The Wolfe (9 page)

He could not complete his plan
without the Scott Clan. He needed their support, as daft as his scheme was. Yet
Dunbar could be convincing, and he knew once he gained support from one clan,
‘twould be a small matter of snowballing the effect until the entire border was
united, once and for all. No one knew of his strategy as of yet, not even
Malcolm. When the time was right, all concerned would be enlightened.

With Dunbar, it was always a grand
scheme. The grander the better, and if it did not work out, then he always
found someone else to blame and moved on. But this plan was by far his
greatest, except that Thomas Scott had thrown a ferret into the hen-house with
his damnable peace overture.

He had to do something about the
Scotts. Mayhap if he could convince the English that somehow Thomas had gone
back on his word, then he would not have to go to Thomas directly. Aye; a little
underhanded work was just the cure for an errant laird.

Dunbar signed. “Then we shall take
action,” he said. “Malcolm, how many bolts of Scott tartan can ye muster?”

Malcolm looked thoughtful. “Mayhap five
or so. Why?”

Dunbar turned to him with a wry
smile. “Think, lad; undoubtedly the English lord Jordan is pledged to will send
a mighty escort to return her to England. They will be passing into enemy land,
lad, their only safety guaranteed by the word of Laird Scott.” Dunbar sat in
his heavy oak chair with a look of thoughtful glee. “Say, upon return, the
English army is attacked from over the border by hundreds of Scotts. ‘Twill
look as if Thomas has gone back on his word, changed his mind and is attempting
to rescue his daughter. We shall leave enough of the English alive to return to
their laird and report what has happened. This will bring the whole bloody
question of a treaty to an end.”

Malcolm was a little stunned. “Ye
mean…ye mean to dress yer men in Scott colors to make it look as if the
Scott’s are attacking?”

“Exactly, laddie,” Dunbar said
smugly.

Malcolm nodded. “Well and good. But
what of Jordan? Do we, in fact, rescue her?”

Dunbar shrugged. “She would
recognize that the men baring Scott tartan were not Scott soldiers. She should
be killed.”

Malcolm balked. “I shall not take
part in murderin’ my own kin. And I might remind ye that Jordan was not happy
about the arrangement. She’s not a willing bride.”

“But she’s doing it, is she not?”
Dunbar shot back. “Aye, Malcolm, she’s as guilty as sin. Even if she is not
happy, as ye say, she’s still doing it.”

Malcolm was torn with indecision.
Dunbar had been more of a father to him than his own and he wanted to please him,
but he wasn’t sure about murdering Jordan.

Dunbar could see the dilemma and
stood up. “Now, lad, ye’ll inform me when the army is to arrive so that we can
begin making preparations. And I shall be needing that tartan as soon as ye can
get yer hands on it,” he clapped Malcolm on one shoulder. “Yer a fine, loyal
Scot, lad. We canna have an English ally so close to us, can we? Aye, nor can
we have a weak Scot ally. Thomas Scott is not fit to be laird. But ye are.”

Malcolm looked up at him with
puzzlement. Dunbar smiled.

“Think on it, lad,” he said. “With
Thomas Scott gone, it would only be a matter of time before Nathaniel and
Matthew followed him in death. Then that would leave Benjamin, Donald and Cord
between ye and being laird of Clan Scott. Ye could easily take care of those
three foolish young lads.”

“Kill them myself?” Malcolm echoed.

“Aye, but kill is such an ugly word,”
Dunbar said. “I prefer eliminate myself. Or, if ye hasna the stomach for it,
then I am sure we could arrange to help ye out. Anything for an ally.”

Malcolm’s head was spinning. What
Dunbar was suggesting was incredible. Slowly, he stood, only to be embraced by
the stinking man. Dunbar, in faith, was quite pleased with himself for throwing
young Malcolm a bone to chew on without revealing his true plans.

“Be gone wi’ ye, lad,” he told him
firmly.

Malcolm did go, still reeling, still
uncertain.

***

It was later that night. The camp
fires glowed softly into the chill night, the faint crackling of wood and the
smell of smoke filling the air.

William liked this time of night,
when most of the camp was asleep save for the sentries and a few servants. He
found he did his best thinking at night.

And think this night he did until
his mind was a muddy bog. All he could see and hear was Lady Jordan. Lady
Jordan sleeping in his arms, Lady Jordan smiling at the creek, Lady Jordan telling
him flatly that she did not wish to eat. He thought of her until she
overwhelmed him, running his hands over his eyes as if he could wipe her from
his sight. Why did this woman infatuate him so?

A body sat next to him over the
fallen log he was using as a chair, startling him from his thoughts.  Just by
the movements he knew it to be Paris.

“Posts are set for the night, my
lord,” Paris said.

“I know,” William replied. “I
checked them myself a half hour ago.”

“Then pardon my incompetence,” Paris
said dryly. “I should have realized that The Wolf had already been on the
prowl.”

“Cease your jibes, Paris, I have no
patience this night,” William said, talking into his folded hands.

Paris regarded his captain with a
faint smile on his lips. He knew exactly what the problem was.  It had been
obvious all day.

“What has that woman done to you?”
he asked with a slow shake of the head.

William’s head came up and he looked
sharply at his friend. Paris fully expected to be reamed up one side and down
the other, but instead, William let out a sharp exhale and faced back to the fire.

“Shut your mouth,” he said simply.

Paris pursed his lips. “I do not
know how,” he said. “Tell me, William….what are you thinking?”

William breathed deeply, not answering
for a moment. He seemed hypnotized by the flames of the bonfire in front of him. 
Paris didn’t think he was going to answer him until finally, quiet words began
to come forth.

“When I was injured in the border
clash last year…do you remember?” he spoke hesitantly. “Do you recall that you
found me a few days later…?”

Paris cut in with a nod of his head.
“Aye, I do. You were walking, delirious, with your leg nearly cut off. I
remember it as if it were yesterday. I thought we had lost you.”

“Do you also recall that my leg was
tended, stitched up, and you asked me who did it?” William continued. “What did
I tell you?”

Paris cocked an eyebrow. “You told
me an angel had come to save your life,” he said. “‘Twas all I could get out of
you.”

William stared into the flames for a
moment. Then, slowly, he turned to look Paris in the eye.

“That woman in my tent; that Scot,”
he said quietly. “She
was
the angel. That was the woman who saved my leg
and my life.”

Paris’ eyes widened. “What?
Her
?”

William didn’t say anymore. He
continued to stare into the fire, his mind a hundred miles away. Paris sat with
him, wanting to pepper him with questions but, for once, not following through
with his desires. It was clear that William was troubled by the situation, but
Paris could not honestly figure out why. Did William not want this woman to marry
their lord because she was Scot or because…possibly because William himself
wanted her?

God only knew, she was beautiful.
Too
beautiful for their ancient lord, although the earl was a decent man. But so
was William. Paris had never known a more brave or moral man. The thought that
powerful, perfect William had possibly fallen for a woman brought a smile to
Paris’ lips. He never knew he had it in him.

Then mayhap it would help his
captain to talk about his feelings. William was as closed-mouthed as they come,
but mayhap he would unload to Paris. He had done it before. And, besides, Paris
was damn curious. He weighed the consequences and decided it was worth the
probe even if William slugged him.

“My lord is troubled,” he began
nicely enough. “Can I help?”

“Nay,” William replied.

Undaunted, Paris pressed on. “Try
me. Mayhap I can. Do you not trust me with your private thoughts?”

William looked over at him and Paris
inwardly braced himself for a blow. But it did not come. Instead, William
merely shook his head.

“I do not even know my private
thoughts,” he said quietly. “How can I give them to you?”

A dead end. Paris was about to give
up when William suddenly stood up as if agitated. “Paris, have you ever known
me to be a fool for woman?” he demanded.

Paris shook his head. “I have never
known you to be a fool.”

William clenched and unclenched his
huge hands. “This woman affects me like no one has ever affected me. I say yea,
she says nay, and I bow to her wishes without a fight. She makes a request and
with every fiber of my being I am moving to grant it.” He was pacing. “It is
possible that the debt that I feel to her makes me weak, that I would cut off
my own arm if she wished it simply because I am indebted to her for saving my
life? Is that possible?”

“It is possible,” Paris concurred,
shocked to see the power of emotions within his friend. “But is it not also
possible that you feel something other than being indebted to her?”

William stopped pacing and stared at
him. “What do you mean?”

Paris cast him a long look. “Evaluate
the situation for what it is, William,” he said softly. “She is a beautiful,
desirable woman and you are a virile, powerful man. Is it not possible that you
are attracted to her as a woman, that you may lust for her, and that thought is
making you daft?”

“Nay,” William snapped. “Oh, hell… I
do not know. But I do know one thing - she is to be de Longley’s bride, no
matter what I feel.”

“Mayhap not,” Paris said. “But you
had better deal with your emotions now and sort them out or you will be living
for the rest of your life in a castle with a woman who turns you to putty with
a glance.”

“She does not,” he said indignantly.

Paris was surprised to see that his
usually calm captain was raging like a bull. He could not remember when he had ever
seen William this passionate about anything. His captain’s nickname, The Wolf,
was bestowed upon him because he was as cool and as vicious and as cunning as
the namesake. On the battlefield, he was feared and admired for his skill and
sheer strength, and Paris in all of his travels had never seen a better
soldier. Perhaps that is why he pledged his loyalty to William; he had finally
found a man who could best him in a fight.

To see him like this, pacing and
disturbed, amused him greatly for he truly believed nothing could upset this
man. He had not obtained his auspicious reputation by being an emotional
bundle.

“My lord,” he began in a tone that
made William stop and look at him. “Could it be that you have found the woman
of your dreams and you are destitute because she cannot belong to you?”

Instead of becoming incensed, as
Paris expected him to, William actually seemed to grow sedate. He looked away
from Paris, the muscles in his jaw ticking beneath the stubbled skin.

“Impossible,” he replied hoarsely. “There
is no woman of my dreams.”

A direct hit. Paris knew it and was
gladdened and saddened at the same time. William longed for a woman he could
not have, yet a woman he would spend his entire lifetime serving.

He stood up and went to his captain,
thousands of words of comfort and encouragement tumbling in his mind, but he
could not sort them. Words seemed inadequate. He no longer felt the need to
tease William but to offer him some sort of solace.

“Yes, there is, and her name is
Jordan,” he said with understanding. “There is no shame in admitting she
infatuates you. But, pray, admit it to yourself and deal with it now or it will
eat you up.”

William glanced at him, trying to
remain totally impassive but failing. He attempted to match Paris’ knowing gaze
but could not maintain it; the man was right and they both knew it.

“Paris, if you breathe one word of
this conversation, I shall….”

Paris threw up his hands. “Say no more,
my lord,” he said. “I know exactly what will happen to me, by your own hand. Your
secret is safe with me.”

“I have no secret,” William insisted
weakly.

Paris cocked a disbelieving eyebrow
at him. “Of course not.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

When William finally did go into his
tent later that evening, he was surprised to see that Jordan was still awake,
sitting on a small collapsible chair.