Chapter Two
Amidst the shouts of anger and stunned looks, Griffin scoured the great room for the woman who’d crafted this chaos. He found naught but the fierce Scottish nobles eyeing him with a mix of grim satisfaction and resentment. Blast it, had he asked to be married? If one day he were to take a wife, he’d expected to at least know the woman’s name!
God’s teeth, ’twas a mess.
A mess delivered to him in the form of a fine- looking woman. But her pale skin and intoxicating eyes would not sway him. Once he found her, she’d regret her lies.
“Silence!” Andrew de Moray’s voice roared over the irate warriors. The chamber fell silent.
A muscle worked in his jaw as Griffin faced the imposing man on the dais. However much he wished to end this farce the woman had created, for his own pride, he could never expose he neither knew the woman’s name nor had ever seen her before this day. Worse, how in bloody hell would he break the news of his marriage—to a Scot—to King Edward? Or, for that matter, to his sister and the MacGruder brothers?
The MacGruder brothers. He grimaced at the thought of the extended family gained after his sister Nichola’s abduction by the Scottish rebel, Alexander MacGruder, had tumbled into a marriage. Then there were Alexander’s older brother, Seathan MacGruder, Earl of Grey, and his younger brother, Duncan, and their adopted brother, Patrik—all married and in the thick of Scotland’s fight for independence. As was Griffin. Indeed, they would find humor in his plight.
Except, by the time they learned of the matter, ’twould be after an annulment had been procured. Caught up in helping the rebels to reclaim their country’s independence under the guise of
Wulfe
, he did not have a wife in his plans at this time, and certainly not this woman, who would regret whatever had driven her to the insanity of her false claim.
“The handfasting is over,” de Moray stated. “I will speak with Lord Monceaux on the matter, but later. For now, there are issues of import we need to discuss.”
“Aye,” a Scot near the front shouted as he thrust his claymore into the air, “including telling King Edward to stuff his offer of free passage for you to the Tower of London up his arse!”
Cheers broke amongst the Scots, removing a layer of tension from the great room.
Andrew de Moray raised his hand. “Lord Monceaux.”
The rousing yells faded and every eye focused on Griffin. He nodded to de Moray, playing the role the crowd expected from an English baron and King Edward’s advisor to the Scots.
De Moray scanned the chamber of battle-seasoned Scots. From the firm set of the leader’s jaw, Griffin suspected what his secret contact would say.
De Moray raised his claymore in the air. “Tell your king to go to Hades!”
Against the curse-filled jeers at the English king’s expense, Griffin stowed the writ of safe passage inside his tunic. Once the room calmed, he nodded. “I will deliver the message to King Edward that you decline his offer.”
Guffaws echoed throughout.
“Bloody coated his words are,” a nearby laird yelled. “The English have nae the guts of the Scots.”
A pox-faced man nodded, and another, his brow marred by rough jagged scars, shouted his agreement as the voices of the Scots again rose.
Andrew de Moray sheathed his blade. “Lord Monceaux, I will take the letter from my father.” With confident steps, he strode from the dais. A pace before Griffin, he halted.
Griffin withdrew Sir Andrew’s father’s writ, and handed him the rolled parchment.
With a steady hand, de Moray unrolled the letter. As he read the request penned by his father’s hand, the page trembled.
Griffin understood the gravity of de Moray’s decision in declining his father’s personal request. If the rebels lost the upcoming battle at Stirling Bridge, King Edward would sentence de Moray’s father to remain within the Tower of London until his death.
The scrape of parchment filled the void as de Moray again rolled the letter. “Lord Monceaux, stable your horse for the night. Once this meeting has ended, we will speak in private. Then, a chamber will be provided for you and your wife.”
His wife? God’s teeth, de Moray didn’t expect him to remain married? No, his friend but made the offer for their audience. Once alone, Sir Andrew would aid him in ending this ludicrous arrangement with the chit.
“My thanks,” he replied.
De Moray turned and strode toward the dais. As he passed, the nobles shifted their attention to the front of the chamber, where Wallace awaited the other rebel leader’s return as if the mayhem moments before had never happened.
No, by their guarded looks, each man remembered, Griffin mused, but whatever their reason, they had decided to not pursue it further, which made little sense. They knew her, of that he was certain. The nobles within this chamber were powerful men determined to win Scotland’s freedom. Yet not one had interceded when the stunning woman had stepped forward with the ludicrous claims, nor when he’d made the offer to take her hand in marriage.
Why?
If nothing else, he was certain her father was not present at the meeting. Had he attended, surely he would have halted the fiasco. Frustrated, Griffin scanned the chamber. He caught sight of the red-haired warrior who’d reached for the woman when she’d first stepped from the shadows and challenged Griffin’s credibility.
The man turned. Eyes hard and furious met his. Malevolence poured from his gaze as if a dam unleashed.
Griffin held the red-haired man’s glare without apology. Her brother? Lover? He seemed vaguely familiar. Had they met before? Whoever this Scot was, the man would offer him a knife in his gullet before sharing any information of the woman’s identity. From his reaction, the man was as displeased by her actions as Griffin.
And, by the angry gazes cast his way by the Scots around him, nor would he find answers about the woman from any in the crowd.
The woman?
No, for now, his wife.
With one last scan of the chamber, Griffin left the Scottish leaders to plan the last few details on how to halt the Earl of Surrey as he led his massive English army north to seize Stirling Castle. Later, Griffin would meet with de Moray and contemplate how to escape this wedded muddle.
“What were you thinking, lass?” Angus Drummond, the Earl of Brom, demanded. The wash of late afternoon light, littered with flickers of dust, framed her father as he glared down at her in the stable. “Calling the king’s man out? Questioning his fidelity in a chamber full of formidable Scottish leaders?”
Rois rubbed the back of her neck beneath her father’s censure, the soft nicker from her mare standing at her side offering little calm. “I explained—”
“Explained?” he blustered. “To protect me from being seen by King Edward’s advisor to the Scots?” Amber eyes narrowed. “And you do that by wedding the English noble?”
“You do nae understand.”
Aged lines settled deeper across her father’s weathered brow. “Right you are on that, lass. From the first I should have stopped you. Foolishly, I hesitated.”
“Da, as the Earl of Brom, you are a man Lord Monceaux would recognize. If you had spoken out and he had seen you, he would have disclosed your presence to the English king.” She fought for calm, to quell the churn of emotions rushing within. “With your re-swearing fealty to King Edward but months before, think you he would nae brand you a traitor, or order you hanged before your people to serve as an example for any who dare betray him?”
He grimaced, but didna argue.
Because she spoke naught but the truth. They were at war, and he was an influential noble who had gained the admiration of many Highlanders, a man they followed without hesitation. King Edward would nae turn his eye from such blatant rebellion.
Rois clasped his hand, wishing he could understand her fear and her thanks for all he’d sacrificed to raise her these past eleven years since her mother’s death. “I love you, Da, and canna lose you.”
Tenderness edged the stern lines of his face. “Lass, even if King Edward learned of my change of loyalties, many months will have passed—if, upon Lord Monceaux’s return to Westminster Palace, he is even informed.”
She released his hand. “What do you mean upon his return? Why would the king nae immediately be informed?”
“King Edward sailed for Flanders before the end of August.”
He’d left the country? It couldn’t be. Her stomach churned as she realized the ramifications. “Lord Monceaux said King Edward sent the letter of safe passage as well as the request from Sir Andrew’s father.”
“Both written before the king departed England.”
She shook her head, nae wanting to believe it was true. “How do you know?” Rois asked, her words but a whisper.
Her father’s gaze grew shuttered. He secured the saddle onto his mount.
“Da?”
He checked the cinch, glanced over. “It matters not. You should have remained in the shadows as promised.”
“But Lochlann said—”
Anger flared upon his weathered face. “Sir Lochlann is a fool.”
“He was concerned about you.”
Her father led his steed to the entry. “Sir Lochlann is a man whose concerns are for naught but himself.”
An argument they’d had many times over. Her father did nae understand. Lochlann was a man of ambitions, a man unafraid to work hard for his goals. His methods at times might be a wee bit rash, but didn’t her own often cause a stir?
Like now.
After her mother’s death, Lochlann had held her when she’d fallen apart, listened to her as she’d rambled with the hurt of loss. And with the passage of time, he’d lifted her spirits beneath the weight of grief. They’d become close friends. With his unselfishness when it came to her, how could it be otherwise?
“But that is nae the issue,” her father continued. “If Sir Lochlann had concerns about me being in danger, ’twas me he should have warned.”
“Da—”
“Enough.” Her father shoved his foot into his stirrup, mounted, then looked down. “’Tis growing late. We will speak more once we arrive at Kincardan Castle.”
“What of the marriage?” Amber eyes slanted toward the keep where Lord Monceaux remained, and her heart jumped.
Her father grimaced. “An issue I will take care of.”
Relief rattled against her lingering nerves. “My thanks.”
Her father’s brow furrowed deeper.
Rois remained silent. He was angry. Could she blame him? It wasn’t every day within a room filled with your fellow lords a father witnessed his daughter marrying the enemy.
“Mount up. The sun will soon set.”
She stroked her mare’s neck. “Go, I will nae be far behind.”
“Rois—”
“Please, I need but a moment. I will nae linger.”
“See that you do nae.” With a curt nod, her father turned his mount, urged him into a canter. Hoofbeats clattered upon the cobbled entry as he exited Dunadd castle.
Desperate for time alone, Rois waved the stable lad away and checked the mare’s hooves. How could her father dismiss the severe consequences had the baron caught sight of him? Or believe a man loyal to the English king would withhold such a fact from his liege lord? Nay, Lord Monceaux would have revealed her father’s presence.
Lord Monceaux.
A man to whom, by Celtic law, she was wed. A man she should fear. Oddly, she found herself intrigued instead. Foolish to find herself attracted to a man professed to be her enemy.
Rois stared toward the gatehouse her father had ridden beneath moments before. Beyond the massive arch of stone, distant mountains lay illuminated by the soft golden rays of the setting sun, the roll of the land of her ancestors, which her people now fought to keep. A land that, if the rebels failed to win the upcoming battle, might very well be lost.
With a sigh, she picked up her mare’s reins. Over the years she’d had her scrapes with trouble, and had she nae always explained her way out of every predicament, if sometimes with a touch of aid? A smile edged her lips. Granted, marriage might be a wee larger dilemma than shaving Gordon’s cow on a dare. Or the time she slipped Hart’shorn in Aleyn’s soup that for several days had left him paces from the privy. But days after, she’d admitted to mixing the herbs.
Now, her father had agreed to help her disentangle herself from the English baron. Da was a smart man, held formidable contacts. With his aid, a solution would come. ’Twould be reckless to delay and upset him further.
She wrapped the rein around her hand. What if her request for an annulment was rejected even with her father’s help? Rois lay her forehead against the horse’s muzzle. “If this fails, what am I to do?”
“Go back inside and tell the truth.”
At the baron’s deep English voice, Rois whirled, panic slamming through her.
Hands on his hips, Lord Monceaux stood at the stable entry, his muscled body taut, the setting sun framing a fierce scowl. Anger savaged his face as he took a slow step forward like a wolf stalking its prey.
Hands trembling, she edged to her mare’s side. “Stay back.”
“From my wife?” Mockery wrung his voice.
Her throat dry, she shook her head. “My regrets. I could think of no other way.”
Hazel eyes narrowed. “No other way to do what?”
Heaven help her. She had to convince him to leave. Now! “You are free to go,” Rois managed with amazing calm. “I willna hold you to your declaration.”
A humorless laugh sifted from his mouth. “’Tis impossible when a roomful of Scots witnessed our handfasting. We are married, my lady.” He stepped closer. “I will have answers of why you claimed such shameful lies and invited this mayhem. Then, I will find a way to rid myself of you.”
Despite her common sense, his words hurt. She angled her chin. “I meant you no harm.”
“Your actions this day offer a different proof.”