Seize The Dawn (36 page)

She came across the room, and the party sobered. She ignored Brendan, and walked to the large chair where Wallace relaxed before the central fire.

"My lady," Wallace said, and rose, ever courteous despite his reputation for violence.

"Sir William, please, sit. It's evident that this evening is one of leisure for you and your men. I have come only to express my deep appreciation to your men, those who took tremendous risks in coming south in my defense. They owed me nothing; their kindness is a debt I can never repay, and will never be forgotten."

"My lady, I fear I was no part of it, on behalf of the fellows who rode, your life was the prize worth a gamble, and indeed, the exploit adds to the legend of our abilities, despite our sorry state of being. You have been a worthy opponent, madam— there are those who do say your company helped the flow of English valor at Falkirk—"

"Sir, a sorry slaughter, the likes of which I hope never to see again."

"Nevertheless, you have been a worthy opponent—" he broke off, smiling, "—a less than model prisoner, but now, indeed, a very welcome guest."

She bowed to Wallace. "I will excuse you all to your merrymaking. And I give you thanks again, for allowing me to be a—guest"

She didn't look Brendan's way, but headed for the stairs.

For a moment the company remained silent as she disappeared. "Cheers!" cried one of the men. "Cheers to a strange breed of English! Those with integrity and valor!"

The room became raucous again.

The woman, frozen there when Eleanor had appeared, smiled at him. "Aye, hero, you saved a woman of valor. But is she a lass of any warmth?"

"Tis time she and I did have a talk," he muttered, and rose, setting the woman aright.

Gregory was watching him. The woman was pretty, with a quick smile, and tender touch. He prodded her toward Gregoiy. "Entertain Gregory there," he said. "Now there's a lad who's a hero, if there is one among us!" The woman moved forward, and crawled over Gregory. Hooting, cheering, clapping, filled the room. Attention was off Brendan.

"I have given my all in the pursuit of freedom; I swore it when I held my cousin in my arms as he died as Falkirk. Sir, there is no fault in my ardor for my country."

"I didn't suggest so. I value your talents, Brendan, your abilities, and aye, your valor and your life's blood. As I valued those of your cousin, John Graham, and many other of your kinsmen. I ask you only that you value your own life as well."

Eleanor walked around the room in great agitation, fuming despite herself. She had married another man, and said goodbye to Brendan, in all belief that she would never see him again. Miraculously, he had come for her in a time of deepest danger. She should be grateful, and nothing more, and realize that his life had moved on, as had her own.

"My lady, you must sit and calm yourself. You'll harm the babe," Bridie said.

Eleanor bit her lip, grateful that Brendan knew nothing of her situation. She couldn't help but feel a tremor of pain, no matter what logic she realized within her mind. Nay, it wasn't pain; it was pure bold jealousy, she thought, and aye—anger. And with such a thought she couldn't help but realize again the differences of their lives; aye, he cared for her. But for Scotland more. And this was his way of life; fighting, taking shelter in strongholds held by the Scots despite Edward's heavy hand. And when he had rested, completed one raid, one fight, one battle, there would be another, and he would return to the forests, and seek out the English again. But there was nothing he called home, other than this earth, and the longer she had been away, the greater dishonor it seemed that she had not had a chance to speak her case in court. Had Fitzgerald really meant to see to her death or disappearance on the way to London? It still seemed far too unbelievable.

"My lady, it's all right." Bridie was silent a minute, and Eleanor came at last to sit across from her. She smiled at Eleanor. "You did suggest that I get to Scotland, and meant to help me do so."

"Aye. However, I had not meant to join you."

"But my lady! He rode for you! Rode into England! He ignored dozens of Englishmen, trained with swords, decked himself in the guise of a priest, and walked right into the castle. He hid his face and dared pretend to be an escort. How could you not be glad to be here?"

He looked every bit the wild rebel warrior, as savage as any half-civilized highlander from any of the horror stories told to English children.

His hair fell free and dark to his shoulders, his features were tight, jaw set, eyes hard. He wore his plaid, kilt over a linen shirt, and doeskin boots. He hadn't bothered to knock at the door, but had simply thrown it open with purpose and careless determination.

Bridie jumped up as he entered, looking scared. Eleanor came to her feet as well, defensive and wary—and somehow stronger and bolder if she stood.

Eleanor stared at Brendan. His eyes were somewhat reddened, with weariness—and with drink, she thought. Still, her heart fluttered. He stood as he did when he was angry—and self-righteous. His jaw was squared at a tense angle. The breadth of his shoulders rose and fell with his every breath. Muscles rippled beneath linen and wool. He stared at her a very long while.

"Well?" he said at last.

"Well?" she murmured. "Has the party broken so quickly? How strange, it seems I still hear sounds of revelry from below."

He ignored her question. "Have you nothing to say to me?"

She stared at him uneasily.

"Thank you?" she inquired. "I didn't mean to be so rude; I did, in fact, descend the stairs to express the depths of my appreciation, and I would have addressed you ... had you not been so occupied. Your hands seemed quite full at that moment"

He ignored the comment, dismissing it. "Thank you?" he inquired. "Is that really all that you have to say to me?"

Her unease increased as he walked around her, arms crossed over his chest. She followed his movement, suddenly as afraid he would pounce when her back was turned. He seemed like a cat, with a definite quarry in mind, or an animal whose territory had been threatened, and would not yield.

She found herself faltering, and speaking too quickly. "I do thank you, truly, with a depth you can't imagine. Except that, you have to see, I must find a way to go back. I am branded a murderess now, and worse. A traitor. A woman who killed her husband, to flee with her country's greatest enemy."

"Brendan, the fact that Fitzgerald was not an honorable man does not make monsters of the entire English populace. There are those in England who do want the truth, and this is not a matter of war, but of a terrible wrong done to a good and honest man. And it is a matter of my honor. There must be a way to send messengers to someone close to the king."

"No, and it's not something I care to discuss now. Let's return to my original question. Think, my lady. You've nothing more to say to me?"

There was a lot she had to say to him. But not now, not so close to everything that had happened. She needed time. She wasn't sure she knew him anymore. They had been apart for months, and together, amid a sea of others, just a few days' time. She had lived her different life until then; he still lived his very different life now. With men and women who rode hard, fought hard—and reveled with great passion.

He assessed her slowly, shook his head with angry disgust, and took a step closer to her.

"Come, my lady. I'm sure that there is information you're waiting to give me."

Then she realized,
he knew!

She suddenly brought a hand to her abdomen, worried that her condition had begun to show. She felt blood rush to her cheeks. "I..."

"Oh, do come, my lady! You are so seldom without words, and usually so eloquent. Keep going. I... am having a child."

She didn't repeat the words, but stood very still in dismay. If she had told him ... when she had told him ... she had never imagined it would be like this, while they were strangers, while she was angry ...

And he was furious.

He shook his head, staring at her. "Let's see, a child. The lady is with child. And my old friend Alain was ... let's put it delicately ... simply far too old to be the father, as your cousin-in-law pointed out to Corbin and Alfred."

She would have protested the possibilities of age, but his words created another question and fury in her heart "My cousin-in-law?" she said, "Isobel? You spoke with Isobel?"

"Ah, yes, well, I listened to her. She is the lovely little schemer married to Corbin, right? I do have her name correctly? Gregory gave me most of the knowledge I have of Clarin, and the people there."

"She wasn't actually speaking to me, but to Alfred and Corbin. And she told them both that you never slept with your husband. That you had a Scottish lover, and meant to claim die child as your husband's own."

"That is most definitely true—but unimportant at this time. She went on to say that you might have murdered your husband to keep from having to tell him that you were going to have a bastard child—and give it his good name, of course."

She came around to stand behind the chair by the fire where she had been sitting when he entered, gripping the wood in her fury. "You know that I did not kill Alain."

His brows shot up, and he stared at her incredulously, then a small smile curled his lip. "Too much? Never. Have I been drinking? Aye. It is considered something of a feat for six rebels to march into England, rescue an Englishwoman bound for the block from twice their number, and return, unscathed, and with the countess—unwilling though she might have been—unblemished. The fellows were naturally proud and amused."