Page 11 of The Guardian’s Bride (Highland Secrets #3)

“N ot me. My nephew—and my niece, acting in her brother’s place.” He leaned forward, forearms on knees, hands clasped, damp curls framing his face. He was very handsome, she thought, distracted; his appeal was powerful in that small room. “Young Duncan is the earl of Fife. His father—my brother—was killed weeks before his birth. So he was born in England because his mother fled to her uncle—King Edward. Duncan is fifteen, Edward’s ward, and has never set foot in Scotland.”

“I did not know. Then his sister, Lady Isabella, is your niece.”

“Aye, but raised in Scotland, a ward of the bishop of Saint Andrews. My brother was twenty-six when he was killed in an ambush, so I took on some responsibilities since his children were little.”

“How awful to die so young,” she said.

“The same happened with our father and our grandfather. Being close to the throne of Scotland brings privilege and danger, especially with the English conflict. Fathers who are killed young leave small sons in roles that require warriors.”

“Sadly so. What responsibilities came to you?”

“A position that belongs to the Earl of Fife. Guardian of the Realm of Scotland.”

She gasped. “The council of earls and bishops that govern Scotland?”

“Aye. My position is an interim, if young Duncan ever returns. Now that Bruce is king, the regent role of the guardians is changing.” He shrugged. “And I have other duties. My brother’s death and his heir’s absence left much to manage in Fife. But I would do anything to help fill my brother’s boots—and his son’s too. I have never met my nephew, but he has my loyalty in Fife and Scotland. And my niece too. Isabella means a great deal to me. I care for her as if she were a daughter.”

“Her captivity must be very distressing for you. I heard about her fate. But I did not realize—the rest of it, that Edward would take revenge on the MacDuffs because of their role in crowning Scottish kings.” She shook her head in disbelief.

“Aye. It is infuriating. Heartbreaking.” He looked away.

Her heart broke for him, for his kin, in that moment. Outside, thunder rumbled, shook the walls. She desperately wanted to reach out to him, but kept still.

“Then you were arrested for being a MacDuff.”

“Anyone who shares the blood-right of crowning the king of Scots is a threat in King Edward’s regard.” He set his hands on his thighs, then stood. “And I have done deliberate treason in English eyes.”

Rowena looked up. Standing over her, he seemed a giant, filling the room with presence, as if his head might touch the raftered ceiling, his wide, gleaming shoulders press the walls apart.

“What treason?” she asked.

“I am a MacDuff of Clan Duff,” he said, low as thunder. “I brought Isabella to Scone to crown the new king. I made sure she arrived. I am proud of my so-called treason. But I failed her otherwise.”

“You would never fail her.” Rowena felt certain of that.

“Bruce sent his kinswomen up to Kildrummy, planning to send them to safety in Norway. I was with Bruce in the southwest. We were not there when the women were captured. I failed my niece.”

Her heart surged at that, and she stood, wanting to go to him. Yet she sensed his pride would not accept it now. “Neither of you knew that would happen. I have heard that their release is being negotiated.”

He snorted. “No time soon. I have been part of the discussions. Our latest offer was refused. Edward does not want diplomacy. He wants to twist the knife in Bruce’s back and use these women as a warning to all Scots. Lady Mary is ill but holding on. Isabella, they say, is very weak. Even if Edward relents, she may not survive long enough to be released.”

“Aedan—” His name came so naturally then. “I am so sorry. Surely there is hope. You have a hopeful nature.”

“Sometimes. Not for this.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I cannot fail my clan or Fife. If you understand that, Rowena Keith, you understand me.” Thunder rolled again beyond the window. She barely heard it, focused on him.

“I want to,” she blurted. His words were stirring, his meaning rich with loyalty, honor, love for his kin. “You are doing all you can. All will be well.”

“Hold that hope, lady.” He sounded bitter.

A burst of wind and rain sounded then, and the shutters blew open. Startled, Rowena went to the window with Aedan, both grabbing the shutters. The window had no glass or parchment, so rain blew inside. They closed the shutters together, the wind pushing hard. Aedan pressed his hand over hers as they held them closed.

He looked down at her. “I am glad you are here.”

“You needed help closing the shutters.” She gave him a little teasing smile.

He laughed. “I seldom talk about these matters. But you already know some of my secrets. As my—nurse,” he said softly.

“I know you like being the strong one and the jester. Then you need not show much of your true self, your thoughts. Feelings.”

“Sometimes.” He was silent, fingers over hers damp with rain. The wind shoved, then quieted. He let go, and the shutters stayed closed. Leaning a shoulder against the window jamb, he gazed down at her. “I owe you another apology. You want to go home. I know that. But here we are. I am sorry to keep you from what you want.”

What she wanted, she realized in the moment, was this: standing here with him, listening, learning, growing closer. She had a few friends, Brother Gideon and others, but she had learned to keep distant because of the need in her work to keep apart from pain and emotion. Her widowing had wounded her in deep ways, but she had moved on by clinging to a natural inclination for caution and solitude.

Aedan had shared something close and important to him. She wanted to do the same, felt trust and safety growing. “I need to go home to be with my family,” she said. “King Edward has ordered us to relinquish some valuable things that belonged to Thomas the Rhymer. He will send men to Kincraig.”

“You can hardly help them face down the king’s men, lass.”

“I have been away too long.” She felt tears rise, sting, recede. “But you must reach Fife quickly. I understand that.”

“And I would never send you off alone to wander about with no map in your head.” His smile was rueful. “We have a bond, and I will honor it.”

“Fugitives, aye.”

“Cranky Edward is displeased with both of us. And there is the forgotten betrothal, and a healing with chants and stones and such.” His voice pulsed through her.

She looked away. “You said the stones and chants were a dream.”

“Did I?” He was silent, not the jester now, but the deeper man within, brilliant and thoughtful, guarding his secrets while discerning hers.

Rowena met his gaze, but as much as she wanted to know more about him, she could not open her guarded heart so easily. But she had to be honest with him. “I should tell you—I used a charm stone to help you at Holyoak.”

“I thought so. I thank you for it. Do not fret, I am not a superstitious sort.”

“It belonged to the Rhymer,” she said, surprising herself at sharing so readily.

“Not the usual wee stone, then.”

“Grandda gave it to me when I was studying with my aunt to learn about herbs and remedies, chants and charm stones too. Here, let me show you.” She went to the bed, where she had left her embroidered purse, and took out the Rhymer’s stone.

Her fingers trembled. This was her closest secret, yet she wanted—she needed somehow—to share it with him. She held it in her open palm for him to see. Highlights gleamed in crystal and silver, reflecting candlelight and a lightning flash.

“It is beautiful. Like a jewel.” He stared at it, frowning deeply, his expression something other than simple admiration.

“It is more than that, so Grandda said. I do not understand all it does, but I have seen it help illness when nothing else did. Grandda told me to use it with caution, keep it secret, and protect it. He said I was—the guardian of this stone.” She looked at him.

“Guardian,” he repeated. He met her gaze, hazel-dark eyes somber, brows drawn. She handed him the stone and he cradled it, rolled it in his fingers. “A precious thing. You circled this over me, sang a chant. I thought it was a dream.”

“I hope it helped.”

“Something did. Thank you. It is a beautiful thing.” He gave it back, his fingers cupping her palm. His touch sank through her like fire, emanating not from the stone but from some pull between them that was growing stronger. Standing close in the candlelight, hands joined over the polished crystal, she felt the draw of him deep in her body, in her belly, her knees.

“King Edward wants this. He ordered me to send it to him.”

“How did he know about it?”

“Malise,” she said, and explained quietly, quickly, about the gifts Thomas gave the Keith siblings, how they promised to keep them safe and secret, how Tamsin had been pursued for the Rhymer’s written prophecies. It was a surprising relief to tell him. Sharing it with MacDuff, with his easy manner and sharp focus, made her feel calmer.

“I thought the stone might help Sir Malise, so I dipped it in water, but that was all I did with the stone in his case. He was so badly hurt.”

“Not everyone would have helped such a scoundrel.”

She watched the light flicker in the stone as if it had a soul. “But it is my work, and I am not a vindictive sort. I did not think he saw, but he must have, for he told Edward. I would never regret using the stone to help someone, but I fear I made a mistake with him.”

“And now the king wants the stone for himself.”

“Aye, this, and everything Thomas gave our family. Edward had a writ drawn up and told Malise to carry out the order. Malise mentioned it when I went to Yester. If we refuse to give up the legacy Thomas gave us, Edward will collect every item by force.”

“So you want to warn your family.”

“I was home earlier, and told them. But we thought Edward would not follow through on it, and Henry did not intend to obey the orders. But now that I know men will come for the things, I must go home to be there.” Her voice wobbled.

“Soon, I promise.” He traced his hand down her arm, a touch like soft lightning. She drew a breath. “What can I do beyond seeing you safely there?”

Hold me, listen to me, love me? She could not say what flashed through her thoughts. “There is more. Malise wanted to marry Tamsin, but she refused. Now—” She sighed. “Edward expects me to marry Malise. He thinks a widow should either become a nun, or be married off with no say about it.”

“Too often it is the way. What did you answer?”

A hot blush rose from breast to brow. “Henry was there. He said—we were negotiating my next marriage, so I could not promise to another.”

His brows shot high. “Ah! Sorry, I had not thought—are you betrothed again?”

“I am not. He meant the arrangement you and I nearly had once. It just came to him to say it, though he did not share your name,” she added. “I told Malise I would never marry him. Ever.”

He huffed a little laugh. “Good. The old betrothal will save you trouble, I hope.”

“You do not mind?”

“Why should I mind?” He smiled. “I wanted to marry you once.”

Surprised, she blinked. “You were a lad. We never met.”

“But I liked the idea of joining the Keiths. You see, I—wanted to be part of a family. After our father’s death, my brother and I did not see Mother often after she remarried and went to live in Perthshire. Because my brother and I were heirs of Fife, we stayed as wards of the Bishop of Saint Andrews. He disapproved of the betrothal. He intended me for the priesthood. Clergy in the family can be so useful,” he drawled.

“But you became a knight.”

“I studied theology at Saint Andrews, but swords and chivalry were more to my liking, and the bishop saw I was suited to it. So I rode off as a knight. I married, and we had a son, and I lost a wife.” He looked away.

“I am sorry.” She set a hand over her heart. “But you have a family.”

“I do, with my sister and our aunt, who look after my wee son. It grows late, lass. We need sleep.” Thunder boomed distantly as he spoke. “Bed or floor?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Bed for you, floor for me.” He waved toward the bed. “That looks too small. I would break it, crash through the floor, and fall on the guards downstairs.”

“One way to be rid of them.”

He laughed and dropped his plaid on the floor, kneeling to spread the cloth, bare torso golden in candlelight as he moved. He lay down, wrapped part of the plaid over himself, and folded his hands behind his head. Rowena settled on the bed, arranging the blanket, plumping two small pillows.

“Are you comfortable? Here.” She tossed one of the pillows toward him.

“Oof,” he said as it hit him in the face. The scar on his arm caught the light.

“Your arm looks good,” she said, leaning to peer at the puckered scar. “I meant to look closer earlier, but there was no time.”

“Fine. A bit stiff now and then.” He flexed his arm, fisted his hand, sinew and muscle shifting beneath smooth skin. “The other scars are healed too. All is well.”

“May I?” She moved to the floor, sitting like a child with crossed ankles, spreading her skirts, and leaned close as he tilted his face to the light. Brushing back his damp brown curls, she touched his cheek. “It looks good. Your leg is stronger too?”

He began to pull at the waist of his trews. “Here—”

“Oh, do not,” she said with an embarrassed laugh.

“You have seen it. Here, just the side.” He loosened the draw cords and pulled down the fabric to show part of his hip and upper leg, the plaid covering the rest. The skin of his thigh was pale and taut, the partial track of the scar pink and rippled.

Time flowed back to the night months ago when she’d sat with him, willing him to live, doing all she could. “It looks well-knit.”

“Good work well done.” He tugged up the trews. He was such an honest soul, she thought, with no arrogance and so at ease that she felt relaxed too. Yet they were all but strangers except for an oddly intimate bond in the past.

“Does it hurt? We walked a fair distance today.”

“Aches a bit. Could be the rain.” As if to punctuate his words, lightning crackled and rain pounded anew on the rickety shutters. “I owe you and your wee stone too.”

As he tightened the waist cords, Rowena noticed the firm pattern of muscle flexing across his abdomen, and felt keenly aware of how close they sat, and of a sweet tension rising between them. She wanted to be even closer. The thought felt nicely wicked, unexpected, and compelling.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, eyes keen.

“Just—the coincidences between us. It feels as if we were meant to meet.”

“Perhaps we were.” His voice reverberated, low and delicious.

A tremor of anticipation swirled within her as she met his gaze. Suddenly the two candles flickered and went out, and she gasped. Aedan reached for her hand in the dark and she startled.

“Lady, I am no threat to you.”

“I know.” Her voice was strangely wobbly. “This day has been so strange. Thrown in a dungeon, running off with a stranger—”

“We are not strangers.” He held her hand. “The troubles will pass, and you will soon be home, I promise.”

“You, as well.” She pressed his hand, needing that soothing touch, that subtle thrum of power and attraction spiraling through her.

“You are a lass to admire, I think. A practical one, steady and cautious, a lass who does not falter, who helps others. And who keeps her heart to herself.”

“Sometimes,” she said, echoing him earlier. “And you are steadier and more certain than me. Humble and kind, too, though you hide your feelings. And you make me laugh.” She smiled, tentative in the darkness.

“A bargain. You heal me, I heal you—your seriousness. It is the least I can do.” He brushed a tendril of hair from her brow.

Thunder sounded like boulders on the roof. She looked up. “The walls are shaking.”

“We will not blow away. Though we might reach Fife faster that way.” His thumb caressed her palm, sending shivers through her. Then he let go.

Her hand felt cool, lonely. What she needed she could not ask for—it was not in her nature. But she deeply wished for the comfort of an embrace. She was ever the one comforting another. Yet when he touched her, it stirred a yearning that grew. She wanted more than comfort and companionship. Widowed so young, romantic affection had been only a brief light in her life.

He touched her shoulder, stroked her arm. She felt it everywhere, an easing of tension, a building of awareness. Thunder rumbled. Water dripped at the window. She wished he would never release her. But he did, and sat back a little.

“When I was at Holyoak,” he said, “I was not aware of much. Later I wanted to thank you, but you had gone. I wanted to apologize. I seem to remember thrashing about and pulling on you.”

“You were agitated, but you were fevered. I was worried for you.”

“Listen now. I will repay you for what you did. I will,” he insisted as she shook her head. “If only with loyalty and protection. And a poor joke or two.”

A little sob caught in her throat. “I just need to go home to be with my family should the king’s threat come to our gates. But so do you.”

“Crossroads, lass. I ask a little patience. And do not hie off on your own, hey? Good.” His quick smile lifted one corner of his mouth, wicked and delightful. His lips were full and lovely. She wanted to taste them—

“We should rest,” he went on. “Though I could talk with you all night.”

She could too, wanting to know his fears, hopes, all of it. “We must wake early.”

He stood, nimble for a tall man, and reached down to help her to her feet. Then he raised her hand to his lips and dropped a light kiss on her hand. It rippled through her like a strand of lightning. She caught her breath.

“Pardon. That was loutish.”

“That was chivalrous.” Her hand was poised, almost begging another kiss, and now she yearned for a true kiss, lush and deep. Yet she would not cross that gap here, nor would he. “I will take that as a pledge, Sir Knight.”

“Do. If you prefer, I can sleep outside the door.”

“Stay,” she said quickly.

“Fine then. Good night, Grizel, bluebell.”

“Good night, Hamish.” She sat on the thin straw mattress, which gave off hints of lavender and must. Aedan shuffled about making his simple bed on the floor.

In the reddish glow of the brazier, his profile had a finely drawn masculine handsomeness, his chest and arms sculpted and gleaming. Beyond the unkempt hair, scruffy beard, rough clothes, brawny build, and the brusque humor that masked his thoughts, the reddish light revealed the quiet power of a man who endured much, yet carried all with steadfast ease. She glimpsed the beauty of his nature, made of courage, integrity, and humility. She felt a sense of safety, of gratitude—and something deeper, something expansive. Months ago, she had cared for him. Now she cared about him, and realized it was deepening.

“I hope you can sleep there,” she said.

“I can sleep anywhere, lass.” He lay back, quieted.

She busied herself with blanket and pillow and rested too. Sometimes her pragmatic nature surrendered to romantic ideals. She had spent one day with him, and her thoughts were straying in ways that rarely happened with her. She hardly knew him, yet felt as if she had always known him.

A bond existed with him that she did not have with any other. It expanded, insisted. She had to express it somehow.

“Aedan MacDuff,” she said, “I think you want others to believe you are a lout. But you are a good man. You just do not want anyone to know. But I see it.”

“Ah, she plumbs my secrets. I look like an ox, but I am a pup seeking affection.”

“Well, I could trim your hair. I have scissors,” she offered.

“You terrify me.” He crammed the pillow under his cheek, turned on his side.

She pulled up the blanket, listening to the rain on the roof, a sleepy sound. Before long, a new noise began, louder, distracting. Drip, drip, splash, drip—

“Damn.” Aedan sat up. “The roof is leaking. In my face.” He scuttled away, dragging the plaid with him. Drip, drip. With a muttered oath, he moved again.

“Aedan.” Rowena peered toward him. “Come up here.”

“I am fine.” The drips splashed on the floorboards, on something soft, cloth or man. He swore softly and swiped the edge of the plaid over the wet floor.

“Aedan MacDuff, come into this bed. We both need to sleep.”

Tap. Tap. Drip. With an exasperated mutter, he rose and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress sank under him as he stretched out with his broad back to her.

He was brawny but no ox, she thought, tugging the shared blanket over him. Taller than most, solidly muscled, he lay with his feet hanging off the end of the bed and the mattress sloping under him. The angle tilted her toward his back.

“See, you did not crash through the floor,” she said.

“I dare not move.”

She giggled. “You said you could sleep anywhere.”

“I was mistaken.” He sounded chagrined. “I like hearing you laugh.”

His simple, sweet words brought tears to her eyes. “Sleep, Hamish.”

“And you, Grizel, bluebell.”

Savoring his warmth and closeness, she felt so grateful. “Thank you.”

“For what?” He sounded drowsy.

“For being there when I needed you.”

“Magpie,” he murmured. “Hush it.”

“Magpies are bad luck and bluebells are poisonous.”

“I will take my chances. Hush.”

He woke, startled in the darkness and sudden quiet. The rain had stopped. About to doze, he heard other sounds—low voices, the clomp of boots, a door creaking. Then horse hooves in the yard. The guards were leaving. Good.

At his back, Rowena slept peacefully. He lay still, not wanting to disturb her rest or risk tipping the narrow straw mattress off its rope frame. Listening to her even breathing, he tried pondering his way back to sleep.

Fatigue sat heavy on his shoulders, but he was keenly aware of the girl, her warm body pressed to his back, her rose-scented hair just at his shoulder. Earlier that evening, when he had opened the door as she was dressing after her wash, the candlelight behind her had revealed lithe curves through her shift.

God save him, he was too alert to every aspect of her, had even kissed her hand before he could stop the impulse, though he owed her his utmost courtesy and protection.

More awake than he wanted, he wondered about her lost husband, her kin, her great-grandfather too. He marveled that his wounds, so serious, had healed more quickly in her care than any he had received in the past.

Rowena turned in her sleep with a small murmur that rocked through him with sudden heat. He drew a breath, tried to sleep. But she gasped and pressed against him as if frightened by a dream. Afraid to roll back on her, he shifted and raised his arm, and she came easily, naturally, into that circle to rest her head on his chest.

When she whimpered again, he patted her shoulder. She moved her head, her hair a silky, rose-scented cushion under his bearded cheek. He inhaled.

She sighed and slept, curled against him. His body surged; he angled away. For months, he had felt a strong urge to find this girl. Now she was cuddled close, trusting him. He would honor that trust; more, he wanted to understand the pull he felt.

He had been a widower long enough to yearn for love, companionship, a wife and family again, but he staved off any hope, any plan, until he felt free to dream of such things. But as she snuggled beside him, he realized that, beyond his obligation to her, he was quickly growing fond of her. He kissed the top of her head as impulsively as he had kissed her hand.

Still awake, he thought of how they had met and how curiously fate and circumstances had reunited them. An elusive memory half-surfaced and he pursued it. From the moment he had recognized her at Yester, memories had tapped at him and began to return. He recalled Rowena at Holyoak, kind-hearted, capable, lovely, circling a star over him. Now he knew that star had been her crystal charm stone.

Fevered then, wondering if he might die, he had not feared death; he believed that a good soul with good intentions, despite mistakes, would find salvation. What frightened him was the uncertain fate of his son, his kin, his secrets if he died. His small son was his paramount concern, though he could rely on his sister and others to care for him.

But what would become of the Scottish regalia that Bruce had entrusted to him? With war and travel, covert work and injuries too, he had told Bruce it was hidden in Fife, but had not given him exact details—Bruce trusted him and did not ask where it was hidden. Worse, if Edward sent Malise to Castle Black to take it, English soldiers might poke around far too close to where he had hidden Scotland’s precious symbols of kingship. He had to consider moving them, and soon.

His eyes flew open in the dark. He had told someone else where it was.

At Holyoak, he had pulled Rowena close and told her something about the regalia of Scotland and the treasure of Fife. And he recalled now that he had seen a stone very like her healing crystal elsewhere. Its twin was part of the hidden regalia.

That was no coincidence. But what could it possibly mean?

Rubbing a hand over his face, he knew he could not let Rowena Keith out of his sight. Not yet. He had to know the truth about that stone—both stones. And he needed to remember what he had told her about the treasure of Scotland. Did she know its location? And if so, had she told anyone else?