Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02] (11 page)

"But to take her to Scotland, he has to show her in chains the whole way," Robin said. "Is that not what the king said?"

"Aye, so all of England can see the captive Scotswoman," Edmund said. "A devilish plan."

"I refuse to treat a woman so," Gawain said. "The king is a madman to expect it."

"He seems so, at times," Henry said. "His hatred of the Scots grows more unreasonable, I admit. But if he issues a writ saying she must be chained, and sends an escort to see it done, there is naught you can do about it."

"There might be," Gawain said firmly.

"Insubordination," Henry said, "does not honor the Avenel name."

"Gold links are soft, and impractical for a prisoner's chains," Gawain replied. "Easily broken."

"You have a damnable habit of helping others when 'twill only bring trouble for you," Henry said sternly.

"Those chains had better hold," Edmund muttered, "or all the Avenels will pay the price of it."

Gawain scowled into his wine cup, knowing the truth of that. Henry looked out the window at the rainy darkness. After a moment, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small object. He tossed it to Gawain.

Deftly catching it, Gawain opened his hand. A tiny iron key lay in his palm. He looked at Henry.

"The king entrusted it to me," his stepfather said. "I entrust it to you. Use it wisely."

Gawain nodded and crossed to the door. "'Tis late. I bid you good night. We are leaving in the morn, my... bride and I. Do any of you ride north with us?"

"Robin rides for Avenel Castle tomorrow," Henry said. "Edmund and I must stay in Newcastle for now."

"Ah, then. Good night." Gawain was aware that his family wondered if he would sleep with his new bride this night. He wondered it himself. He opened the door latch.

"Gawain," Henry said. "Thank you."

He glanced over his shoulder in surprise. "Why, sir? I have run the Avenel name to near ruin with all my transgressions. Even worse, Geoffrey... is gone now, in part my fault," he murmured. "This evening's pageant does not improve matters."

"Geoffrey's death was hard for everyone, but no one is to blame," Henry said. "We know that you have risked much, and given up much, to protect our welfare. We are all grateful."

Gawain began to speak, but his voice clouded. He nodded stiffly, opened the door, and slipped out into the corridor.

* * *

The small bedroom was silent and dark but for the low light of a brazier and a single candle. Outside, rain gusted against the walls, making the room seem cozy. The candle's halo illuminated the bed as Gawain crossed the room and looked down.

Juliana lay in the bed against several pillows, with the fur coverlet pulled up to her shoulders. She still wore the white satin dress, although the feathered cap lay on the table. Her pale hair was like moonlight and silk, and her face was smooth and serene. Gawain reached out a hand but did not touch her.

He wanted a wife, he thought, but not like this. When war and traveling were a way of life, knights often craved the peace and contentment of a home and a family, and he was no different, he knew. Someday he had hoped to find a gentle lady to warm his heart and share his life.

Unsure what to make of this marriage, he felt numb, still stunned. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her. She slept deeply, her breathing quiet. She was a sweet perfection, golden fair and smooth cheeked, with a soft curve to her mouth, her hands curled and slender on the pillow, wrists manacled.

Frowning, he used the little key to unlock the collar. Sliding a hand under her head, he lifted the band away, baring the sinuous curve of her throat. He stroked a finger over the pink crease the collar had made.

Next he removed the manacles, and pooled the chains on the tabletop. She moaned in her sleep, and he soothed his hand over her head.

He did not dare to touch her further, for desire coursed quick and intense through him. Giving into that was unthinkable. She had been stolen from her home, imprisoned, humiliated, forced to wed. He would not demand marriage rights of her, despite the king's crude suggestion.

He stood, blew out the candle, and walked in the darkness to the other side of the bed. Listening to the driving rain, he removed his boots and clothing, all but his braies. This wedding night was not like most. The girl might wake up and mistake him for a lecher if he kept his usual practice of sleeping nude.

All he wanted was some rest. He felt exhausted from the shock of the evening and the crazy tilt in his future. In the morning he would sort out his obligations. He would receive writs and meet the escort; he realized that he did not even know their destination in Scotland or his military duties yet.

A gust of wind and rain made the closed shutters tremble. The outer world was in upheaval, he thought, like his own world. He eased between the covers. The rope foundation of the bed creaked as he reclined and closed his eyes.

He had much to think about—too much for a weary man to sort through in one night. Listening to the rain, he felt sleep overtake him.

Chapter 8

Blessed freedom. The chains were gone. Juliana could feel the cool air on her neck and wrists. She wondered, lying in the darkness, if the Swan Feast had been only a nightmare.

More fully awake, she realized that her captivity was still real, for she lay in the bed at the inn. But someone had freed her. Relieved and grateful, she sighed and stretched.

After weeks of straw and thin blankets, the deep, soft bed felt like a cloud. She yawned and snuggled into its warmth. Just last night, she had curled in a corner of a cold dungeon cell, too afraid to sleep because of the guards outside the door.

Here she had slept undisturbed for what seemed a long while, although the sky was still dark beyond the opaque glazing in the small window, and rain still pattered unceasingly.

She rolled over, and squeaked in alarm.

Gawain slept beside her, his shadowed form motionless beneath the covers. She had not realized his presence until now; his soft snores had mingled with the sound of the rain.

She wondered if he had removed her chains—at least he had left her fully dressed. Apparently he had not attempted to ravish her as the king had suggested to him.

Yet. She sat up carefully, watching him.

In the shadows, she saw only the firm gleam of a bare shoulder, the dark mass of his hair on the pillow. He sighed, shifted his head, resumed snoring. Sure that he was completely asleep, Juliana leaned closer out of curiosity.

Warmth emanated from him, and he smelled clean and spicy and good. He smelled like comfort, she thought suddenly. She recalled the gentle kiss they had exchanged after the marriage vows had been said. She remembered how he had kept her safe, years ago, in his arms. A subtle shiver traveled through her. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss him again, deep and full, like lovers.

But he was not her lover, and their wedding night was a mockery. A husband had been forced upon her like a sentencing. He had helped her, and she was grateful, but he was an enemy to her people. King Edward had sworn to destroy Robert Bruce and Scotland, and Gawain Avenel had stood with the other knights as they repeated that vow.

She had to get away from him and this place before he awoke and tried to claim his rights as a husband. Best if she escaped Newcastle altogether, so he could not chain her again as his prisoner, albeit his wife.

She eased herself out of bed and stood. Although her satin gown rustled loudly, the knight slept undisturbed. Turning, she wondered what to wear; she could hardly flee through the night in a gown as bright as a full moon. Unlacing the neck, she slipped out of the garment and the thin, impractical slippers she had been given. She stood in her gauzy chemise.

The dark blur of the knight's tunic lay on the foot of the bed. The black serge garment was wide and large, and she tugged it over her head and slipped her arms in the sleeves. Avenel was broad-shouldered and she was slight, but her legs were long. It suited her well enough to flee in it, she thought.

Groping around, she discovered his leather belt and latched it over her hips, but it nearly thunked to the floor and she set it aside. Glancing furtively toward the bed, she snatched his boots. They were heavy and well made, and so big on her feet that she fitted them with floor rushes stuffed into each toe box.

She braided her hair out of the way, although with its fine texture it would soon loosen again, lacking a ribbon. Then she tiptoed to the door, eased it open, and slipped out.

* * *

The fire in the brazier must have gone out, Gawain thought vaguely, stirring in the bed. The sheets were cold. He rolled over and stretched out his hand in the darkness.

She was gone.

He bolted upright and grabbed for his clothing. That was gone, too. Standing, swearing, he stepped in a pool of white satin. Juliana had not only fled the room, she had left just his braies and her gown and feathers.

Muttering under his breath, he went to a corner where his saddle pack lay. The previous day, expecting to ride north to fulfill his term of knight service—wifeless, he thought sourly—he had packed clothing, blankets, and other items.

He extracted a brown tunic and yanked it over his head. Discovering that she had taken his boots, too, he swore again and headed for the door, stubbing his bare toe on a stool.

He made his way along the hall and down the creaking stairs quickly. The other bedchambers were occupied by king's knights, including Henry and his stepbrothers, but no one stirred.

The front door was unbarred, and his cloak was missing from the wall peg where he had left it to dry. Growling in further annoyance, he stepped out into the night.

Rain drenched him within moments. Through the darkness, he saw someone standing at the end of the street. At first, he thought it was a boy. Then he realized that Juliana turned as if uncertain where to go.

Staying in the shadow of the houses, he strode toward her and snatched at her cloak as she whirled to run. "Walking home to Scotland?" he asked.

She fought him, sputtering in the rain. He held her in a fierce grip, while the downpour slicked over his head, ran into his open collar, sluiced cold around his bare feet.

She squealed and tried to stamp on his feet with his own damned boots. He stepped neatly aside.

"You will not get far," he said. "The town is surrounded by a wall several feet thick and more than twenty feet high, with seven gates." He pulled her hard against him and pointed toward the castle that loomed over the city. "Seventeen towers, each with guards on watch, day and night. The outer wall of the town was built fifty years ago to keep the Scots out. 'Twill keep one Scots lassie inside."

He lifted her and dumped her over his shoulder. As he headed back to the inn, he struggled to hold her. She squirmed, her feet beating at his thighs. He smacked the most convenient part of her to reach, her small rounded bottom, and received a solid punch in the kidneys.

Inside the inn, he slammed the door behind them and slid Juliana to her feet. Stripping off the sodden cloak, he flung it over a hook. She stared up at him, her gaze livid, her cheeks flushed, her hair hanging in soaking strands over her face. He kept one hand tight around her upper arm.

"If eyes were daggers," he murmured.

"You would feel the prick," she snapped. Her voice was soft and hoarse, and cracked on the last word.

He raised a brow. "Ah, so you do talk. I thought so. Good. You can explain what the devil you were doing out there." He pulled her toward the stairs.

When she dug in her heels like a mule, he yanked, half dragging her up the steps. She shivered in his damp black tunic, which hung on her like a funeral pall.

When they reached the second floor, Henry peered out of an open door. Beyond him, another door opened, and Robin and Edmund looked out. At the foot of the uppermost staircase, Bette stood with a candle in her hand. All of them gaped.

"Good night," Gawain said succinctly, and pulled Juliana along the corridor. He pushed open his bedchamber door, shoved her inside, followed, and slammed the door, bolting it.

"As if that would keep me inside," she said. She folded her arms and stood staring at him.