her dress, leaving only the linen sark. Light touched the sky, but the sun still hid below the hills. Cold, cloudy, but without snow. The water would be freezing. Too bitter to bathe, but at least she could rinse off the dust of the journey before they headed into the hills again.

She crept down to the water and stilled as she heard something downstream.

And she turned her head to see Thomas Carwell, naked as the day he was born, wading into the freezing river up to his waist.

Her eyes widened to take in broad shoulders and a strong chest narrowing to—

She shut her eyes.

Hearing the splash that meant he waded in deeper, she dared to open them again. He had submerged himself in the water, then stood, throwing his head back, letting the water drip off his straight brown hair and run down his neck and shoulders on to his chest.

She shrank down, hoping he would not see her. Too late for pretence. If he saw her, he would know what she had seen.

Well, she had as much right to the river as he did.

Next time he ducked beneath the water, she would run around the bend, where he couldn’t see—

‘Do you spy on me, then?’

Too late. And a Brunson should never cower.

She opened her eyes and stood to her full height, fighting a shiver. How could the man stand so calmly, waist deep in frigid water? ‘You put my bed near the river. I assumed you wanted me to use it.’

For a moment, she could read his eyes clearly. They travelled from her hair to her bare toes, raising heat within to fight the air’s chill. The water safely disguised him below the waist, but the plain white linen covering her from shoulder to knee suddenly felt transparent.

Did her breasts press against the linen? Could he see the shape of her legs?

She wrapped the Brunson plaid around her shoulders, the ends covering her. ‘It seems you spy on me, Thomas Carwell.’

Yet she did the same, taking him in, no longer a warden, but just a man. Not as broad of shoulder as Rob, nor as tall as Johnnie, but she remembered how he stood close and draped the cloak over her shoulders, how his body seemed to fit against hers …

And then her eyes met his.

No ambiguity now. Just hunger he did not, or could not, hide.

He opened his mouth, but the words emerged slowly. With difficulty. ‘Perhaps we each only seek to bathe in the river.’

She nodded, her head a jerky thing, tongue-tied as if she had never seen a man’s chest before. She’d seen men aplenty. But never one that seemed …

‘I will let you finish, then,’ she said, turning her back. Hard to muster even those words, that movement.

He did not answer, but she heard more splashing behind her, and then footfalls, as if he had quickly climbed the bank. The rustle of cloth, as if he were pulling on breeches.

And then, behind her, the steps came closer …

She whirled, not wanting him to creep up upon her when she could not see him.

As soon as she turned, he stopped, still a safe distance away, carrying a shirt over his shoulder. Still out of reach. But close enough now she could see the hair sprinkled across his bare chest and the sword-trained muscles of his arms. She had thought of the man as the warden, as a courtier, perhaps, but this reminded her—he was a warrior, just as much as any man of the Borders.

‘I did not mean to disturb you,’ he said.

She shook her head. She had been the one to blunder upon him.

‘The water is cold,’ he continued. ‘Do not go in too deeply.’

‘You did.’ She had never intended to do such a daft thing, but the decision was hers, not his.

‘That’s how I know how cold it is.’ He gave her an easy smile, but she could see the cold had raised bumps on his arms. She had the strangest urge to wrap her plaid around him, to warm him …

‘Then go. Finish dressing yourself and leave me be.’

He swung the shirt over his head, blessedly covering himself, but the sigh she released was more regret than relief.

‘I’ll stand over there and keep my back turned. Let me know when you are ready.’

She nodded and scampered down the bank.

Would he turn to look? She felt as if they were equally armed, neither with an advantage. If she turned to find him looking, then what? Better not to know. Better to imagine him a man of his word.

And yet as she splashed water on her face and arms, she had the strangest need to defy him.

If he wasn’t looking, he wouldn’t know if she stepped in the water.

She held her sark above her knees and waded in, curling her toes against the rocks on the river bottom, and shivered.

It was every bit as cold as he had promised.

He had promised not to look.

So he busied himself with tucking his shirt in, putting on his jerkin, pulling hose over freezing feet. Bessie was a sensible woman. Surely she wouldn’t take long.

He listened for sounds, trying to hear something above the gurgling water of the river.

Trying to keep his head from turning.

The sounds of the river were a small comfort. Different, very, from the relentless tides of the firth, but unlike the hills, moving, always moving.

As they must move today. If he did not get the message to the King before—

A new sound. A woman’s cry.

He whirled and ran. Had she gone in? Was she drowning?

Yes, she had, daft woman. But far from drowning, she stood in thigh-deep water, soaked from head to toe, red hair clinging to her breasts, just hiding the curves and nipples that lay just beneath the thin, wet linen.

And she looked as angry as he felt.

‘Don’t you step a foot off that bank!’

‘I told you not to go in.’

‘Brunson tower is hard by Liddel Water. I know how to bathe in the river.’ Yet she was shivering now. A stronger woman than those he’d known, no doubt. But if she took a chill and died …

‘Get out of there before you freeze your—’ he looked away from her breasts ‘—self to death.’

‘Get away! You promised not to look.’

‘You promised not to get into the water.’

They glared at each other and he wasn’t sure whether it was anger or desire that raised his temperature.

He tried to keep his eyes on her face, but the linen clung to curves he had only imagined before. She was lean, like her brother Johnnie, but no one would ever mistake her for anything but a woman. Her breasts, now pushing through the wet strands of red hair, were high and proud and full. Her legs long. And between her legs, where the wet cloth clung …

He swallowed.

She had followed his gaze and there was no question now. She had seen his desire. Been touched by it. Her lips parted. She crossed her arms over her breasts. Her knees sagged, as if weak with some kind of hunger … as if she might fall back into the water any minute.

He waded into the river, lifted her up, walked back to the bank and set her down. His arms lingered on her shoulders. He looked down into her face, thinking again how full and ripe her lips—

She thumped his chest with both fists and broke his hold, stepping back. ‘Is this how you save my reputation?’

He looked down, realising he had walked into a river wearing leather boots. The woman had scrambled his thinking. He had thought only to protect her and then she was too close, too tempting …

‘It was not your reputation that was in danger. It was your health.’

‘I’ve not been sick a day in my life. Now step away and turn around.’

He shook his head. ‘Last time I turned my head, you jumped into the river. Now I’m taking you back to your tent and sitting there until you are dressed and ready. We’ve miles to go today.’

And his clothes were soaked from the waist down. It was going to be a long, cold ride.

Embarrassment, and something even more dangerous, warmed Bessie as she stomped back to her tent.

Treacherous man.

She had ignored the feelings he had raised that night he had arrived at the tower. Hand on hers in the dance. Standing too close. She had neither time nor inclination for such foolishness, particularly with this man who, no doubt, had betrayed her family once and might do so again.

She ignored the fact that she had, on a foolish whim, marched right into the river after he told her not to. After she had no intention of doing so.

She didn’t even like water.

One night away from home and she was no longer herself.

Her jaw trembled and her teeth clattered together. She clamped them tight, angry. It was as if she had left Bessie behind when she left the valley. All her life she had been the one bundled in blankets, layered in hose and gloves. So why had she marched into a frigid river in the middle of November?

The man had scrambled her thinking.

She was a sensible woman. Steady. Solid. Dependable. But with this man, steps that should have been simple became awkward. There was something about him that threw her … off.

Inside the tent, she stripped off her wet sark, wrung the water from her dripping hair and donned clean linen with shaking fingers. Shivering, she sneezed.

She was never ill and damned if she would be now. She would not give him the satisfaction.

No. Now she would do her duty, and that duty did not include swooning in any man’s arms, particularly those of a man who had likely betrayed her family. She had promised her brothers she would discover proof of that. Time to be about it.

She rolled up the rest of her things and stuffed them back into the travel bag. She would question him. She would uncover the truth.

But as she emerged from the tent and mounted her pony for the day’s ride, she glanced at Carwell and discovered she could not look at the man without a catch in her breath.

Without remembering …

Well, then, she would keep her shoulders square and her eyes straight ahead. Just a few days and she would be herself again. Just a few miles and she would be able to act as if their river meeting had never happened.

At least, she hoped so.

He was grateful, in the end, for the plunge into cold water. It kept his tarse from rearing its head when he looked at Elizabeth Brunson and remembered the feel of her in his arms.

But as the days wore on and the miles passed under the ponies’ hooves, the memory moved through him again. Aye. There was a reason he had not wanted Bessie Brunson to be the one to come on this trip. He had memories to forget. Memories to hide. And having her close made it that much more difficult.

Soon, they would reach Stirling Castle, where she would be put in a bed far away from him and where no loch or river would provide temptation.

For he must think of why he had come and what he might face. A new king. Grown, yes, but more than ten years younger than he. Younger even than Elizabeth Brunson.

He hoped the boy he only partly knew would be wise. Scotland could not afford war with England right now. But at least he and the King shared one goal.

The Earl of Angus would be caught and punished. The man must not slip through their hands, cross the border, and into the protection of his friend and ally, King James’s uncle, the English King Henry VIII.

Chapter Five

She was not prepared for Stirling Castle.

The Brunsons were the most powerful family in the March. She was unaccustomed to meeting families more powerful than her own. But as they rode up the steep, winding path to the castle, looming high on a cliff above them, she felt as if she were approaching Heaven.

And once inside, she was even more confused. Buildings, courtyards, all teeming with people. More than she had ever seen in one place, except for the times that Brunsons were riding a raid.

Carwell left her with the men for a few minutes, then returned with the steward.

‘It seems,’ Carwell said, as the steward took charge of the horses and men, ‘that when the King abandoned the siege against Angus, he brought the men here. There’s to be a tournament. Jousting and celebration.’ His voice did not sound celebratory.

‘What is it like, a tournament?’ Bessie asked. She might as well have been in France. They had tournaments there, she had heard.

‘It means we dress up and fight each other.’

‘Why?’

‘For glory.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Clearly, the King is a man who doesn’t have enough fighting to do in his everyday life.’

His expression echoed hers. ‘Or he wants a battle he can win.’ He leaned closer to whisper. ‘He is still smarting from his defeat by Angus.’

The defeat he blamed on the Brunsons.

She looked up at the cloud-covered sky. Falling off his horse into the mud would not improve his mood.

Finished with the men, the steward approached her with a boy to take her horse. As she started to dismount, Carwell was there, helping.

He steadied her on her feet and turned to the steward. ‘This is Elizabeth Brunson.’

She blinked. She had never been Elizabeth. Always, only, little Bessie. Elizabeth sounded like a different woman.

One who might dance at court, light on her feet.

The steward bent at the waist. ‘This way, my lady.’ He summoned another man to carry her travel chest.

She looked back at Carwell, suddenly reluctant to be separated. ‘Am I to meet the King?’

He shook his head. ‘There’s no time now. You’re to join the other ladies as soon as you change your dress.’

As she followed the steward up the stairs and down the hallway, she looked down at her travel-worn wool.

As soon as she changed into what?

With minimal introduction, the steward led her to a building at the far end of the huge stone palace and turned her over to a short, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who guided her upstairs, chattering in words Bessie had never heard.

‘Excuse me.’ She must interrupt the woman. ‘I don’t understand—’

‘Vous ne parlez pas français?’

Bessie shook her head.

‘Ah. I see.’ They had reached the end of the corridor and the woman opened a door. ‘It’s empty now,’ she explained, in words Bessie could understand, ‘but three of us share it already. We’re all named Mary.’

Bessie felt a moment of relief. She had not seen another woman in the week since she had left home. A female face was a comfort.

‘They call me Wee Mary,’ she said, with a smile that showed a gap between her front teeth.

‘I’m … Elizabeth Brunson.’ So Carwell had introduced her. So she would be.

The woman’s eyes widened. So did her smile. ‘You’re Johnnie’s sister?’

‘Aye. You knew him?’ A woman who knew Johnnie. It felt like coming home.

Mary laughed, deep in her throat. A laugh that said it all. ‘Aye. We all miss Johnnie,’ she said, with smile that spoke of experience. ‘Especially Long Mary and me!’

Although she knew her brother had lived at court, Bessie had never pictured his life here. She had certainly not pictured him with women.

Given the woman’s smile, Bessie decided not to mention that Johnnie was a happy new husband. ‘Long Mary?’

‘She’s the tall one. Stowte Mary and I both serve the King’s mother.’

‘And what does Long Mary do?’

‘As she pleases.’ Her expression teetered between envy and resentment. ‘For now.’

Bessie understood these words no more clearly than the French ones. ‘This is all so … different.’

Wee Mary took in Bessie with one sweeping glance. ‘Has the King seen you yet?’

Bessie looked down at her dress and then at Mary’s. She was wearing something stiff and black with gilded trim and a square neckline that exposed more than Bessie was used to.

This was worse than she had feared. She shook her head.

Mary raised her brows. ‘You are très jolie. Il va vous voir avec plaisir.’

Before she could ask what that meant, there was a knock on the door behind them. A servant entered, carrying Bessie’s chest, put it down and disappeared.

‘You’ve not much time,’ Mary said. ‘What are you going to wear?’

Bessie sighed, lifted the lid, pulled out her best dress and held it up. Next to Mary’s, it looked shapeless and faded. And she heard the echo of what she had told her brother months ago. She had no proper clothes for court.

Mary pursed her lips and raised her brows. ‘I see.’ She turned to another chest and rummaged among the contents. Finally, she pulled out something deep black, shapely, and with a blue inset in the front of the skirt. ‘This is Long Mary’s. She’s more your size.’

She reached out to stroke the fabric, the colours so vibrant they belonged on a bird. ‘I can’t just take someone’s dress.’

Wee Mary shoved it at her. ‘It no longer fits her. Now hurry.’

At the end of the tournament field, Carwell checked his armour, and made sure his men’s green-and-gold colours were firmly attached.

The King, impatient, had not waited to build seating for the spectators, so most would simply stand at the edge of the field in the valley below the castle. The women, perched atop the Ladies Rock overlooking the grounds, would have a better view. He looked, vainly, for Elizabeth.

‘Ah, there you are.’

Carwell turned and bowed in one movement. ‘Your Grace.’

In the chaos surrounding preparations for the tournament, there had been no time for formal presentation to the King. It had been months, more than a year, since he had seen James. All their agreements had been via messages and messengers.

Now, face to face, he could newly assess the man himself. Young. Red-haired, with a long, prominent nose. And carrying a brilliant green-and-gold bird on his wrist.

The King wasted no words. ‘You’ve news?’

‘Yes, Your Grace. News of several kinds.’

The King’s eyes flashed. Suddenly, he was less the excited sixteen-year-old and more the monarch. ‘Imminent danger?’

Carwell shook his head.

Relief touched the King’s eyes. ‘Then we will enjoy the tournament first. News will wait.’

‘A handsome papingo, Your Grace.’

James looked at the bird and smiled. ‘A gift.’ He turned his gaze out over his immediate kingdom. The King took a deep breath as he surveyed it. ‘And who is that lovely lark?’

Carwell followed the King’s glance to see Elizabeth, walking along the edge of the field.

And forced himself to breathe.

Her gown, stark black, set off her fair skin and made her firelight hair even more vibrant.

‘Elizabeth Brunson, Your Grace.’

‘Brunson?’ The word was sharp-edged.

‘Aye, Your Grace.’ His voice sounded appropriately detached. He congratulated himself. ‘John’s sister.’

‘Ah, of course. I can see it now. The similarity in the build….’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Johnnie’s sister, eh?’ Several things seemed to flash behind the King’s eyes, ending with a sigh. ‘Bring her to me.’

‘Now, Your Grace?’

The King frowned. ‘Of course, now.’

Carwell gave a brief bow and muttered something that should have been Of course, Your Grace, but wasn’t.

Her eyes lit up as he approached. She must feel truly isolated now, he thought. She had never looked so happy to see him.

He concentrated on keeping his eyes on hers so he would not look down at her bodice, where he could see the edge of breasts he had been trying to forget since he had carried her from the stream.

He cleared his throat. ‘You look lovely.’

She looked down. ‘I look like a pigeon in a pig pen.’

‘The King doesn’t think so.’

She lifted her head and he saw a flash of fear in her eyes. She looked around his shoulder.

‘That’s the King, yes. With the bird.’

She raised her brows. ‘I’ve never seen a falcon like that.’

‘It’s not a falcon.’ He reached out to take her elbow, his touch staking some kind of claim. ‘He wants to meet you.’

She pursed her lips, then nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To explain?’

Yet when she lifted her head, he found himself staring at the curve of her neck and her delicate throat.

And thinking of the hangman’s noose.

‘Not today. Today, only curtsy and smile and say as little as possible.’

Lifted chin, stubborn lips and fear, still, in her eyes. ‘I speak no French.’

Now, his smile could reassure. ‘Neither does the King.’

Her lips relaxed and released a breath. ‘Will he ask for our oath?’

He shook his head. The King needed no reminders of the Brunsons’ bad behaviour today. Not until Carwell had had a chance to assess the situation. ‘He is in a good mood and ready to enjoy the jousting. Be sure he remains so. Come.’

She matched her strides to his as they walked across the damp field. ‘What do I call him?’

‘Address him as “Your Grace”.’ He tightened his grip on her arm. ‘And say nothing bad about the bird.’

The sun had broken through the clouds and the day had warmed, as if on the King’s command, as they approached James, standing before his tent, surrounded by attendants.

‘Your Grace,’ Carwell said, his hand still on Bessie’s arm. ‘Elizabeth Brunson.’

She bent her knees, but not her stubborn neck. Even a Brunson woman bowed to no man.

The King’s eyes roved across her curves and Carwell fought the tension in his jaw. Well, what man wouldn’t like to look on her? He did. Too much.

Smiling, the King stroked the bird’s bright-green feathers. ‘Welcome to Stirling Castle and to my tournament.’

‘Thank you, your Grace.’

‘And this,’ the King said, lifting the wrist with the bird, ‘is Pierre. Greet the lady, Pierre.’

Pierre squawked and fluttered his wings. Elizabeth leaned away and pressed against Carwell. He found his arm around her waist.

Quickly, she recovered herself, but kept her lips firmly shut.

The King frowned. ‘Is he not impressive?’

She glanced at Carwell for permission. ‘I’ve never seen such a creature before.’

The King’s eyes narrowed and he handed the bird to an attendant. ‘Johnnie is not with you.’

She glanced at Carwell and swallowed. ‘No, he’s—’

‘It’s a day for celebration, Your Grace. Even the sun emerges to honour your glory.’

James frowned, but two squires hovered, holding armour. The red-and-gold surcoat with the royal arms was waiting, flapping in the wind. The King looked up at the uncertain sky. ‘We begin within the hour.’ He looked back at Elizabeth. ‘Who carries your favour, milady?’

Her eyes flickered, uncertain. ‘My favour, Your Grace?’

‘In the lists. Your kerchief. Your scarf. The token of your affection.’ The King’s smile was too smug, his eyes too eager.

Carwell stepped forwards. ‘I do.’

Beside him, Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Fortunately, she kept her mouth closed.

Carwell took the King’s frown for her.

‘Don your armour, Carwell. You, and your men.’ And he turned his back and stepped into the tent.

Carewell bowed and backed away, dragging Bessie beside him.

She pulled her arm away. ‘You carry no favour of mine.’

‘But the King was about to ask for it. He can collect all the favours he wants. And when he wins, he would want to collect from you.’

‘Collect? I’ve nothing to give him.’

How was this woman to survive here? ‘You have what every woman has and every man wants.’

The heat in his eyes left no doubt of his meaning. And left a cloud of pink on her cheek. Something he had not seen before.

‘What if he does not win?’

‘The King always wins.’

‘So you think to save me?’

He had, but now, he could think only to have her. The door of temptation had opened and he struggled to shut it against the vision. Even those lips, so plump and rounded. Such a soft contrast to the rest of her. A woman who told the truth or stayed silent.

‘I think,’ he said, finally finding his voice again, ‘that you do not want to anger him if you hope to help your family.’

‘Aye,’ she said. Those impossibly beautiful lips curved into a smile. ‘And refusing to give him his expected reward would anger him.’

‘It would indeed.’

‘And if I refuse you? Will you be angry?’

Bessie watched his eyes darken. Anger? No. Something more. The hunger she had seen in his eyes at the stream when he saw her—

Why had she asked such a daft thing?

His control returned quickly. Feelings disappeared. ‘First I will have to win. Then you would have to refuse me. Let those things happen and then we’ll see.’

His gaze drifted to her lips. Her own hunger rose.

He stepped away. ‘But before any of that, you must give me a favour.’

A favour. She looked down. How was she to give him a favour? She was in a borrowed dress, without even a handkerchief of her own. And she would not honour the man by allowing him to carry the Brunson blue and brown.

‘Don your armour,’ she said. ‘By the time you are ready, I will have it for you.’

All she needed was a moment alone and a pair of scissors.