Captive of the Border Lord. Blythe GiffordЧитать онлайн книгу.
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