Lyn Stone - The Knight's Bride

“How it feels,” she explained as she dragged down the covers and placed his palm on top of her abdomen.

He uttered an exclamation of absolute awe when a tiny limb rolled against his hand. He shifted his palm. “There! Again! This is wondrous!” His ready laughter rang out around the chamber and he rolled closer to her, warming to the event as though it were a fascinating game.

Strong fingers undulated gently against the soft fabric that separated his touch from her tightly stretched skin. “Ah, Honor, how do ye bear such sweetness all the day and night? Can ye no’ wait to hold him in yer arms?”

His excitement like that of a small boy, the big knight’s features grew animated. “I cradled a babe once! The mother had a case in the laird’s court—stolen pig or some such—and she thrust the bairn at me to hold when she was called up.” A wistful expression softened his features even more. “I ne‘er forgot the trust in those wee lights. The smile. No fear or worry atall,” he said, recalling the incident with a faraway look. Then he pulled himself back to the present and beseeched her, “Could I hold yers when ’tis small, do ye think? Would ye mind?”

Honor felt tears rise at his question. How could she ever have feared a man who wore his feelings so near the surface, who felt such wonder at tending a peasant’s babe? She touched his face with her fingertips. “Tavish was wise to trust you, I think.”

Surprisingly, he retreated from her then, his smile dying as he withdrew his hand and lay back with a sigh. “Mayhaps not so wise.”

“You had other plans for yourself, did you not?” Honor guessed.

He smirked. “Oh aye, I did. Planned to chase the English right out of England and inta the sea, soon as we finished routin’ them from Scotland. There’s a right ambition, eh?”

Honor toyed with the edge of the coverlet, feeling even more at ease now that the conversation turned to politics. “You hate the English so much?”

“Nay, not all of them. My father’s English. I dinna hate him, though I feel no great liking for him, either.”

“What!” This one, half-English? Nothing he could have said would have surprised her more. She would have sworn Strode was a woven-in-the-wool highlandman.

He elaborated with a negligent wave of one large hand. “When my father was a young mon, a minor baron with a prosperous estate in Gloucester, he swore to King Edward. He rode under Gloucester’s banner in the war against de Montfort. Longshanks rewarded him with the post of sheriff at Rowicsburg and had him wed a MacGill lass for her dower lands. An Englishmon wi’ property in Scotland is apt to fight the harder to keep it under English rule, y’ see? Da’s land in Gloucester would be forfeit if he did not. So there he was then, a foot in both camps.”

“Your mother left him and took you north?” Honor guessed, since Alan was obviously reared in the Highlands and Rowicsburg a border castle. What other explanation could there be?

“Da sent her to her old home and me with her. What with our barons, Wallace, and Old Edward all scrambling for power, Da said we’d be safer well away from the border. King Edward was not above taking hostages to insure loyalty.”

Honor sensed his anger. “How old were you then?”

“Seven,” Alan replied.

“You hated leaving him, did you not?” She knew she ought to leave well enough alone, but he seemed to need to speak of it.

Alan smiled sadly, his profile clear, even in the near darkness. “Aye, I missed him, missed the family I took for granted, missed my friends. Especially Tav.”

“You knew Tavish even then? I assumed you just met on this last campaign.”

“He fostered a while at Rowicsburg before I left. Did he not tell ye? His mother married an English knight when she was widowed of Tav’s father. Old Beauchamp sent Tav to Da for training up in the English way. We were like brothers, though Tav was four years older than I.” A moment of silence hung between them. “When I had to leave, Tav stayed on. I hated him for it then, not knowing that he left as well soon after. We only just met up again when he came to fight fer th’ Bruce.”

Honor wanted to comfort that young lad torn from his home and friends. “At least you had your mother with you when you went away.”

He laced his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Aye, for a whole fortnight. Then she returned to Da.”

“Mon Dieu! She left you there?” Honor could not imagine a mother abandoning her child. “How could she!”

Alan smiled at her, apparently amused at her belated defense. “I was seven, after all. ’Tis the usual age to send out for fostering. Mam told me her brother Angus would treat me as the son he never had.”

“And did he?” Honor found herself caught up in his story, worried for the boy he had been.

“Aye, he did that. Beat me every day thereafter!”

Honor moved closer without a thought but to comfort. She cupped his face with one hand. “Beat you? Oh—” Tears streaked down her cheeks, but she made no effort to stop them. Her memories of swinging slaps and harsh accusations rose up and broke free.

A huge arm encircled her and drew her close. “Well, dinna greet over it!” She felt his laughter as much as heard it since her head rested against his bare chest. “Ah, Honor, ye have too tender a heart. I’d ne‘er have told ye had I known ye’d weep.” He drew away a little and caught her tears on one rough finger. “Here now, ’twas not so bad as all that.”

Honor knew how bad it was. She found it near impossible to stop crying long enough to speak. He made light of what had happened, his only defense against it. His pride would not allow him to admit the true horror of it to her, but she knew. God, how she remembered. “Only a base, mean coward raises his hand to his child! I hope you killed him when you grew old enough!”

“Killed him? What a thing to say! He’s my uncle, Honor.”

“He beat you! Called you foul names! Locked you away in the dark!” she accused. “You should kill him!”

“Nay, sweeting,” he soothed. “He didna do all that, I swear. He only strapped me when I cursed him and tried to run away. My own hardheadedness caused it. I acted the hellion on every waking hour for nigh a year. I earned every blow and more, believe me.”

Honor grasped his arm and drew him close, frantic to let him know she understood in spite of his denial. Better than anyone in the world, she understood. “You lie to soothe me, husband, but I know what you feel inside. You hurt still, but it’s over now. He cannot hurt you now. I will never let him beat you more!”

“Stop this!” he ordered, his voice brisk. “I tell ye ‘twas naught more than my uncle’s caring to make me behave as a mon and not some snot-nosed weakling. Ye make yerself ill wi’ all this weeping. Now cease!” He shook her gently.

Honor caught herself in midsob, aghast at her mistake. Her body lay flush against him, her heart thundered with grief for a much abused child. But Alan of Strode was not the child she wept for, she realized suddenly.

“I would sleep now,” she whispered, horribly embarrassed and at a loss as to how she might explain away her foolishness. Surely he would guess why she had taken on so.

“Aye,” he agreed, tenderness softening his voice to velvet as he smoothed her hair with his hand. “Sleep, mo cridhe.”

She almost missed his vow, hushed as it was. “No mon shall ever raise a hand to ye again. Not whilst I draw breath. I swear it on my life.”

Exhaustion stole over her as she lay within his arms. Did she dare believe he would keep such a promise? She feared she had already revealed too much of herself, far more than she had ever let Tavish see. Great danger lay in admitting one’s fear and vulnerability. No, because of all she knew to be true of men, Honor dared not take him at his word. She could not possibly give this knight her full trust after only a few short hours’ acquaintance.