Diana Cosby (7 page)

Griffin nodded. “Please, use my name.”

Green eyes he could drown in watched him with distrust, but he also caught the fear. There was so much she didn’t understand, nor ever could.

“Why should I?” she asked.

He drew in a slow breath, reminded himself of all of the reasons it was best to find common ground. “’Tis my name.”

“You know little about me.”

Tired of her assumptions that had landed them both in this bloody mess, he caught her wrist. “On this you are wrong. From our time last eve, I know parts of you very well.” Beneath his thumb, her pulse sped up. Good, let her be nervous. Never would he harm her, but he’d not tell her that. “I have given my word to your father to protect you until his return.”

“Why did you agree to watch over me?”

The soft incredulity surprised him. He expected another blast of anger, but not confusion, or a sincere desire to understand. “Because I am a man of honor.”

“And?”

He’d thought her a creature of emotion, a touch spoiled, both perhaps true, but he’d missed the sharp intellect. With Angus as her father, he should have suspected as much.

“I admire Lord Brom.”

Surprise shifted to wariness. “He is your enemy, a man who is helping to plan a siege against English troops you support.”

Careful with your reply.
“Have you never admired someone with whom you disagreed?”

“Mayhap.” She hesitated. “Why do you admire my father?”

Numerous reasons came to mind as he recalled the years he’d known Lord Brom. A man not afraid to stand his ground, or hold a tender heart beneath the fierce mask he wore. A man whose heart still ached with loneliness years after his wife’s passing.

Over the years Angus had become to him like a father, a man he’d admired for raising a daughter alone. Due to the sensitive nature of the contact between him and Lord Brom, Rois had never seen him. Never had he imagined one day that the Scottish lord would be the father of his wife. Life was filled with odd twists.

“I admire your father because he is a man of principle, a man who one can always turn to for rationale when it seems to elude others.” Except with Rois. Information he wished he’d known earlier.

“He is.” Lips pressed together, she studied him for a long moment.

“For King Edward’s man, you seem to know my father well.”

Tread carefully.
“’Tis my job to be informed.”

“Of the enemy.”

“Of the situation.”

She arched a skeptical brow. “And what are your plans for
our
situation?”

At her nervous drawl, he relaxed. “I agreed to protect you while Lord Brom is away,” Griffin clarified. “Upon your father’s return to Kincardan Castle, I will convince him that with our countries at odds, our union is a poor idea.”

She laughed, a soft sound that shot straight to his gut. “A poor idea—an understatement. Tell me, how will you achieve this when my father has made up his mind? Da is nae a man easily swayed.”

Comfortable with this easy banter, Griffin nodded. “One of my strengths is negotiation.”

“You may know my father from your research, but I have lived with him for eight and ten years.”

“I have confidence in my abilities, my lady.”

She shot him a cool glance. “Add arrogant to the list.”

“The list?” he asked, curious.

“Of your annoying traits.”

A debate, if he allowed, could continue. “My lady, we must leave.”

She stilled. Her face washed of color. “I am remaining here.”

He sighed. “Your cousin offered us a chamber in Dunadd Castle.”

Rois hesitated. “You spoke with Andrew about us?”

“I did.”

She slid her tongue over her lower lip in a nervous glide. Griffin assured himself he didn’t notice the moisture glistening upon her lips, a mouth he’d had the pleasure to taste. “Until our marriage is dissolved, there is little choice.”

Panic flickered in her eyes. “I canna stay in the same chamber with you.”

Griffin slowly inhaled, then released the calming breath. “Think you your father will allow you to remain here?”

“If I stay with you, how can we claim we nae have . . .”

“Consummated the marriage?”

A flush swept her cheeks. “Aye.”

“Worry not, I will do my part.”

“Rest assured,” she stated, “you are the last person I would ever want to touch me.”

Ego bruised, Griffin stepped closer. “Trust me, my lady, if I wanted you, you would be welcoming me.”

Challenge flashed in her eyes. “Never would I want an Englishman.” “Proven by your release last eve?”

Her hand shot out.

He caught her wrist a whisper from his face. “Play not with what you do not understand. You are a maiden, an innocent, and know nothing of what I speak. Last night’s lovemaking was but a taste of the pleasures to be found.”

The bravado in her eyes faded, exposing the nerves she fought to hide. She looked away.

“Rois.” She didn’t look at him.

Her body trembled.

Moved by something so simple, he found himself needing to assure her. “I will keep you safe.”

“Aye.”

The belief in her words left him humbled. “Rois, why did you accept my touch when I am a man you despise?”

She turned to him then, her look still wary, but he saw confusion as well. And if he looked closer, he saw something fragile, something he yearned to keep safe. Shaken by the emotions she stirred, he let her go.

“Griffin?”

His name upon her tongue slid over him like finely woven silk, and his body hardened. Irritated that he wanted her like the air he breathed, he stepped back. “I am going to speak with your father.”

Her face cooled and any hint of warmth was erased from her voice. “I will nae go with you.”

“My lady, you will not be given a choice.” With a warning look, Griffin spun on his heel and departed.

The cool morning air battered Griffin as he guided his mount over a decaying tree trunk littered with moss. Rocks clattered and leaves holding hints of color swirled beneath the flash of hooves. He savored the rush of wind, the tang of fall rich in the breeze, a time when the earth rested to renew with the spring.

Breaks in the trees exposed the familiar outline of the Highlands, the cast of rock as formidable as the Scots who prepared to fight. The home of Andrew de Moray, who, alongside William Wallace, would lead the Scottish rebels to battle in but days with the English against fierce odds.

God help them.

An image of Rois asleep flickered through his mind, of how he’d crept out of their chamber at Dunadd Castle after she’d fallen asleep. He’d not told her of his meeting with the Earl of Surrey this morn, nor would he. When she’d awoken and found him gone, was she relieved? Or, anxious for her father’s safety, did she give his absence little thought and rush to Kincardan Castle to be with her father these last precious hours before he rode away to battle?

As Griffin neared the base of the mountain, the two rebel leaders rode from a copse of trees to meet him. His mount whinnied as he drew him to a halt. He nodded to de Moray as he reined in his steed before him, then to Wallace at his side.

“Lord Monceaux,” de Moray said. “What news do you bring?”

“We knew King Edward planned to send a large contingent,” Griffin said, his words somber, “but ’tis far worse than we anticipated. The Earl of Surrey and Hugh de Cressingham ride toward Stirling Castle with an army of around fifty thousand.”

“Blast it,” Wallace muttered. “We have ten thousand men in our ranks at best.”

“There is more.” Griffin took in the grim expression on each man’s face, damning the news he would impart. “They travel with heavy cavalry and Welsh archers.”

De Moray cursed. “As with his razing of Berwick, Longshanks believes his sheer numbers can destroy the last of our rebellion. But in this he will fail.”

Determination carved Wallace’s face. “Aye. We are far from weak-kneed lackeys who cower and run at the first sign of a fight. This is our land, and by God, we will stop King Edward’s forces before they reach Stirling Castle.”

“Are there any changes to the original troop battle layouts we discussed?” Griffin asked. With so many untrained rebels in their ranks, he doubted that winning against the seasoned English warriors could be achieved.

“Nay.” De Moray fisted his reins. “We will position our men along the hills of the bridge across the Forth, north of Stirling Castle. ’Twill give us the best advantage to attack.”

Griffin rubbed his jaw. “Think you the Earl of Surrey is foolish enough to order his men to cross the bridge?”

Wallace grunted. “With the boggy land, ’tis the quickest route across.”

“It is,” Griffin said, far from convinced, “but they could ride to a ford a short distance away where knights can cross in great numbers.”

“’Tis indeed an option which, if I led my men, I would consider,” de Moray agreed. “And one we must prepare for.”

“Aye, that we will,” Wallace agreed. “Neither can we forget Hugh de Cressingham rides at the earl’s side and is holding the coin. However influential, he’s naught but a self-serving fool, one who embraces his power as much as his next meal.”

Griffin smiled, as did his friends. “One would think a man of illegitimate birth would understand the struggles of the poor, use his ascension to become treasurer of the English administration in Scotland to build a bond between the English and the Scots. Instead, on both sides he has cultivated naught but dissent.”

Wallace nodded. “Indeed, the Scots call him the
Treacherer
, and the English the
Son of Death
.”

“He is a nasty lot,” de Moray agreed. “’Tis surprised I am he still breathes with so many despising him.”

“Bloody luck,” Wallace said.

“Mayhap at Stirling Bridge,” de Moray said, “we will see his luck and his reign of terror end.”

Silence settled around them, a void thick with questions. Griffin caught glimpses of the rough-clad men hidden in the trees. How could they not worry? De Moray and Wallace led but a handful of ill-trained warriors against tens of thousands of seasoned English soldiers.

Lord Brom, riding with additional troops, appeared on the horizon. Had Rois spoken with her father before he’d departed? He prayed so.

Mirth sparkled in de Moray’s eyes. “You seem deep in thought. From your grimace, methinks you ponder if, upon his return, Lord Brom will let you out of the marriage?”

Griffin grimaced. “He will see reason.”

Wallace chuckled. “If asked, I agree with Angus that the true challenge will be in Rois allowing you to protect her while her father is away. She is nae a lass who cowers to a man, but is a proud, determined woman who holds her own. A trait gained upon her mother’s death.”

Griffin remained silent. With Angus and Wallace close friends since their youth, he’d expect Angus to share his concern with Wallace.

“Aye, ’twill be a shame to miss you attempting to bend my cousin to your will.” Lord Andrew smiled. “I think ’tis safer to ride into battle.” He glanced around and his expression sobered. “’Tis time to leave. Take care, my friend.”

“Godspeed to you both,” Griffin said.

“My thanks,” de Moray replied. “I wish you luck. To deal with my cousin, you will need that and more.”

Wallace chuckled. “Aye.”

De Moray whirled his horse and cantered toward where his men camped within the forest, Wallace riding at his side.

Luck? Griffin frowned at his friends as they rode toward their men awaiting them, and dismissed de Moray’s comments about Lord Brom. He would protect Rois, regardless of whether she was willing. As for the annulment, once her father returned, he would see the insanity of not allowing Griffin to begin proceedings. For now, his prayers would be with the Scots. With the overwhelming odds they faced, they would need each and every one. With a heavy heart, he urged his mount to a canter and headed toward Kincardan Castle.

 

“Da?” Rois called from the great room of Kincardan Castle.

As Griffin suspected, she’d returned to her home. At the fragile hope in her voice, sadness weighted him. She believed her father had forgotten something and, however briefly, had returned.

He stepped inside the great room, and his breath left him in a rush. Like a wayward fairy, Rois stood near the hearth, her chestnut hair wild and unbound, her ruby gown caressing her slender curves.

Green eyes fell upon him, and her smile faded. “When I awoke without you in the chamber at Dunadd Castle, I thought you had left.”

He ignored the coolness of her comment, and desired to step closer, to touch her. “I had an errand that needed my attention.”

She remained silent.

He walked to her, and she stiffened, her eyes wary. He held her gaze, let the crackle of burning wood fill the void. “You know me naught, a fact over the next few days that will change.”

“With my father away, there is no need for us to remain together. I will be safe here. Kincardan Castle is well armed—”

“And with most of its knights away—” Griffin interrupted.

“Women can wield arms.”

“They can, but I will take precautions to keep you safe until your father returns.”

“Precautions?” She edged her tongue over her lip in a nervous slide. “You believe the Scots will lose and the English will storm this castle?”

“I believe the battle will be vicious, and many a man will die—on both sides.” He said nothing further about the upcoming clash or his beliefs. ’Twas hard enough not riding alongside the Scots in their fight for freedom. Nor would he feed her worry further. How ironic that the wedding, however unwanted, had led to a timely reason why he couldn’t aid the English.

Rois stroked her finger along the side of her gown, glanced up. “My father will return.”

Nerves cradled her voice, the same he held for the safety of the Scots. “I pray he will.”

Her alluring face settled into a wary frown. “You would pray for your enemy’s safety?”

Intelligence sparked within her green eyes, intellect which lured him. The last thing he wanted to be with her was captivated. Her full curves and innocence drew him enough, but with each moment he spent in her presence, he wanted her more.

“Rois,” he said, his words soft, a cadence he used to disarm, “our time together is not a battle.”

“Considering your heritage and loyalty, how can it be otherwise?”

“The days ahead can pass with peace or distrust. The choice is yours.”

Rois studied the Englishman, confused by his candor. Or, did he offer her a false ploy? She’d heard of Lord Monceaux’s ability to negotiate peace in a tense situation. A strength Griffin had obviously employed to convince her da to entrust her care to him while away.

He gestured to the door. “Let us go.”

Her breath caught. He’d promised to keep her safe, but she’d assumed he’d meant in Scotland. “I refuse to travel to England.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “We will ride to a hiding place within a day’s ride.”

A hiding place within a day’s ride? Her pulse raced. “Where?”

“A cave hidden by a patch of thick brush alongside a large mountain.”

A shiver swept through her. How could he know about Dunagn, the rebel hideout? Had her father told him? Nay, Da would never expose the secret mountain hideaway to the enemy. She knew of Sir Cressingham, the English treasurer’s, tortuous methods to gain information for the English. Had he employed his grisly methods upon a Scot to discover such a significant rebel hideaway?

Regardless of how Griffin had acquired the information, she needed to warn the Scots the hideout was known to the English and no longer safe. She must slip away from Lord Monceaux and spread the word.

“I canna go with you.” Rois walked to the hearth, far from warmed by the sweep of flames. Listen to her, she sounded like a shrew. She glanced over her shoulder. “Forgive me, ’tis nae that I am ungrateful for your offer of protection or doubt your abilities, but, ’tis simple. Neither of us wishes to be together.”

Hazel eyes narrowed. “You will accompany me. How you travel is up to you.”

Memories of his carrying her in the bailey over his shoulder came to mind. The arrogance of this man would make a toad’s blood boil. “Are you threatening me? ’Tis nae English soil you stand upon, but Scottish,
my
homeland. If you think my servants will allow you to haul me out, a fine lesson you will be learning.”

He crossed his arms against his muscled chest. “I am your husband; none will stop me.”

“My father—”

“Has passed orders to the servants forbidding them to interfere.”

Hurt swamped her. Would her father request such?

“Rois,” he said, his words tender, “Throughout my life, never have I treated a woman harshly. Nor will I begin now.”

She would ride out with him with her dignity intact, but if he thought she’d remain with him until her father’s return, he’d soon learn otherwise.

“I will leave with you.” And when the opportunity arose, she would slip away.

“Good, ’twill make it easier for us both.” He caught her hand and led her from the keep.

Servants outside continued their work, but Rois caught their covert glances, their curiosity as she followed Griffin toward the stable. However, they didn’t hurry to aid her, or use the sticks with which they turned the wash upon him. Was it true? Had her father indeed warned anyone to nae help her if she wished to leave the baron? However much she wanted to dismiss it, ’twould seem the truth.

Inside the stable, a large steed stood readied and a small leather bag lay secured behind the saddle.

She gasped. “My garb?”

“Your father had a servant pack what you would need.”

Tears burned her eyes. How could her father be so blind?

Lord Monceaux urged her forward.

Her each step as if weighted with stone, she walked toward the horse. Her time with this English noble would be brief. Once she escaped and after she’d spread the warning about the rebel hideout being exposed, she would remain far from home until her da came back.

If he returned.

Emotion choked her. Nay, she refused to believe he wouldn’t return. Rois shoved aside the terrifying thoughts and focused on now. She had friends with whom she could stay, knew people who would help pass word that Dunagn was known to the English.

Lord Monceaux helped her mount, then swung up behind her.

“Why do I nae have my own steed?” Rois asked.

“To ensure you do not escape.”

She stared straight ahead as they cantered through the bailey, ignored the people around her and focused on the roll of mountains ahead, the land barren of color except for the aged whisky tumbles of brown and battered grass and decaying scrapes of green.

Against the clack of hooves, the morning breeze carried with it the smell of change, and a hint of winter chill.

Her breath shuddered out as she scanned the break of dawn into which her father had ridden to join the other Scots, his weapons readied, his face proud. A burst of cool wind drew her from her heavy thoughts. Above, clouds clung low upon the rock and earth like an ill omen. She shivered.

“You are cold?”

Griffin’s voice swept her, the rough deepness a potent reminder of the formidable man she must escape. She shook her head.

“Tell me if you are. If we make good time, we will arrive before sunset.”

As they rode, his mount began to climb the steep weather-buffeted land. Wisps of white swirled around them, chilled fingers of clouds severing her view of Kincardan Castle.

Within the haze of white, Rois identified weathered landmarks, the rough land blotched with fading patches of green in an ode to the oncoming winter, a time when the scent of peat wafted in the kitchen along with stews laden with meat and herbs, and the rich aroma of bread. She’d always loved the months held captive by the snow-laden land, the time spent with her father, and his stories of the past warming her heart.