Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"I T IS VERY LATE ," Alana said, sitting back against the pillows in the bed she shared with Iain. She held the covers up to her neck as he walked inside, holding aloft a taper. It was close to midnight and most of the castle had gone to sleep hours ago. Outside, an owl hooted.

He shut the door and set the taper down, smiling. "Are ye waiting up fer me?"

She smiled back, her body humming with desire. "I have never been asleep when you have come to bed," she said frankly.

He gave her a look, stoking the fire that continued to burn in the hearth. Then he turned and unbuckled his belt. "Bruce wants to march next month."

Alana stiffened as he tossed aside his belt. "The messenger brought word from Bruce?"

Iain pulled off one boot, then the other. "Aye."

It was the end of February—next month was but days away! "Where will you go? When will you be in battle again?"

He shrugged off his leine, and then stood—magnificently nude—before her. "Bruce has ordered me to march south on the seventh."

He was bathed in the firelight and she had to pause for one moment to admire him. Iain was a mass of hard muscle. "So soon," she said.

"John Mowbray must be brought to heel, once and for all—he is Buchan's best ally here in the north."

Mowbray was a formidable foe, she thought with a sinking sensation. Iain sat down beside her, tugging the furs from her hands. She was naked beneath the covers. "I thought ye'd be pleased," he said, nuzzling her breasts and then tasting a taut nipple.

Alana clasped his shoulders and fought not to close her eyes. "I thought I wanted you gone, as well, so I could have Brodie to myself," she said. He was distracting her to no end, so she reached down and seized him. "I am worried," she whispered.

His eyes gleamed. "Good. Show me how much ye worry, Alana."

She gave him a look and released him, but only to push his shoulders. He obediently went down on his back. Alana came down on top of him. "I will always worry about you," she breathed.

He caught a hank of her hair in his hand and tugged on it. "Witch."

She smiled slightly. "I could wait until you leave, but you must know, I am writing my father."

He groaned. "Fine. Write him if ye must."

Alana bent over him. Using her tongue she laved him; using her fingertips, she stroked him. He gasped and she took him slowly and fully into her mouth.

Within moments, he had flipped her over and was impaling her. "Maybe I'm wrong," he gasped, thrusting deep. "Maybe ye dinna need any spell to control me."

She seized his nape. "This is my spell."

* * *

T HE NEXT DAY , Alana fanned a page of parchment with her hand, and then blew gently on the wet ink.

She laid the page down and reread what she had written.

February 23, 1308—Brodie Castle

My Dearest Father,

It is my greatest wish that we become closer, as a father and daughter should be, even after so many years of estrangement. And I am eager to meet my sisters. But unfortunately, I cannot come to Balvenie at this time. It is not safe for me to do so.

I pray you will understand, but Brodie Castle belonged to my mother, and it has always meant everything to me. When I was eight years old and Brodie was given to Duncan of Frendraught, it was a terrible blow, one I felt even as a small child. I have dreamed of Brodie being restored to me for my entire life.

I have had to make a terrible choice, and I have paid homage to Bruce. I am mistress of Brodie now.

Father, you have many things in this world. I have one. I am seeking your understanding and I beg your forgiveness. But you must know that as your daughter, I will always be loyal to you, no matter the oath I have taken. I will never raise arms against you.

I am also praying that this war will end soon, so it will not keep us apart.

Sincerely,

Your Daughter, Alana le Latimer, Mistress of Brodie Castle

Alana trembled as she stood up. She had no clue as to whether her father would forgive her or not, or if he would want to see her again. She could only hope the war would end soon, so they would not be on opposing sides—and that her vision of her father's death had been wrong.

Iain stepped into the chamber she was using, a small room behind the hall where Duncan and Godfrey kept their records and made their ledgers. "So ye have written to Sir Alexander." It was not a question.

She faced him, flushing. "I have no more secrets. Do you want to read it before I seal it?"

He eyed her. "'Tis a privy communication, Alana. No."

Alana was pleased. She rolled up the now dry vellum and used hot wax to seal it. She did not have her own seal, and she used the Fitzhugh one, which her mother had used. When she was done, she turned. Iain continued to regard her.

"I have confessed my treachery," she said.

His dark brows lifted.

"And I have asked him for his forgiveness."

His expression hardened. "Even if he forgives ye, Buchan never will. Buchan still wishes execution upon his wife."

"I know. I am afraid of my uncle, Iain, you may be certain." She walked over to him. "When will a messenger be leaving here?"

"I'll send a man today, Alana, because I ken how important this is to ye."

She started in surprise when she suddenly felt moisture between her thighs.

"What is it?" he asked quickly.

Could she be bleeding? Was it possible? As she turned her back on Iain, a terrible cramp seized her. She doubled over, crying out and clutching her abdomen.

Iain wrapped her in his arms as she fought her way through the terrible pain. And then it was gone. Alana did not need to look to know that her monthly had come, at last. But she had missed three entire months.

"What just happened?" Iain asked tersely.

Alana turned in his arms to look at him when another cramp knifed through her. She cried out more loudly, her knees buckling, hanging on to Iain to keep from falling. This pain was longer and stronger and she had to fight to survive it. Sweat poured down her body and more moisture trickled down her thighs.

"Yer bleeding!" Iain exclaimed.

The pain was receding and Alana looked down and saw a small puddle of blood on the floor. A new pain began—it was heartache. "I am losing our child," she said.

* * *

T HE CRAMPING LASTED for the afternoon. When it finally ended, Alana closed her eyes against burning tears, hugging a pillow to her breasts, and she fell asleep in numb exhaustion.

She awoke because the chamber was too warm. Blinking, she saw a fire roaring in the hearth as Iain stood before it. Eleanor sat in a chair beside her bed. Her grandmother took her hand and squeezed it, asking, "How do you feel?"

Iain whipped around and strode over to them.

For one moment, Alana looked blankly at her, and then, with growing dread, at Iain. She had lost their child.

She knew she should not weep—she should be relieved. But she was heartbroken. Why? Why had this happened?

"You will be fine, Alana. You lost blood, but nothing unusual, considering this was your third month," Eleanor said, stroking her hair.

"I do not feel fine," Alana whispered.

"Why dinna ye tell me?" Iain cried.

"Bruce wishes for you to marry a great heiress!" she said.

"What does that have to do with my son?" he shouted back.

Alana leaned back into the pillows, crying. "Everything," she whispered.

He stared at her, in anger, in anguish. "At least ye will be fine," he said finally.

Alana shook her head. "No. I will not be fine."

* * *

A LANA AWOKE , the chamber in darkness. For one moment, she did not recall her miscarriage, and then when she did, misery and grief washed over her. She lay back against her pillows, tears filling her eyes.

She saw a tall shadow standing by the hearth. It was Iain, she realized, and his back was to her.

She felt more grief. She vaguely recalled his anger the other day—or had it been that same day, but earlier? She did not know how long she had been asleep. She did not know if hours had passed since her miscarriage, or if it had been days.

Iain turned to face her. The fire was behind him, and his face was in shadow. "Are ye awake?"

She nodded, not having the strength or will to speak.

He slowly approached. As he came closer, she could finally see his grim expression. Their gazes met. "Are ye in any pain, Alana?"

"No."

A strange silence fell, broken only by the occasional hiss of the fire as a log fell apart. "Ye should have told me ye were with child," he finally said.

More tears burned her eyelids. "I am tired," she finally said.

"I cannot understand why ye dinna tell me."

Alana wanted to discuss what had happened, but she did not have the strength to do so. Besides, he might marry her sister Alice one day. Wasn't that the real reason she hadn't said anything? She did not have the desire to speak of her sister and his future marriage. Not now.

He grimaced, realizing she was not about to speak. "I'll tell Eleanor yer awake," he said. "She has been with ye all night, and she went to rest."

"Let her rest."

Briefly, the light illuminated his face and she could see anguish in his eyes. But then he was in shadow again, and she wasn't certain that she hadn't imagined his grief. "Someone needs to sit with ye."

"I am tired," Alana said again. Somehow, Iain had become a stranger. In the past, she had always welcomed his presence; now, she wished him gone.

She closed her eyes and rolled onto her side, hoping he would leave.

For a moment, there was no sound in the chamber, except for the fire. Then she heard his heavy footsteps as he walked away, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing.

She choked on a rising sob.

* * *

L ARKS WERE SINGING madly from the pair of oak trees just outside the castle walls. A soft, pleasant breeze had taken the chill off the morning, as had the sun, which was trying to peek through the clouds, hinting at blue skies and the coming spring. But Alana did not feel any joy as she stared across the busy courtyard. She did not feel any warmth. The winter had been long and hard, and even devastating, but she remained numb and indifferent to the pleasant day now. She stood upon the front steps of the hall, a wool mantle about her shoulders, woodenly watching as Iain mounted his warhorse. His knights milled about him, already mounted and ready to ride out.

It March 7. Iain was returning to war.

Tears filled her eyes. She had lost their child two weeks ago. What if she lost him, too?

She had been crying at the oddest moments, quite suddenly, ever since the miscarriage. Alana knew she was grieving. She was suffering from melancholia. It was as if a heavy fog of pain weighed her down. She could not sleep at night, tormented by thoughts of her unborn child, or by dreams of a beautiful baby boy. It was so difficult getting up in the morning. Even the most mundane tasks and chores were hard to perform. She could barely lift her arm to brush her hair, and she had no appetite. She was becoming unattractively thin.

But now, for the first time since the miscarriage, she felt fear as she watched Iain astride his dark warhorse.

Iain was going back to war. She had almost seen him murdered once, at Boath Manor. And she had had that vision of her uncle preparing to deliver a blow with his sword from behind, a blow that appeared as if it would kill him. Her alarm increased.

"Iain?" she whispered.

It was as if she had lost her voice, her whisper was so low, so rough, and he could not have heard her, but he turned his mount sharply to face her.

She inhaled as, from across the courtyard, their eyes met.

Iain had barely spoken to her during the past two weeks. She did not know if he was angry because she had lost the child, or because she had not told him about her condition—another deception on her part. She had been relieved that he hadn't tried to share her bed—he had taken a different room—or tried to make love to her.

He had checked on her once or twice a day, politely asking how she was feeling each time. Her answers had always been the same. Short, brief—she did not want him to linger with her. So she had told him she was fine.

But she wasn't fine and they both knew it.

And now he was leaving to attack Sir John Mowbray.

Why hadn't they spoken of the lost child? Of his anger? Of her pain? Of Alice and the future?

Alana suddenly went down the steps. As she did, he rode over to her. She wanted to tell him that she was so sorry, for everything—she wanted to beg him to stay safe.

His face was set and grim. "I have left ye with twenty good men, and they have orders to keep ye safe."

"Thank you." Shouldn't they talk about what had happened now? "Iain?"

He had been lifting his reins to turn his mount back around. But he settled it, his stare hard and intense.

What should she say? "Are we in danger, here?"

Relief flitted through his eyes. "I dinna think Brodie is in danger, not when the fighting is to the south. Buchan and Duncan have gone to defend Mowbray, so they cannot attack ye here."

"My uncle doesn't care about Brodie."

"Buchan is a man who thirsts for revenge. He will want revenge, Alana, upon ye."

She grimaced. She did not want to discuss Buchan now! "Iain, I am so sorry. I should have told you about the child."

He stiffened. "Aye, ye should have. Ye kept another secret from me—that ye carried my child!"

"I am sorry...so sorry!"

His gaze was hard, anguish in its shadows. "It's finished now."

"I am so sorry I lost our child." Tears ran down her face.

"'Tis not yer fault, Alana. God has His ways." He was harsh. "I must go. Send word if there is danger."

He was leaving—and they were at such odds! "Iain, you must stay safe!" She laid her hands on his bare knee. "You must come home to me!" Pain stabbed through her. "I cannot lose you, too."

"I am a warrior, Alana, and one day, God willing, I will die by the sword, with great courage and greater honor. But that day is not today."

She was not comforted. "Beware, Iain, always."

He studied her and lifted his reins. "Do not do anything foolish while I am gone." He whirled his horse and he and his men began trotting from the courtyard and through the entry tower, and out the castle gates.

Feeling so sick in her heart, so frightened, Alana stepped back, hugging the mantle she wore to her chest. "Go, Iain," she said hoarsely. "Go with God."

He gave her a last look, and cantered after his men.

Alana did not move, watching him vanish into the vault beneath the entry tower. She heard his horse's thundering hoofbeats as he galloped through the castle gates. The sound receded—and vanished.

He was gone.

Alana turned slowly and saw Eleanor upon the top step, her expression openly worried. She slowly went up.

Eleanor put her arm around her. "He will be fine, Alana. He is a very good warrior."

"He will not be fine if Buchan murders him." Choking on her words, Alana walked into the hall with Eleanor. "We have hardly spoken since I lost the child, and now he is gone."

"He loves you, Alana," Eleanor said.

"Does he?" She went to the fire and stood there, thinking about Iain, whom she still loved in spite of her grief over the loss of their child. "He is angry."

"He is grieving, Alana, as you are. It will pass."

"But I kept another secret, Gran."

Eleanor sighed. "Trust me, Alana. This is a difficult time. But the sun will shine again."

Alana hoped she was right.

Eleanor took her silence for acquiescence. "At least you have the will to be up and about. That is a good sign. Do you want to help me in the kitchens?"

Alana had spent the days since her miscarriage by herself, in her chamber, consumed with her grief. Her back hurt and she rubbed her spine. "How is Godfrey?"

"He has been asking for you. I have been visiting him in your stead. I told him what happened."

Alana straightened. "He hardly needs to remain locked up now." How firm she sounded!

Eleanor paled. "Alana, are you certain?"

"I am certain," she said. She was suddenly filled with purpose. Godfrey was not her prisoner—he was Iain's. And she had never approved of his being taken prisoner when Brodie had surrendered. She walked swiftly upstairs.

A tall, blond Highlander she recognized but did not know by name stood outside Godfrey's door. She forced a smile and he smiled in return, unbolting the door and opening it for her.

"Thank you," Alana said, inflecting her words to pose them as a question.

"Seoc, my lady."

Godfrey was standing at his window. He whirled and stared. "Are you all right?"

"I will manage," she said. She prayed she would not start crying now.

"I heard you lost the child," he said grimly. "When you did not come to see me, I demanded to know what had happened to you."

"I have been sick with grief," she said. She could barely get the words out. "I know I should not be aggrieved. I know I have no right to bring a bastard into the world. But when the time came, I desperately wanted my child."

"Alana!" Godfrey hurried to her and took her arm. "I would have given that child a name."

Alana collapsed in his arms. He held her and did not speak, stroking her hair. "I am so sorry," he whispered. "I wanted to come see you. Iain would not hear of it."

She looked up at him. Godfrey would have married her, for her child's sake. Godfrey had wanted to see her. "I do not deserve your friendship."

He brushed hair from her cheek and eyes. "No, you do not." He stepped away from her.

She had betrayed him—returning to Brodie with an army, demanding he surrender, and never telling him that if he did, she would become Brodie's mistress.

"Will you forgive me, for all I have done?" She stepped away, aware now that the Highland lad outside the door was watching them closely.

"Do you mean for stealing Brodie from me and my father? How can I forgive you for that?" He glanced at Seoc.

Alana stared at his back. Then she turned. "Seoc, leave us."

"My lady, Iain has told me to keep a close eye on the prisoner."

She felt a sudden outrage. How welcome the feelings were. "I am mistress here."

He paled. "Aye, my lady."

"Iain is lord of Nairn—not of Brodie." She squared her shoulders, filled with sheer resolve. "Brodie belonged to my mother, it was her dowry. Now, it is my dowry—King Robert has said so. I swore fealty to him on bended knee, with no weapons in my hands, and for my oath, he has given me Brodie."

The Highlander was white.

"Leave us," Alana ordered.

He nodded and hurried away.

Godfrey began to smile. "Spoken like a true queen...well done."

She whirled. "Godfrey." Her mind raced, her thoughts jumbled, and the one thing she knew clearly was that Iain would disapprove if she simply released Godfrey. But she could not keep him as her prisoner, either. She crossed her arms as they stared at one another now. "You have been imprisoned in this room for almost two months," she finally said. "I never expected Iain to hold you prisoner. We had never discussed your fate, when we came to take Brodie. I will not keep you locked up in this chamber, now that he is gone. You have my permission to come and go as you please, as you used to do."

Godfrey started.

"You can hardly escape on foot, with no weapons and no supplies," Alana said. "In fact, it is such a pleasant day, why don't we walk together?"

Godfrey nodded, his face pale, his eyes wide. Alana took his fur-lined cloak from a wall peg and handed it to him; the nights were still cold. They left the chamber and saw that Seoc sat on a stool outside the door, sharpening his dagger. She assumed he had been eavesdropping. He did not look at them now.

Alana was angry. Was she in command or not? Did Iain truly mean to spy on her? He did not trust her? They went downstairs and did not speak until they were outside.

"What do you think to do, Alana?" Godfrey asked, speaking low.

"You are free, Godfrey!"

"You are freeing me?"

"I am in your debt, many times over. And I have hated seeing you imprisoned here. This is your chance—take a horse from the stables and go!"

"You will let me run away?"

"Yes!"

He halted, reaching for her arm. "Will Iain forgive you for this?"

"I don't know if he will forgive me for not telling him about our child, Godfrey—I cannot worry about his reaction to your escape. But you cannot remain here, a prisoner because of my treachery, when I never agreed to taking you prisoner in the first place."

After a moment, he said, "If I am going to escape, I will need to plan it. I will need a dagger at the least."

"I can get you a dagger. If you leave now, Godfrey, you will be at Elgin by the late afternoon."

He hesitated. "I don't think I should leave you," he said. "If you mean to let me escape, then I have time."

* * *

T HE DAYS PASSED slowly as they waited for news of the war. There were rumors that King Edward was sending an army to the north to aid Buchan, even as Buchan's allies were deserting him. There were whispers that Mortloch had been attacked. Spring finally came in full force, chasing the last of the patches of snow away. Wildflowers began to bloom, thistle came to life, the oaks turned green. And finally a messenger came with real news—Mowbray had concluded a truce with Bruce before any real fighting could begin. So Bruce had attacked Sir Roger Cheyne at Mortloch; those rumors were true. Mortloch had fallen in a day, and Bruce was marching toward Balvenie.

The messenger also carried a letter for Alana—from Iain.

She practically tore it open. But Iain only wished for her to know that the war was going well for Bruce, and that he was also well; he asked after her health, and promised to write again soon.

Alana was shocked to have received such a brief and impersonal missive. She was afraid that her worst fears had come true—that Iain no longer cared about her. She was ready to burn the letter in the hearth, not in anger, but out of despair. Godfrey restrained her.

"He does not seem like a man of letters, Alana....Do you even know if he can write?" Godfrey asked.

"He can read."

"He may be able to read, a little, but that does not mean he can write. And even if he can, I cannot imagine him penning a love letter." Godfrey took the letter from her and scanned it. "I do not think he wrote this—I cannot even read the signature, which looks like an I and a Y, while the rest of the letter is perfectly penned."

Alana took the parchment back and stared at the beautiful cursive and the crude signature. Godfrey was right. Iain had dictated the letter, and only then had he signed it. She did not burn the letter.

The news brought a terrible pall to the castle. Iain would never express his personal feelings in a letter, she decided, but his failure to do so was hurtful, anyway. She feared that her miscarriage—and her deception—had ended their relationship. She wondered if he still cared about her at all.

And Alana was agonizingly aware that Sir Alexander remained at Balvenie, finalizing its defenses. Images kept returning to her now, of her vision of her father's bloody corpse. Iain had forbidden her from going to Balvenie, and he had been right. Only a fool would have walked into the jaws of the enemy. Going to Balvenie had been too dangerous then, and doing so now remained as dangerous. She was Bruce's vassal after all. But Alana was afraid she might not see her father again. She was tempted to go.

Were her sisters and Joan at Balvenie, even as Bruce prepared to besiege it?

She had told Godfrey of her vision, and he insisted she must not even think of going to Balvenie. Sir Alexander would need help to defend it from Bruce. Not only was Robert Bruce beginning to appear invincible, he was becoming popular. Every village he passed through was turning to take his side, and his army was growing by leaps and bounds. Buchan could show up at Balvenie at any time to aid his brother in its defense. And they both knew that if she was there when he returned, she would instantly be taken prisoner.

But Alana was torn, and she was not convinced. She felt an urgency to see Sir Alexander now.

Although he never spoke of it, Godfrey was restless and grim. She knew he was as torn as she was, but for different reasons. Duncan had left Elgin to see to Banf's defenses, and while Godfrey did not want to leave her at Brodie, so close to the war, it was his duty to join his father in the fight against Bruce. She knew he yearned to be at his father's side now.

On March 28 it snowed again, but the snow had melted by nightfall, when a second messenger was found hiding in the woods.

Alana was in the hall with Godfrey and Eleanor, about to sup, when Angus escorted a man inside. She instantly tensed, for the man wore English mail over a doublet and jerkin. As Angus dragged him toward her, she saw that his hands were manacled in front of his body. "My lady, we found this English dog in the woods, hiding. He claims he is not a spy, but a messenger." He shoved the man to his knees. "Show proper respect, dog."

"Angus!" She leaped up. Such a messenger had to come from her uncle or her father. "Who has sent you?" Alana hurried forward. "Or are you a spy, indeed?"

Still on his knees, the man looked up. He was grizzled and gray. "I come from Balvenie. I have a missive from Sir Alexander Comyn for his daughter, Mistress le Latimer."

"I am Mistress le Latimer," Alana cried.

"Rise," Angus said harshly, "and give the letter to my lady."

The man stood, clearly relieved that he still had his head, and handed Alana a rolled-up parchment. Alana felt her heart thundering. The image of her father as a bloody corpse flashed through her mind. She feared terrible news. "Is my father well?" she asked. "Is Balvenie under siege?"

"The castle is under siege, my lady, but when I left, your father was well."

She could barely breathe. "Are his daughters and his wife with him? Is Buchan there?"

"The earl has not yet returned to Balvenie, but yes, Lady Joan and her daughters are with Sir Alexander."

So the family had gathered at Balvenie. She suddenly imagined how the hall must appear, with the women of the castle cowering there in fear as the siege engines rammed the gates, as catapults rocked the castle walls. She could imagine Joan there, an elegant and well-dressed lady, comforting her frightened daughters.... She broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.

The message was brief.

March 27, 1308—Balvenie

My Daughter,

We are under siege. I await reinforcements and my brother's arrival, but fear the strength of Bruce's army. Even more, I fear for my wife and daughters. If we are defeated, I will be executed as a traitor, but they will become Bruce's hostages.

I was pleased to hear your vows of loyalty to me. I must send my wife and your sisters to Brodie, immediately. Can you hide them until I can arrange for their transport to the south or possibly to England? They must not fall into Bruce's hands.

I eagerly await your reply.

Your Father, Sir Alexander Comyn

Shaking, Alana sat down hard on the bench by her grandmother.

"Alana?" Godfrey asked.

She did not hear him, and looked instead at the messenger. "You are to return to Balvenie at once. Tell my father that I will do as he asks." She stood. "Lady Joan and my sisters will be safe here."