Lyn Stone - The Knight's Bride

A pang of longing pierced him like a crossbow quarrel. What must it be like to win the heart of a woman like herself? Fairer than dawn, she was, so cool and clean, and sweetness itself until she thought something threatened her babe.

He blamed her in no way for her recent defiance. She did not know him at all, and had only sought to protect the child. Honorable as her name, she was. So brave, for a lass.

Tavish had known and appreciated her well. He had loved her dearly despite their short acquaintance and brief union. Two months of heaven, Alan did not doubt. Tav had declared as much, more than once. How proud he would have been of his wife’s courage, and to know of the coming child.

Alan knew Honor had led a sheltered life until now; born and reared in her mother’s castle in Loire Valley in France, a frequent visitor to the court. No doubt shamelessly indulged by her father, a Scots baron embroiled in the tangle of French politics. Coming to Scotland with naught but her women and one lone priest must have been a shock for one born into cultured splendor.

She had weathered it well, Tav said. The hall Alan stood in shone as proof of that. She had made this keep a home, a comfortable refuge and delight to the eyes. Tavish often had boasted of it and rightly so.

Now, newly widowed and pregnant, hardly more than a child herself, wee Honor risked the wrath of a rough warrior husband by denying Alan his marital rights even before they said the vows. All to protect Tav’s bairn. Her loyalty and courage stirred something inside Alan that pushed aside his dread of a loveless union. It would not be completely loveless, after all, if he loved her. For all he knew of the woman now, he believed what he felt might be more akin to worship.

“Ah, Tav, I see now. I ken why ye sent me here. She’ll be needing a strong arm and I’ll try to do ye proud,” Alan whispered. “Lady Honor has, and so shall yer son. I’ll see to it.”

Chapter Three

Honor only half listened as her women exclaimed over the news of Tavish’s death and this eve’s rushed nuptials. She barely noticed their comments on the hard-muscled warrior who stood alone in the midst of the hall. She just watched him.

He waited at his ease, as though he had nothing better to do. She supposed he did not. He just stood there, weight resting on one foot, arms crossed, and green eyes lively as they surveyed the gathering of castle folk.

“You should send him away, madame,” said Nanette, her trusted maid. The woman spoke in French so the others would not understand. “Even smiling, that one looks fiercer than your lord father ever did on his worst of days. You mark me well, he means you no good! No good at all. How can you marry such as he, especially now?”

Nanette’s dainty hands fluttered like crazed butterflies when she got excited and this Scottish knight certainly provided excitement if nothing else.

Honor ignored Nan then and stole another long look at Sir Alan. In a strange way, he appealed to her senses. However, handsome did not exactly describe him if one judged by court standards. No doubt many women swooned over him with a combination of terror and wild fantasy. Or simple lust. Not sensible women, of course. Not her.

His hair, a wild dark chestnut and probably combed with his fingers, escaped bit by bit from its tenuous tethering at his nape. A soft waving strand drifted over his high, wide brow and just missed covering one dark-lashed eye. Thick brows, a darker auburn than his hair, rose and fell, changing his expression from curiosity to satisfaction when Father Dennis approached him, Book of Prayers in hand. She liked the fact that he did not make the least attempt to conceal his feelings.

The knight’s full, mobile lips broke into an amazingly open smile, revealing two rows of even, unspotted teeth. He had good strong teeth, Honor noted, exasperated with herself for giving attention to that. One did not judge men as one did horses, after all. If so, Tavish might have been a fine, sleek Arabian, while this fellow looked a hell-inbattle destrier. But the teeth were fine, nonetheless.

Why had God seen fit to take her gentle Tavish and leave this warlike specimen to live? She could not help but question, though she knew it impious. Well, piety had gotten her nowhere.

Nanette pulled on her arm. “Listen to me! This man will be your undoing, madame. He will! Send him away and forget this nonsense.”

Honor tore her gaze from the knight and settled it on the old maid. “And then what, Nan? You know as well as I, someone would take his place. If not tomorrow, then the next day or the next, another will come. I cannot hope to hold this place alone. At least this chevalier knew my husband and cared enough to bring the body home. He promises to foster my child and protect us. Tavish knew I would need someone and he sent me this man. The king commands that we marry, so he surely trusts him. What would you have me do, forfeit everything I have to the Bruce and flee to France?”

“Oui!” Nanette said with an emphatic nod. “Just so! Let us go home.”

“Never!” Honor declared. “I would wed the devil himself before the comte de Trouville.”

“God help you, my lady,” Nanette whimpered. “This man may qualify! Look at those arms and fists. He might very well kill you should you raise his ire. And with your temper,” she said with a bob of her head, “I do not doubt me you will.”

Honor heaved a loud sigh and shook off Nan’s clutching hands. Her maid could be right, but life with her father held absolutely no hope at all. Honor felt reasonably certain she could handle this knight. He responded gently to her tears. She sensed an underlying compassion, concealed by that rugged warrior’s exterior. And surely there would be benefits in all that strength.

Chances were good that she might control the man and make him do her bidding. She had found a way with Tavish Ellerby and she would find a way with this one, though the two were different as a pigeon and a hawk. La! First comparing them to horses, then to birds. Consigning men to the level of animals stirred a bitter smile. Not so farfetched as all that.

“Go on, Nan, and order the women to prepare the solar. Take in some of the best wine and see to a tub for his bath. Father Dennis beckons me, so it must be time.”

She quit the group of women and approached the priest and the knight. This might prove the greatest mistake of her life, but thus far, her instincts had led her aright. She sensed Alan of Strode would wax tame enough if she kept her wits about her.

The father of her child lay dead now, unable to keep her past at bay, unable to secure their little one’s future. But perhaps he had, in his last moments, seen to it that someone else would. She thanked Tavish for that, for thinking of her, and for loving her as he had. Her husband had been a noble and admirable man and she would miss him greatly.

Despite her first stunned reaction and her grief at hearing that Tavish had died, Honor realized now that Alan of Strode offered her the only chance she had to hold what belonged to her and to Tavish’s child.

Unlike her first, this marriage would be real and binding for certain. Properly documented and witnessed. Tavish had arranged this union for her and wished her happy in it. She would comply with his plans, for his sake, her own and especially for their child’s.

“Sir Alan, Father Dennis, shall we proceed?” she asked, chin lifted and eyes bright. If the man respected bravery, she would pretend it. She certainly had enough practice in pretending.

“Well, ah, there are certain procedures,” said the priest. “There is the confession. You made your own just this mom, my lady, but—” He eyed the knight warily. “Sir Alan, if you would step into the alcove yonder, I would hear yours.”