Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy Two 02] (41 page)

“You’d do better to share hers,” Simon said, looking from one to the other. “Tom’s door has a solid bolt on it if the lady Sibylla chooses to use it, and Amalie’s has a curtained bed that may be large enough for the pair of you.”

The discussion shifted then to Will’s man, whom Douglas declared would take a pallet in the room the earl was to share with Buccleuch. “We’ll not let the lad out of our sight with Fife and Boyd still so near,” he added.

They focused briefly after that on servants and other such mundane details, until Simon had efficiently sorted everything out.

As he did, Amalie kept a close eye on Garth, but although she could sense his impatience, he just listened until Douglas said, “We’ve little left to discuss unless you learned something more from Isabel, Garth.”

“Only that she’ll always believe James’s death was murder, sir, and that Fife ordered it to weaken Douglas power in the Borders. She may be right, too, but you asked me to find real evidence of that, and I’ve found none. Nor do I think we will.”

“At least Boyd did not kill him,” Simon said. “He was with you, my lord.”

“He was, aye,” Douglas agreed.

Garth went on, “I
am
sure, as you must be, my lord, that Boyd did murder Will. I also agree with Wat that Boyd won’t live long even if he might only threaten to implicate Fife. I’ll assume, Simon,” he added, turning to that gentleman, “that
you
cannot implicate either Fife or Boyd in Will Douglas’s death.”

“No, I cannot,” Simon said. “You have no reason to believe me, though.”

“I have no reason not to,” Garth said.

“You did try to seize Hermitage two years ago,” Douglas growled.

“Aye, sir, under orders from my liege lord, I did,” Simon admitted. “My father was as displeased about that as I am sure you must still be.”

“Aye, he
was
wroth with you,” Douglas said. “I saw that, myself. The true question, though, is whether we can trust you now.”

Amalie looked uneasily from one to the next as the tension grew palpable.

Meeting Douglas’s fierce gaze, Simon said, “I’ll do nowt to oppose you, my lord. As to supporting you or continuing my father’s and grandfather’s policies of neutrality, I shall have to think on it and decide that course for myself.”

“I’ll condemn no man for thinking,” Douglas said. “I’ve got a mind of my own, come to that. Just don’t cross me, lad, and we’ll get on fine.”

Simon nodded but did not speak.

“The rest of you may decide to continue your conversation for hours yet,” Garth said, putting a hand on Amalie’s shoulder. “But I want to have a talk with my lady wife before she retires. So if you will forgive us . . .”

“Go along, the pair of you,” Douglas said. “I did forget you are but newly wedded. We can talk again tomorrow if need be.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Garth said, adding quietly, “Now, madam wife, show me to your chamber.”

Unable to read his expression, she let him take her to the archway before she said, “Sibylla must at least accompany us upstairs, sir. It is not right to leave her here alone with all these men even if the Douglas is her godfather. And I should—”

“You will show her to Tom’s room, but that is all.”

Surprisingly, Sibylla said, “You should come with us, my lord.”

Garth had had every intention of going with them, because he did not want to let Amalie out of his sight again. Even so, he looked suspiciously at Sibylla, wondering what she hoped to accomplish.

Receiving only a warm smile in return, he held his peace, but when they reached the door to what was apparently Tom Murray’s erstwhile bedchamber, Sibylla turned her warm smile on Amalie.

Producing a vial from one tight sleeve, Sibylla handed it to her, saying, “I brought some of this for you, being nearly certain that you would fail to bring the other vial. Why do you not go to your chamber now and dab some on. I want a word with Sir Garth about something else.”

Amalie looked long at her but took the vial. Without quite meeting Garth’s gaze, she said, “My chamber is off the next landing, sir, to your right.”

Nodding but remembering that Simon had mentioned bolts, he said, “Don’t lock your door, lass.”

“I won’t,” she said. Then, with another look at Sibylla, she hurried away.

When she had gone, Sibylla said, “You have troublesome dreams, sir.”

In his astonishment, he nearly issued a sharp retort, but she added calmly, “Do not blame Amalie, my lord. I pressed her to tell me because I’d seen your face after one such. She said you dream of webs. Is that so?”

“Aye,” he muttered.

“Then I should tell you . . .”

Amalie had hastily undressed to her shift, brushed her hair, cleaned her teeth, and dabbed on some of Sibylla’s scent before she heard the click of the latch.

Her emotions then were as mixed as she had ever known them to be. Fear that he would still be angry warred with gladness that he had returned, and underlying all, she seethed with curiosity.

The first thing she noted when he came in was that his expression had softened. His gaze met hers at once, and he did not look away as he shut the door.

“What did Sibylla say to you?” she asked.

“She said my naughty wife had told her about my dreams.”

“But I didn’t! She knew! I told you that she—” She had to stop then because in two strides he had closed the distance between them and put a finger to her lips.

As usual, when he was so near and she was uncertain of his mood, she could scarcely breathe and her whole body tensed and tingled.

“I know you did not tell her about the first one, sweetheart, and that she had somehow deduced that I’d had a bad one. But you did tell her about the webs.”

Although she had relaxed at hearing the endearment, she felt a strong need to defend her actions again, and although he stood very close, he had not touched her.

Needing to touch him, she reached for his hand, slid her fingers in against his palm, wrapped them round his thumb, and held it as she said, “I couldn’t tell her what you’d dreamed about Will, so I told her about the webs instead, hoping she would think it something anyone might dream.”

“She did not think that,” he said, his voice gentle as the hand she held closed around her fingers and his other one cupped hers to enclose it between his two.

“No, she didn’t,” she admitted in what sounded to her like a very small voice. “She said that doubtless you’d thought it was an omen of entanglement—”

“As I did,” he said.

“Must you
always
tell the truth?” she asked wistfully.

“You know perfectly well that I can no longer claim that,” he said. “Not since meeting you apparently corrupted me.”

She could not deny it. Had he not felt obliged to rescue her—

“Because of you,” he went on in a decidedly provocative tone, “I was even ready to let young Sym lie for me, which is a truly despicable thing as I’m sure you will agree.”

“When?”

“When he and I needed to get past Elishaw’s gatekeepers earlier. So, now I doubt that you will ever again take my word for anything.”

“Don’t be daft,” she muttered gruffly. Then, rallying, she said, “I cannot think
why
Sibylla had to bring that up again about the webs, tonight of all nights.”

“She had good reason,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you, but I have something else I want to make clear to you first.”

She grimaced. “Mayhap I ought not to have come here as I did, but—”

Silencing her with his finger against her lips again, he said, “You did not persuade even Simon that his life was truly in danger, and you did not pause for an instant beforehand to
try
to think how you had reached such a conclusion. Had you done so, you might have realized that pieces were missing from your logi— Hey!”

He jerked his finger from between her teeth, put his face close to hers, and said, “Mayhap you have forgotten how I respond to attack, my lass.”

She kissed him quickly and stepped as quickly back, saying, “I am not yet ready to admit I was wrong, my lord. As long as Fife and Boyd were here, there was danger. If nothing else, I saved Rosalie from having to marry that horrid man and Simon from having to defy Fife to his face. Sithee, Fife had gone before Simon said he would not let Boyd marry Rosalie.”

“But Simon did say he would not allow it, and—”

“Neither do I want to fratch with you about it now,” she interjected firmly. “I want to know what Sibylla said to you.”

He smiled then. “Art jealous, little wife?”

She shook her head. “I have no cause to be, sir. But I
am
curious.”

Still smiling, he said, “She told me the webs don’t mean risk of entanglement at all—or not precisely,” he amended. “Although the ropes and chains—”

“But if they don’t signify entanglement—”

“She said that being caught so in a dream means that I believe I have realized my heart’s desire.”

For a moment, she could not speak. Then, unable to stop herself, she said, “But how would she know that?”

“She said she had friends, sweetheart, many friends, who tell her things, even things like that. She says she believes them, and . . .” He paused, looking serious.

“And what?”

“I believe it, too,” he said, kissing her. “Sweetheart, I’ve never believed anything so firmly in my life. But if you ever again do anything so daft-brained as—”

Grabbing his ears, she kissed him hard and felt his arms go around her.

Even so, and telling herself it was the only sure way to prevent hearing any more such tiresome stuff from him, she thrust her tongue into his mouth and pressed her body against his, delighting in his quick response.

Moments later, she was in her bed without her shift, watching him strip his clothes off faster than she had thought any man could.

He wasted no time afterward, either, using his hands and lips to stir her to passion but letting her direct much of what happened between them. She learned that a man and woman could couple with the woman on top, free of restraint, and that she could tease his senses then as easily as he had teased hers.

She could even control him to some extent, stirring his passion high, and then letting it ebb by easing her efforts.

That only worked until his control of himself began to slip, when he eased her off him and himself atop her. He strove to move gently, but in stirring him, she had excited herself to new heights, and she did not want gentleness.

He filled her within and his very presence banished any lingering doubts she might still have had about such things.

Giving herself up to the delicious sensations and her own passions, she soon felt herself soaring beyond anything she had felt before. His thrusts grew faster and faster then, until she was well nigh sobbing, but not with pain. The release, when it finally came, astonished her. Moments later, his followed.

They lay back, sated and silent, for several moments until he said, “You are so beautiful, sweetheart, and have become so dear to me. The one thing I never imagined as I pictured my perfect wife was that I should fall in love with her.”

“Nay,” she said with a happy sigh. “ ’Tis difficult to love perfection, sir. I should think she’d have bored you to madness.”

“Very likely. though,” he added lazily, “I cannot think how I ever imagined you might be like my mother.”

“Your mother!”

“Aye,” he admitted. “When I first saw you, I thought you looked a cozy armful, and there was something about you then that reminded me of her.”

“A cozy armful?”

“I didn’t mean that part! I meant—”

“But you thought
I
looked as if
I
would be a cozy armful?”

“Aye, sure, and I was right,” he said, drawing her close again and nuzzling her neck before his lips captured hers and they began all over again.

The next time they lay back together, Amalie gazed up at the ceiling over her bed, then at the bed curtains and beyond into the room itself, thinking how odd it was to be in her own bed with the man she had married.

“You know,” she said quietly. “I half expected never to come home again. But now that I have, I’m glad I did.”

“But this is no longer your home, sweetheart,” he said gently. “Westruther is, and we must go there very soon.”

“No,” she said and then smiled when she felt him tense. “It is not Westruther, the place, but Westruther, the man, that is my home now. I will be content, sir, wherever you are.”

Epilogue

Christmas 1390, Westruther

H
e never tired of watching her.

Standing in the open doorway and looking out over the snowy slope below, he paid no heed to the chilly air he was letting inside. As he watched her heave a snowball at young Michael, he recalled the day he had first seen her, and smiled.

His nieces and nephews were all pelting her now, shrieking in their delight. He heard Amalie’s laughter and a shriek or two from her as well. His mother and Joan, and Joan’s husband, stood nearby, watching them all fondly.

He and Amalie had settled in well and happily at Westruther. Her sister Meg’s little daughter was nearly three months old now, and in a few months, he and Amalie would have a bairn of their own. Boyd no longer troubled them in any way, having—by most accounts—suffered a fatal accident on his way back to Lauder Castle.

Harsh weather had cut Fife’s Border progress short before it had well begun, so he was back in Stirling. With luck, something new would turn his attention elsewhere. He had shown them how well he protected himself, and even Archie Douglas could do nothing about that—yet.

To be sure, they had made a dangerously powerful, implacable enemy in Fife. But Garth knew that he and Amalie had powerful friends, as well, and would deal with trouble together if and as it ever came.

In the meantime, Garth thought he might lob a few snowballs himself.

He turned to pull the door shut, and when he turned back, he saw that she had noticed him. She was smiling.

She watched him stride down the hill toward her and felt the familiar sense of rightness she always felt in his presence.