His Border Bride. Blythe Gifford
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his cup. ‘What did you say?’
‘Fitzjohn.’ She wondered at his response. ‘Gavin, I think.’
Her father rose from his chair, towering over her. ‘What have ye done, girl?’
Why had she ignored her misgivings about this man? Her mother would never have made that mistake. ‘Tell me. What have I done besides get a clean mews and a dirty banker?’
‘Ye’ve brought the murdering fire-raiser who torched half of Lothian into our hall.’ His bluster flagged, replaced by the same haunted look she’d seen in Fitzjohn’s eyes. ‘We called it Burnt Candlemas. And he carried the torch.’
She cursed herself with words a lady should not know. If they woke with the roof in flames over their heads it would be her fault. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t know.’
He reached for his sword and started to buckle it on. ‘I’ll deal with him.’
‘Wait.’ She rose and touched his shoulder, moving him gently back in the chair. ‘I was the one who let him in. I’ll go.’ Did she hope somehow he would deny what she’d suspected all along? ‘Let me be sure he is the same man.’
‘Not alone, daughter.’
‘I won’t be alone.’ She patted the sheath holding her dagger. Since that day in the hills, it had never left her side, another reluctant concession to this lawless land. ‘Not as long as I have this.’
‘Ah, daughter. I wish ye were as determined to give me grandsons as ye are to do things your own way.’
She shook her head. Not her way, but the right way, something her father neither appreciated nor understood. ‘Give me just a little time. Then, come and do with him what you will.’
She swung out of the hall and up the stairs, skirt swishing between her legs, uncertain whether anger, fear, or shame drove her. She found him on the tower’s wall walk, staring towards the snow-covered mountains, stark against the sunset-yellow sky.
‘Fitzjohn!’ she called, her dagger at the ready.
He turned, slowly, his face shadowed by the light of the fading sun. ‘That’s what I’m called. Why the blade?’
‘You’re also called a fire-raiser.’
Pain and anger mixed in his gaze. Did she even see a pleading look there? No mind. This man had shown no mercy. Neither would she.
‘I’m called many things.’ The words came slowly, as if by speaking he had been forced to crack a stone.
‘That’s no answer.’
‘What kind of answer would you like, Mistress Clare?’
‘One that’s true.’
‘Ah, then you’re bound to be disappointed in life. People will say what they will, true or false.’
Always, he turned aside a question instead of answering it. ‘They say you burned a church full of innocent people.’
He turned his head, quick and sharp as a falcon spotting its prey. ‘Is that the tale now?’ The words carved deep lines around his lips, yet unhurried they came as if he truly did not care what was said of him.
‘Is it true?’
‘What do you think?’
His shadowed eyes had witnessed acts no man should know and no knight should commit. But had he done them, too?
She didn’t believe it. Or didn’t want to.
She dropped her weapon and shook her head.
‘I thank you, then, for that.’ His voice held an echo of soft gratitude. ‘May I stay, then?’
‘My Da is coming. The decision will be his.’
‘I understand.’
She struggled to join her father’s words and the comte’s story. ‘Does that mean your father was the son of a king?’
He nodded.
‘And brother to another?’
His sideways smile showed no pride, yet she felt her knees begin to dip, as if to make her curtsy before him.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Royal blood in his veins, even though Inglis, yet she had suggested he was no better than a peasant. He must think her a barbarian.
‘Would you have let me in if I had?’
‘No, but you lied. You told me you were Scots.’
‘My mother was a MacGuffin. She gave me as much Scots blood as English. So tell me where that puts the Border in my body.’ He grabbed her hand, the one holding the dagger, and stroked the blade across his waist. ‘Here? Is the Scots half below the belt and the English above? Or is the heart Scottish and the baws English?’
She tugged against him, but his stronger hold was the invisible one. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Or maybe it’s this way.’ Fingers locked around her wrist, he made her wave the dagger from the top of his head down the centre of his nose, then along his torso until she feared he might slash his chest open. ‘Right? Left? Which side shall we throw across the hills into Northumberland? And which side would you deem worthy to keep?’
He twisted her wrist and the blade fell away. His move bent her elbow, pulling her so close that the rise and fall of his chest brushed hers.
Dark fire, hot and dangerous, coiled inside her, rising from a place she’d long forgotten, if she ever knew. She swallowed. ‘Do you mean to burn us in our beds, Fitzjohn?’
At first, he let the wind answer. Then he retrieved his smile and relaxed his grip. ‘Would you like to be burning in your bed, Mistress Clare?’
She stepped back, knowing she should fear him, but fearing herself instead. ‘If I do, Fitzjohn, it won’t be you I’ll be asking for help.’
He raised his brows and cocked his head. His fingers still circled her wrist, but the grip became a caress. ‘I don’t think your Frenchman can strike that kind of flint.’
Over his shoulder, she saw her father draw his sword and touch Fitzjohn’s back. ‘Let go of my daughter, you bastard, before I run this sword through you.’
Chapter Four
Gavin let go of her wrist, resisting the feeling of loss. He wondered how much the man had seen.
And heard.
Well, death might be a welcome escape.
‘Now raise your hands and turn around.’
Slowly, Gavin did, assessing the man up close for the first time. The baron was broad and gnarled and lean with years of work and war.
‘Am I speaking to another Carr?’
‘You’re speaking to the Carr,’ he snarled.
He was careful with his smile, but he looked over at her, gratified to see she was flushed. ‘I thought Clare was a Carr.’
‘Out of my loins.’
He caught the hint of pride. ‘Well, Mistress Clare invited me in.’
‘And tell me why I should let you stay.’
‘Is your daughter’s word not reason enough?’
‘I gave you no promise. I said—’
‘Quiet, daughter.’ His sword never wavered. ‘She let you in, but you didn’t tell her the whole truth about yourself.’ The man’s sword touched his throat. Gavin swallowed, feeling the cold point against his skin. One quick thrust