Circle of Honor (12 page)

He hesitated. “I agree.”

“Daron and I decided upon a meeting place, should we become separated.”

“You let me search for him knowing all the while where he is?”

“I don't know he's there for certain—he could be injured or . . .” Her voice wavered, but she refused to believe Daron was dead. “I wanted him to have a safe refuge until I was able to travel. Now that I am well, you can send for him, and I can be gone, no longer a burden to you.”

“You don't think he deserted you and headed for England?”

She straightened, offended at the thought. “Never. Neither of us would leave Scotland without the other.” The thought that Daron might be dead was simply unbearable. Of this she was certain—her kinsmen would not desert her, not if they valued their lives.

Belatedly she realized that such an assertion would give Adam reason to wonder that Daron would be so loyal to a servant. Indeed, he appeared to speculate as he replied, “Then we must hope his health is good. Your cousin is a man of his word?”

“Aye, he is as honorable as you.”

He angled his head as if weighing her words. It seemed this man did not make decisions in haste.

“How can I be certain you won't send me into a trap of Leod's making?”

His words stung and her voice reflected her ire. “You think I would send you—a man who, however unwillingly, married me and promised me safety—you think I would betray you to the man who . . . ?”

The ring he had placed on her finger caught her eye. She thrust the hand in front of her, her voice raised. “You who are so devout in your vows—you should understand that I pledged
my
loyalty, and I will not go back on my word.”

Her words rang off the walls, hanging there between them like a gauntlet thrown in the dirt. She watched his face for some sign of his feelings. The slow smile that crept upon his features caught her by surprise.

“My lady, you state your case most eloquently. It would seem we must trust each other, then, if we are to be rid of each other.”

“You jest with me.”

His face became more serious. “Nay, Gwenyth, I do not. I'm sorry I doubted you. You have no reason to betray me to Leod, but what of this cousin? I know him not. And now you tell me where he may be, after all our searching . . .”

His caution was admirable, if maddening. “Only let me send to him, my laird. 'Tis time. I am well now and ready to travel.”

Again he was silent, his expression one of deep contemplation. “How did Leod capture you?”

The abrupt shift of his thoughts caught her momentarily off-guard, but she recovered quickly. “Daron and I and our escort were on our way to Inverallochy to meet the ship that would transport us to England.”

“To take refuge there?”

“Aye, along with others who remain loyal to Balliol.”

He speared her with a sharp look. “Balliol? You remain loyal to Balliol? Even now?”

She stared at him, wondering what sort of trap he might spring. “I would give my loyalty where it is returned, my laird. King Robert has taken away our lands and home—we have no refuge from persecution in our homeland. And few kinsmen to protect us.”

“You could rebuild your life, switch your allegiance, and serve Bruce instead. He is very forgiving.”

She nearly gave it all away with a bitter reply. Instead she answered, “I would be an outcast from my loved ones if I did. I have lost enough.”

He nodded as if he understood the ties of family only too well. “You are certain Daron and his men haven't gone on without you?”

“I believe they will wait for me. As I told you, I served Lady Comyn, staying behind to nurse her through her final illness.” That much was true at least. She had stayed with her mother, promising her to flee to England and take the Comyn's claim to the throne with her. Within weeks of her mother's burial, Bruce had burned Dalswinton, and Gwenyth had fled to Ruthven just ahead of his army. Then she and Daron had watched Ruthven burn before setting out for England so Gwenyth could keep that promise. Now she must find a way to get to England, and this man could be either a help or a hindrance. The longer she remained at Moy, the more likely he would become the latter.

“Lady Comyn, widow of Red Comyn.” He regarded her thoughtfully, and Gwenyth fought to breathe normally.

How many lies could she tell and still hope for Adam's forgiveness when the truth finally came to light? All the more reason to be gone.

“Aye.”
My mother and the father your king killed.
Remembering Bruce made it much easier for Gwenyth to harden her heart toward this man who supported Bruce's monarchy.

“So where do think this cousin of yours may be?”

“Now 'tis my turn to trust, is it not? You won't harm him?”

“I will not. I give my word.”

“They are most likely hidden at Altyre.”

His eyes grew wide. “On my own lands?”

Her head came up in defiance. “They are Comyn lands, taken from the rightful owners and given to you as reward.” She prayed her belligerence marked her as a very loyal servant, and not a member of the family.

“As you say.” Again he seemed to weigh her words. She feared he would take days to make up his mind, but he surprised her.

“I'll send your message.”

“Thank you, my laird.”

He made as if to reply but turned and strode from the room.

Gwenyth watched him leave, knowing that no matter what she did, stay or leave, in the end she would be forced to betray the trust growing between them. For one weary moment, she considered telling him the truth, now, before someone else did. But the truth would hurt him far more than her lies.

Gwenyth sat on the stool, head in her hands. The past weighed heavy on her, promises and plans. Plans that might very well plunge Scotland into civil war as Bruce's followers clashed with Balliol's. Promises Gwenyth had made to others, to further their ambitions and to seek revenge. Bloodshed. Fear.

And promises made to Adam. Healing. Trust.

If only Daron would rescue her before her conflicting loyalties destroyed all she held dear.

NINE

G
WENYTH AWOKE to what appeared to be early morning light coming through the narrow winnock of her chamber. Memories of her conversation with Adam yesterday weighed upon her, and today did not bode to be much better. Shaking off her dark mood, she resolved to create a new needlework design this day. Perhaps the creative endeavor would salve her melancholy spirit.

She finished dressing. Her maid was about to comb her hair when a knock sounded on the door, and Gwenyth bid them enter. But it wasn't the Lady Eva who came through the door. And this raven-haired woman with the haughty expression could not be mistaken for a serving girl.

Indeed, the woman dismissed the servant with a curt nod. Was this Adam's sister? He'd spoken of his sisters, but Gwenyth had yet to meet them as they lived some distance away with their husbands. She laid down the comb the maid had hastily pressed into her hands and stood.

“Good day, my lady,” Gwenyth said.

The other woman stared, her cold blue gaze clearly unfriendly. “I'm not a lady of the house,” the other woman snarled. “I'm Nathara, the healer.”

Still struggling with the woman's evident hostility, Gwenyth replied evenly, “Then 'tis you I must thank for the medicines Lady Eva has used.”

“No need to thank me. Eva saw to you herself.”

Yes, and Adam had distinctly said he trusted no one but his mother for the task. Why hadn't the healer been called upon to care for her? Confused and fearful of the woman's intent, Gwenyth looked to the still open door in hopes the guard would come and make this woman leave.

Nathara closed the door before Gwenyth could call out to him. Nathara ran her gaze over Gwenyth, eyeing her from head to toe, and her discomfort increased. She dared not let her fear show, and putting on an air of bravado she said, “Why do you come to my chamber uninvited?”

“To see what manner of woman has taken Adam from me.”

The woman's words caught Gwenyth at a disadvantage. “I don't understand.”

“He was to marry me.”

“Oh.” Adam hadn't mentioned a betrothal as one of his objections to marrying her. Had he?

“We had not yet announced our betrothal, but we are very close,” Nathara declared.

“I see.” But she didn't see. “What is it you want with me?”

Nathara's irritation came across quite clearly. “You're handfasted with him, aren't you?”

“If you know of the marriage, then you must also know it was forced upon us. As soon as I am able, I will leave.”

Eyes flashing, Nathara said, “Adam has some ridiculous notion that he is bound by his vows to you.” Once again she looked Gwenyth over. “But I can see I needn't worry. He'll forget such foolishness and return to me soon enough.”

No doubt Nathara hoped to drive Gwenyth away by disclosing her closeness with Adam. Indeed it did strengthen Gwenyth's resolve to leave. Until then she would keep a close watch on Nathara, for this woman embodied all the hatred between their two clans.

“I have need of Adam's protection, Nathara.” That was all she needed or wanted from him. Yet some perverse part of her was reluctant to admit such to the woman.

Nathara raised her chin. “You will not keep him.”

Goading the woman was not a good idea. But Gwenyth doubted anything she said would satisfy Nathara. “Perhaps not. But until the time allotted, he is my husband, and I will accord him all loyalty.”

Nathara's gaze nearly crackled with heat. “He would be a fool to keep you. And Adam is not a fool.” With that she withdrew, leaving Gwenyth to breathe a sigh of relief as she dropped onto the stool she'd left earlier.

Nathara's instincts were correct—Gwenyth and Adam would not truly be man and wife. Even were she willing, her betrayal and deceit would soon close that door. This was just as well, for she hoped to leave Castle Moy in the coming weeks, by God's grace.

THE SPRING PLANTING was well under way and the lambing nearly over. As he finished his morning rounds, overseeing the work of those who kept the castle fed and clothed, Adam breathed a sigh of relief. Relief that was quickly replaced by anxiety as he remembered that today was grievance day. The day when the laird sat in judgment to settle differences among the folk.

He'd attended many of these quarterly sessions over the years, sitting next to his father. But today he acted as laird in Angus's place, and he prayed for wisdom as he settled various disputes— someone's pig had trampled a new garden, a dog had attacked a child, and the owner refused to tie it up.

Several couples, accompanied by smiling parents, asked permission to marry. All in all, a satisfying day's work and easily handled. By late afternoon the cases dwindled and Adam rose to stretch. Bracing his hands on the lintel above the fireplace, he stared into the newly lit fire and counted his blessings.

Scuffling feet and a male voice raised in anger let Adam know he'd started counting too soon.

He turned to face the entrance as James Mactavish and his daughter walked slowly toward him. The girl leaned on her father's arm, her face averted except for a pain-filled glance at the young man following them. Gavin Shaw moved to her side, but James batted him away with a snarl.

The boy clenched his jaw and his hands twisted his bonnet into an unrecognizable shape. A moment of pure defiance flitted across Gavin's face before he regained control. And then his features dissolved into anguish.

Alarmed at the woman's condition, Adam motioned for Morogh to bring a bench for Tyra. She couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen, but her face appeared old beyond its years. What manner of evil brought her here today?

Gavin was several years older than Tyra, and if memory served Adam, the two were courting.

And James didn't approve. That explained the animosity between the two men, but not Tyra's demeanor. She appeared as cowed as Gwenyth that day he'd brought her to Moy. Adam hoped his suspicions would prove false, but all the signs were there.

As Morogh helped Tyra to the seat, Adam noticed her bruised eye. She seemed to be in a world of her own making, barely aware of her surroundings. Adam locked gazes with Morogh, and he knew his own scowl matched the older man's.

“Fetch my mother, Morogh.” As the man moved off, Adam motioned for James and Gavin to approach. James was nearly bursting with indignation and scowled at his laird. Gavin had eyes only for Tyra.

Fearing he knew only too well the answer, Adam asked the girl's father, “What has happened to Tyra?”

“Look at her,” James bellowed. “Can ye not see the
ghaoil's
been mistreated?” He grabbed Gavin, who did not resist, and shoved him forward. “And here's the beast that done it.”

Gavin shook his arm free of James's hold and looked Adam straight in the eye. “I did not harm her. Never. Please, my laird. She needs a woman. She needs—”

“I ken what my own daughter needs, and it isna you,” James roared.

A muffled sob from Tyra brought all three men's attention to her. Gavin went to her, fending off James's blows as the enraged father tried to pull the boy away.

“Enough, James,” Adam ordered.

The man had the good sense to calm himself, to Adam's relief.

Gavin sat next to Tyra, and she curled into his arms, clinging tightly to him. Gavin crooned words of comfort as the girl sobbed quietly.

Just as Gwenyth had dampened Adam's sark with her tears on the ride to Moy. Perhaps he should have told Morogh to bring Gwenyth as well, for she would understand how the girl felt. But he thought better of it, wanting to protect Gwenyth from unpleasant memories. Adam would spare her such pain and instead, use what he'd learned from her to help Tyra.

But first, he must find a way to prove Gavin's innocence; the boy simply wasn't capable of such behavior. “It's obvious the boy cares for her, and she for him, James. Why do you accuse him?”