Beloved Stranger (21 page)

Robert Howard shrugged again, ignoring him and turning to Jock. “I hear most of Henry’s army is leaving.”

“Aye. They keep losing horses,” Jock grinned.

“The Scots, no doubt,” Robert Howard replied.

“No doubt,” Jock agreed with a chuckle.

Cedric broke in. “It is said ye fought on the continent. For or against the French?”

“For whoever paid the most,” Robert Howard said.

“The French are our enemies.”

“Not always.”

Cedric’s face reddened. “I do not believe yer wild tale.”

“That is your choice,” Robert Howard said mildly and turned back to Jock, with whom he had developed somewhat of a truce in the past few days. They had even shared a pitcher of ale after the Charlton’s first visit.

“It is as good as yer wild tales,” Jock suddenly confronted Cedric. “Ye disappeared during the battle.” He turned his glance away in obvious disgust.

Robert Howard glanced up the table. Kimbra looked down at the same time, and their gazes met. Held. God’s tooth but she was lovely. Then her gaze returned to the Charlton.

He glanced at Cedric and knew from the fury in the man’s eyes that he had seen the exchange.

Sweets came then. Pies and puddings and fruit.

Then he heard Kimbra’s voice insisting she must go. She had a daughter to put in bed and a cow to milk.

“I will send someone to milk the cow,” the Charlton said.

“You do not know my cow. She will allow none but myself to milk her.”

Almost true,
Robert Howard thought.

“I will accompany her,” Cedric said, standing.

“Nay, Jock will do so,” the Charlton said.

“I thought he was guarding this . . . man who calls himself a Howard,” Cedric replied.

The Charlton frowned. “Are you questioning my decisions?”

“Nay, but . . .”

“We will talk later,” the Charlton said curtly.

Kimbra rose, and Jock went to her. Kimbra glanced at Robert Howard. “I have not had a chance to check his wounds.”

Jock ignored Cedric who was glowering at all of them. “Ye can do that while I get the horses ready.”

He accompanied them up the stone steps and to Robert Howard’s chamber. As they reached it, he turned to them. “I will see to the horses,” he said, and left them.

The moment the door closed behind them, she moved closer to him. “You have to leave as soon as possible. If you can get to my cottage, take Magnus.”

“I have thought about that, Kimbra. I cannot take your horse. If I am taken, you may well lose him.”

“I will take that risk.”

“I will not take it for you. I owe you far too much already. And despite the Charlton’s hospitality, I am watched all the time.”

He moved closer to her. She felt his breath against her cheek like a light breeze.

She leaned into him, and his arms went around her, his lips touching—barely—her cheek.

God’s truth, but he felt as if he belonged there. How could he possibly be wed to another and have these feelings?

His lips moved along her cheekbone, then down to her throat. She made a soft purring noise. He wanted to make one as well. His lips found hers, caressed them with all the tenderness that had been building inside. She responded with a searching wistfulness, and suddenly the kiss turned demanding, the gentleness churning into a want so deep he could barely contain it. He crushed her to him.

Her lips sought his as greedily as his plundered hers.

He closed his eyes, soaking in memories. The way she felt. The light scent of flowers. The silkiness of her hair. He was consumed by a glow of light, of a warmth that pulsed through him, and he suddenly knew he had never felt this way before.

Loneliness was not a new companion.

She moved slightly, and he opened his eyes. Her gray eyes were tinged with blue as they looked up at him, sooty eyelashes unable to hide the smoldering passion stirring there.

Then he released her lips as his fingers touched the nape of her neck. “There is enchantment here,” he said.

“Aye, but it cannot last.”

“Why?” he whispered.

“It should be plain.”

“Nay.”

“You are a noble or at least of an important family. When you find where you belong, I would have no place.”

“You have a place wherever I go.”

She leaned her head against his heart for a moment or more, then stepped back, those striking eyes determined. “Nay. Dreams are for fools,” she said.

He stilled. A tall man with dark brown hair, but the face eluded him.

The words had been bitter, laced with heavy grief.

Then the image disappeared.

He shook his head, trying to bring it back. But it was gone, lost with the other images that tortured him.

“Robert?”

It was the first time she had called him Robert. It was beginning to feel familiar.

“I remembered . . . I think I remembered—”

“What?” Her voice was suddenly sharp.

“A figure. A man.”

“What did he look like?”

“I did not see his face.”

“Did he say anything?”

He could not relate the words. They were like a brand on his soul.
We can never marry.

“Nay,” he lied.

“Your brother? Father? Friend?”

He shook his head. “Blast it, I do not know.”

“Your nightmares? Have you seen him in any of those?”

“Nay.”

“Anyone?” she persisted. “Have you seen anyone else?”

The laughing girl with brown hair.
But he could not say the words.

Her gaze seemed to be reaching inside him, knowing there was something he was not saying.

Then she turned away. “I had best look at that wound,” she said. “’Twas my excuse for being here.”

“Excuse?”

“Cedric and others will take any opportunity to hurt you if they think I, or you, are a threat to their ambitions.” There was a coolness in her voice, and he knew it was because she sensed he was not being honest.

He was not sure why he could not tell her about the girl, or the words spoken by the man in that all-too-fleeting image. But he could not, not until he knew what they meant.

He sat on the bed as she checked his wound. There was no longer a need to wrap it. The scar was ugly because of the burn. Still a bit raw but well on the way to healing.

“I do not think you will be lame,” she said.

“A good thing since my left arm is stiff.”

“How did that happen?”

He paused. She did that, over and over again. She threw out questions which she obviously hoped would stir memories. He could only shake his head in bafflement.

He stood again. He wanted to reach out and touch her again, but he feared he could not stop himself from taking it a step further. God knew he wanted to. He wanted to undress her, caress her, carry her to the bed, and bury himself in her. He wanted to hear her laughter and see that all-too-rare smile.

“I wish I knew,” he said, finally answering her question.

“It will come back.”

He did not answer. He wasn’t sure he wanted it to come back. For the first time, he wanted to quiet those disturbing voices inside.

He touched her cheek again, his hand cupping the determined chin. “I find I do not want to leave.”

“You must,” she whispered brokenly.“’Tis so very dangerous.”

“You are worth it.” The words sprung from his mouth before he could catch them. He had no right to make declarations. She was right. He had to find his past before he could claim what he now knew he wanted above all.

He leaned down and kissed her lightly. “I will try to leave,” he promised.

They heard Jock’s heavy footfalls then, and separated.

“I will see you again,” he said in a low voice.

But doubt was in her expression.

He wanted to kiss it away, but he could not. Instead he moved to the window as the door opened and Jock entered, a sleepy Audra in his arms.

“The horses are ready.”

She nodded. “Good eve,” she said, and went out the door, taking the light with her.

 
 
R
ORY rode into the Armstrong stronghold. It was near dark.

He saw Archibald, who was engaged in what looked like a battle to the death with a bearded, one-eyed opponent several stones larger than himself.

He stopped and watched as Archibald eventually bested the man.

Archibald saw him and hurried to his side.

“’ Tis glad I am to see ye.”

“Any word of Lachlan?”

“Nay, though the Campbells ransomed Jamie. He is out now searching for Lachlan and news of his own Campbells. I was to wait here for ye.” He paused, then asked, “How is the queen?”

“Heartbroken and surrounded by vultures. The council is half for a French alliance, half for English, and cannot agree on anything. I fear that the new Earl of Angus is gaining her ear and promoting the English cause. I could not persuade her otherwise. For some reason, she chooses his protection and is siding with those who want a truce with England.”

“She is King Henry’s sister.”

“Aye, but there’s never been any love lost there, especially now that James is dead at his hand.”

“More at James’s own hand from what I hear,” Archibald said bitterly. “More than ten thousand Scots dead. I fear for Hector and Lachlan and so many others.”

“Are the Armstrongs helping in the search?”

“As much as they can. The border has been dangerous, and if Lachlan or Hector are in hiding, the Armstrongs do not want to alert the English that they may be alive. Jamie and several Armstrongs are posing as English borderers.”

“Aye, Lachlan would be a fine catch for the English throne. Henry would love nothing better than to get his hands on a Maclean. We have always stood against the English.” He paused, then added, “Is there any indication he might still live?”

“’Tis unlikely,” Archibald said. “Most of the bodies were stripped of every piece of clothing and jewelry. They say all at James’s side were killed. It was difficult to even identify the king’s body.”

“But no one saw Lachlan dead?”

“Nay, but . . .”

“And Hector?”

“We did find a Maclean who claims he saw Hector die. We have no’ found his body.”

Pain ripped through Rory. Both Hector and Archibald had been like fathers to him, far more so than his own had been. “We should find the place where Macleans fell.”

I should have been there!
He never should have allowed Lachlan to take his place.

Several burly men, dressed in heavy jacks, approached.

Archibald introduced him to the man who appeared to be the leader. “This is Tommy Armstrong. He has been doing everything he can to help us. He has contacted other border families and sent some of his men with Jamie.”

Rory thrust out his hand. “Our thanks. The Macleans will not forget it.”

“It will be easier to search now that the English army is leaving,” the Armstrong said grimly.

“Were the wounded taken anywhere?”

“The wounded were ordered killed by the English.”

“Jamie Campbell was taken for ransom.”

“By a family powerful enough to defy the king. Not many are. Nay, ye would have heard by now, and I would have as well.”

“Could he have been taken in by someone?”

“Who would risk death for doing so? Nay, I think not. The only chance is that he survived the initial battle and managed to hide somewhere. But the English have been scouring the countryside. There is little hope he survived.”

Rory’s heart tightened, cutting off his breath. He had not given up hope despite the odds. He had abandoned Lachlan when his younger brother needed him years ago. He hadn’t realized how haunted his brother was until he returned from ten years at sea. Even then, Lachlan had risked his life for him, had almost died in the effort. Lachlan had shown far more loyalty to him than he had to Lachlan.

And now because he had not wanted to leave his wife and two bairns, his brother could be dead.

He would not accept that.

“I will go to meet Jamie Campbell.”

“Nay. They will be back tonight. Ye can start looking again at first light.” He looked over Rory’s breeches, linen shirt, and doublet. “Ye look too much like what ye are. I’ll find ye some new clothes. Ye may want to let your beard grow out.”

He was shown a room and invited to eat supper with them. As hospitality demanded the invitation, courtesy demanded acceptance, though he would have preferred to be out looking for his brother.

The meal was loud and noisy and drunken. The Armstrongs were undistinguishable by rank or dress or language. They all wore the same attire: dark breeches, doublet, and jack. They drank with gusto and told tales of their bravery, and the cowardice of the English borderers.

Riders appeared after dark. There was a cry from sentries, then he saw the light of torches dancing in the night air as the party approached and the riders dismounted.

One of the men dismounted and hurried over to him.

It took Rory a moment longer to recognize Jamie. Rather than the plaid he usually wore, he’d donned the same rough garments as the Armstrongs along with the steel helmet that was so common on the border. Jamie took it off, and Rory saw him clearly in the moonlight. He was pale, and thin, his red hair darkened by some substance. The bright grin had dulled into an expression void of light.

Rory clasped Jamie’s shoulder. “My God, but it is good seeing you.”

“Too many others did not make it,” his friend said somberly.

Jamie was obviously burning up with guilt. Rory understood. “I should have been there as well.”

“Another casualty? I do not know what good that would have been.”