The Rock (36 page)

But those were not the only words echoing in her head. Her cheeks heated every time she thought of the way he’d spoken to her. The things he’d said. The things he’d done.

She could still feel the warm pressure of his hand between her legs as her bottom pressed against the steely column of his manhood. Could he really . . . ?

Aye, she knew he could. Just as she also knew he was right: she would like it. She suspected she would like anything and everything he did to her.

Blast him for confusing her! For distracting her. For trying to turn her from her course. How was she supposed to think of anything else when all she could think about was his naughty words and wicked promises?

She wanted him—there was no denying that. But he was wrong if he thought it was enough to make her happy. She would never be happy with the life he proposed—one where she would be ostracized from many of the other nobles. Where the money she’d hidden wouldn’t be enough to keep them from the threat of poverty. Where she would be tucked away in some small cottage in a small village with nothing to do. She would go mad.

Randolph and she were perfectly suited. They would get along well enough. And Elizabeth was determined to prove it. For the first time since arriving in Edinburgh she threw herself wholeheartedly into getting to know him better and enjoying the city, which included Sunday’s outing to the market after mass.

Elizabeth was aware of the number of eyes that followed her and Izzie as they made their way through the crowded stalls. It wasn’t surprising, given their escort. She imagined it wasn’t often that a knight in full mail and arms with entourage strode through mercat cross in Edinburgh. That it was the king’s nephew made it all the more unusual, and the excited whispers buzzed through the crowd like a hive of bees. But Elizabeth paid them no mind; she was having too much fun.

It had been a glorious morning, in large part due to Randolph. So far he’d stuffed them full of pies and tarts, bought them more ribbons than they could wear in a lifetime, and made them laugh as he jested more than bargained with the merchants.

Surprisingly, even Izzie seemed to be having a good time. She’d barely spoken two words to Elizabeth when she’d returned from her ride to the park. Deciding that she would rather not be questioned about her own activities that day, Elizabeth hadn’t asked what went wrong. Suffice it to say, Izzie and Randolph weren’t going to be friends. Elizabeth had been surprised when Izzie had agreed to come along with her today—as had Randolph upon seeing her. But as the day went on, the sunshine and festive atmosphere worked its magic, and whatever tension she’d sensed between them had faded away.

The group stopped to watch a merchant selling apples juggle the fruit high up in the air, the women clapping each time he added an additional piece. When he finally missed at eight, Randolph insisted on buying the whole basket and had one of his men take it back to camp.

“I think I smell plum tarts up ahead,” he said as they ambled away from the applemonger.

Both women groaned. “I couldn’t eat another bite,” Elizabeth said.

“Nor could I,” Izzie added, putting a hand over her stomach. “I will not eat another sweet for a week.”

Randolph and Elizabeth exchanged a glance and smiled. They both knew what a sweet tooth Izzie had. She would probably be raiding the monks’ kitchens in a few hours.

“Well, if not more tarts, perhaps we can find something else you might like?”

He had a knowing smile on his face as he stopped before a jewelry merchant. As Sir Thomas had come straight from the siege camp, he had been carrying his helm under his arm, but he put it down on one of the tables to pick up a cameo brooch. He said something to the merchant she could not hear, and the man appeared very excited when he nodded and pulled something out of the purse he wore at his waist.

It was a bracelet. A very beautiful one. The thick rope of gold was designed in an intricate woven pattern. Every half inch or so was a large stone—alternating rubies and garnets.

Randolph held it out for her approval. “How about this?”

Elizabeth’s stomach dropped with something suspiciously like dread. Her heart started to pound. “I couldn’t,” she said. “It’s much too fine.”

“Nonsense. It is nothing.”

Nothing to him could feed a family for a year or two—maybe longer. But it wasn’t just the cost, it was what it signified. A bracelet of gold and precious stones was not a ribbon or a tart. There was only one occasion on which it was acceptable to give an unmarried woman this kind of jewelry, and that was on a betrothal or wedding. Indeed, the giving of jewelry was expected to befit the new bride-to-be’s standing.

Sir Thomas was essentially making a public declaration of his intentions.

The irony of him choosing a bracelet did not escape her.

Elizabeth wanted to refuse, but she knew what that would signify. And she did want to marry him. Of course she did. Today had proved they would suit quite well.
Even if I don’t want to bed him at night
. . .

Her mouth pursed. The bed part would come later.

So after another polite but halfhearted protest, she allowed him to put the bracelet on her wrist. It was heavy and foreign feeling. And for one ridiculous moment she heard what sounded like the clap of irons ring in her ears.

“Thank you,” she managed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It is a mere trifle. There will be more—much more—I hope soon,” he said with a gallant bow over her hand.

It was just as before on the first night they arrived. It was a perfect moment—or what should have been a perfect moment—but it was almost as if it was for the appreciation of those around them more than for each other. Sir Thomas knew what was expected of him as one of the most renowned chivalrous knights in the kingdom and acted accordingly.

That wasn’t to suggest that it was in any way disingenuous or fake; rather that there was no real sentiment behind his actions.

Is sentiment what she wanted? Was it fair to expect from him what she was not demanding from herself?

They visited a few more booths, laughed, and continued to enjoy the bustle of activity around them, but a strange pall had been cast over the day. Indeed, Izzie had grown noticeably quiet.

Elizabeth couldn’t claim to be disappointed when one of Randolph’s men found him to say he was needed back at camp.

It seemed Edward Bruce, the Earl of Carrick, had arrived from Roxburgh to meet with his brother the king on the way to begin the siege at Stirling.

Making his apologies, Randolph left without delay, promising to see them at the abbey later. “If I know my uncle Edward, he’ll expect a feast.”

“Good thing it’s a Sunday,” she replied with a teasing smile.

A smile he returned, recalling their earlier conversation. “I hope we shall have more to celebrate in the next few days?”

She did not miss his meaning. He was going to formally propose the betrothal. Oh God. “Perhaps,” she managed in what she hoped he mistook for shy rather than uncomfortable.

The two women visited a few more booths—with Elizabeth purchasing some fabric for a new veil—before deciding to return to the abbey. It would be time to get ready for the midday meal soon.

“Is something wrong?” she asked Izzie as they walked down the hill, two of Jamie’s men following discreetly behind them.

“Of course not.”

“You seem upset.”

Her cousin shook her head. “Surprised perhaps. I thought you might be reconsidering.”

“I know you do not like him.”

“I like Sir Perfect well enough. What’s not to like?” she teased, repeating Elizabeth’s words from Blackhouse with an added note of dry amusement. Elizabeth tried not to laugh at Sir Perfect, not wanting to encourage her sobriquets—no matter how funny they were. “I merely thought you might be interested in someone else.”

Elizabeth sighed deeply in almost a groan. “Is it that obvious?”

Izzie’s mouth turned wryly. “To me and Joanna, perhaps.”

“Please do not tell me I will be hearing it from you as well.”

Izzie laughed and shook her head. “No.” But then she sobered. “Do you love him?”

That was a question she wouldn’t ask herself. She
couldn’t
love him; it was as simple as that.

Izzie would understand. She wasn’t like Joanna—she was practical like Elizabeth. “That’s an unusually sentimental question from you, cousin.”

“Maybe I’m feeling unusually sentimental.”

Elizabeth gave her a challenging look. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not,” Izzie admitted. “The match with Randolph is a good one—an excellent one. The one with your smithy’s son is not just a bad match, it’s a horrible one. There would be consequences.” She gave a sharp laugh as if something had just occurred to her. “To refuse Randolph for a smithy’s son? Lud, I almost wish you could do it just to see Sir No-One-Has-Ever-Refused-Me’s face. I can’t say that I wouldn’t enjoy seeing him knocked down a peg or two.”

They stopped talking as they walked through the gate, noticing a commotion in the yard. A group of riders had just ridden in.

Elizabeth’s heart jumped, realizing who they were. She’d suspected Thommy’s mission was with the Guard, but it wasn’t until she saw him standing to the side with a couple of the men laughing that her suspicions were confirmed. But a quick glance at the group and a longer study of Thom told her much more. It was just the members of the Guard—no other men had gone with them. And the close camaraderie among the group that had always struck her . . . it extended to Thom.

They
are
recruiting him, she realized. And she had to admit the realization awed her a little. Was Thom really good enough to fight beside some of the best warriors in Christendom?

It seemed so.

She was proud of him. Immensely proud of him. But she frowned, suddenly realizing something else. He’d lied to her! If he was on a mission with the Guard, she could be sure it was dangerous.

She was tempted to stomp over there and berate him for the untruth—and indeed might have done exactly that—if someone else hadn’t beaten her to him.

She stopped in her tracks as a woman, a very beautiful dark-haired woman, rushed forward to greet him. She must have come out of the refectory.

Thom had his back to her, so Elizabeth couldn’t see his expression, but the one on the woman’s face was enough to make her heart seize in an icy hold.

It was the coy, flirtatious look of a lover—or a woman determined to make him so. She looked at Thom as if he belonged to her and she couldn’t wait to get her hands all over him.

“Who is that?” Izzie asked at her side.

Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t know.” But her heart squeezed; she suspected it was his widow.

“Lady Marjorie Rutherford,” Edward Bruce confirmed later at the midday meal. Elizabeth was pretending not to listen to his conversation with Jamie. “She grew tired of waiting for MacGowan so she decided to take matters into her own hands, so to speak. I do admire a woman with determined hands.” He laughed at the ribald jest, ignoring the censorious look from the abbot a few seats away, and took another long drink from his goblet, which from the loudness of his voice—and his jests—Elizabeth suspected contained something stronger than wine.

The jest might be inappropriate, but it was painfully accurate. The beautiful widow did indeed have determined hands. Every time Elizabeth glanced at the table across the aisle, the “lady” had her hands on him. Nothing too overt: a brush of the arm, a graze of his fingers, a “thoughtless” touch of his shoulder when he said something that amused her, which seemed to be often, and one time when her hand had slipped beneath the table to—Elizabeth would swear—rest on his leg.

Something akin to panic had taken hold. A cold sweat broke out on her brow, her pulse spiked, and nausea swam in her stomach.

She didn’t know whether she wanted to throw up or march over there and toss the woman off the bench—probably a little of both. It was the anger—which was both unjust and irrational—that made Elizabeth realize the emotion was jealousy.

If only the woman wasn’t so pretty. But with her dark hair, tilted eyes, and striking red lips, she had a sensuality and exotic appeal with which Elizabeth couldn’t compete.

Her reaction—her distraction—hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Lady Elizabeth?” Randolph said. “Are you unwell?”

She shook her head. “Perhaps a bit tired.” She smiled. “And maybe all those tarts are catching up to me.” He looked so concerned she regretted the jest. “I was only teasing. Now, you were mentioning something about your new lands in Badenoch?”

In addition to the earldom of Moray, Randolph had been given the old Bruce lordship of Annandale, the Comyn lordship of Badenoch, the lordship of Man, and the lordship of Lochaber. Only the king’s brother had been granted more. The knowledge should please her—thrill her. She couldn’t have hoped for a better marriage.

I can make you happy . . .

“Aye, Lochindorb Castle is quite an impressive structure—Comyn might have chosen the wrong bed to lie in, but he did know how to build a place to put it—but the interiors will need some modernizing. A woman’s touch, if you will. I hoped that you might be willing to help?”