Page 45 of The Forest Bride

“Why let knights sit in a dungeon when they can fight in your army? It was a condition of release. But even that was withdrawn. After another year, several of us escaped to France, where the Scots have allies. We were there for a long time before we found a way to Ireland. I stayed up there working for the Scottish cause. I returned home for brief visits only. After that,” he murmured, “my father was murdered. My mother and my brothers needed me. And I took on the role of justiciar.”

“We heard only that you had died.”

“There was no reason to send word to your father. I assumed you hated me, and that your kin despised me as well. Besides, I had heard you were gone.”

“I never hated you. Gone?”

“I remember your words, lass. They stayed with me for years. Gone into a convent and took the veil.”

“I went there for some time, but left again. How did you hear that?”

“I was kept in an English castle where we sometimes had news of Scotland. I heard Sir Robert Keith’s daughter had gone into a nunnery from heartbreak. It hit me deep.”

She propped up on an elbow. “I did go to a convent. But not because of you. I was ill. A fever, not heartbreak. I was upset with you, true. But I heard you had died, and it made me—very sad.”

“Did it?”

“It did. My mother and I both had fevers, a summer ague, you see. My father took us to an infirmary where we stayed for weeks, then we went to the priory at Lincluden to recover. I got stronger,” she said. “My mother grew weaker. She lingered and died.”

“I am sorry,” he murmured.

“I stayed after she died. I thought about becoming a nun.” She shrugged. “But I was not suited to that life. I was—uh, asked to leave.”

“Asked to leave a convent?” He sounded surprised.

“Wildcat,” she said simply. “I do not like rules.”

He chuckled. “I see that. So neither of us knew the truth about the other.”

“Would it have mattered?”

“It would.” He cleared his throat. “I heard the rumor of my death, but I thought it affected only my family. I am sorry it troubled you.”

“And my father. He was saddened. He said you were a good knight.” She had not wanted to hear it at the time. Now she lay facing him, warm and relaxed, aware that he must leave. Yet she wanted these quiet moments to linger. “Can I ask—did you ever marry? If you had a wife here, you would not be in this bed.”

“I am just here keeping a certain lass in custody. I have no wife.”

Tilting her head, she wondered if he had ever fallen in love. Should it matter to her now? She had never loved any suitor but him, but she kept that to herself.

“I never had time to marry,” he went on. “And you? Surely your father looked for another match for such a daughter as you.”

She smiled in the darkness at that. Stretched out beside him in the darkness of the half-curtained bed felt dreamlike, a cocoon of shadows and moonlight and drowsy warmth. Time vanished, hurt faded. His resonant voice, his very presence felt magical, thrilling through her. Truth felt natural here.

“My father arranged three more betrothals. Four in all. I refused—three of them.”

He gave a surprised huff. “Three! What was wrong with the fellows?”

“Two died,” she said. “Three, counting you. The fourth one refused me before I had the chance.”

“By the saints, lass, you would be a desirable bride for any man. But bad luck for some to die before—well. I am sorry.”

“Not bad luck. I decided I would have to make my own luck. Make my own way. I decided I did not want to marry.”

“Was that my doing?” he asked. She heard regret soften his words.

“My own doing. Besides, I thought you were dead. But instead you were captured, imprisoned. Tortured.” She shuddered.

“But I was cordially held for the most part, since my father was an important Scots lord who could pay ransom. But it was never asked of him. Instead, I was sent to Flanders to fight for the English. But no one was treated that badly.”