Chapter Seventeen

Hearing the steady peal of the compline bells as he walked toward the cottage tucked at the far corner of the palisaded walls, Liam passed a line of monks streaming out of the chapter house toward the rectory. Holyoak housed thirty monks in all, and he saw his brother among them now. Liam had just left Gilchrist and Finley in the rectory after a late bite of supper and an explanation of the abbot's suggestion; Gideon, hearing the plan as well, had left to escort their uncle to the chapel too. The older man suffered with trembles and weakness, yet did not complain. The work, he said, was good for him.

Liam felt impatient with the time spent here. Overfull with peace, prayers, and discussion, he ached to move, ride, do what needed done. He had promises to meet, help to give some, others to hold to account. Above all, he wanted what was not easily obtained—peace for all. For Scotland. For Dalrinnie. For Tamsin Keith.

Even more, he wanted her. The ache had a deeper layer, an urge to be with this woman, hold her, be the man for her needs, the heart for her heart. Wanting it so fiercely—and recognizing his greater need—was unlike him. He had locked up such feelings long ago. Somehow the lass found a key.

Days ago, he would never have anticipated this turn in his thinking. She had caught his attention keenly enough, a beauty, a puzzle. But this revelation had come suddenly. She was more than a golden lure. She was a golden strike of lightning in his life, undoing, remaking.

Compline silence or none, he had to see her before this night was out. Betrothal, marriage, or parting forever—whatever happened, he owed her some truth.

At the cottage door, he knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Finally, the door cracked a handspan and she peered up at him. Candlelight haloed her hair and its fat lovely braiding, with no veil to dull its soft gleam.

"May I come in?"

"It is late. We must be silent," she murmured.

"They can be silent. We must talk. Let me in." He flattened a hand on the door. "Please."

She stepped back, and he entered. The room was nearly dark but for a pool of light on the table, spilled by the honeyed flame of a fat beeswax candle.

In the sweet-scented light, he saw that she had been working on a parchment page spread out on the tabletop beside a small inkpot and quill.

"Lady, my apologies for the late hour. Would you prefer to walk outside while we talk?"

"It is chilly outside, and private in here. We will not be overheard."

"Do you plan to shout?"

"I might." She turned away. "Sit down. I am heating water in the hob—I wanted a hot drink to help me sleep. My sister used to prepare it for me with lavender, chamomile, dried cherries, and I believe she adds all-heal too. Will you have some?"

It did not sound very appealing. "I do not need a sleep potion."

"Not a potion. An herbal infusion that can be taken cool or warm. It relaxes me when I cannot sleep or feel a bit hither and thither. Rowena gave me a packet of the herbs that I keep with me. Do try some. It is nicer than ale or wine at night."

"I will try some." He wanted to keep on a good foot with her. "Lady Rowena is the sister who makes herbal remedies? Gideon mentioned meeting her in the hospital here. It is a small place, if you have not visited it before," he added. "Eight beds or so, treating mostly injuries or aged persons. Gideon was there for a bit when he was injured."

"So he said. Aye, Rowena is a healer with a knowledge of herbs and such. But much of what she does is common sense, she says." Tamsin smiled. "She is modest about her ability, I think. Do sit."

"And you have another sister? Is she a healer too?" The simple wooden chair by the table looked too small for him. He chose to sit on the narrow cot instead. Straw rustled and the mattress sank on the rope supports, causing his hips to go down and his knees to come up. He stretched out his legs.

"My sister Meg?" She laughed as she stirred the little iron kettle. "She wanted to play with Henry more than with Rowena and me. She raced him, sparred with wooden swords, even bested him at archery. He was quite put out about that. She bested us at embroidery, too, did Meg. I was all thumbs, only caring about my books and drawings. Meg is a delight. I miss them both." She sighed, and taking two wooden cups, she scooped the steaming infusion into them, handing him one. Then she sat on the little chair facing him.

"But you are not here to talk about our siblings," she said.

"I am not." He sipped the drink. Tart yet mildly sweet, with an earthy undertaste, it reminded him of the hot infusions with honey, herbs, and fruit that his mother had made for her children when they were ill. A warm feeling came over him, remembering that. Tamsin sat watching him.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"My mother, and the remedies she gave us when we were small." He sipped. "Now then. I know what my uncle suggested came as a surprise, even a shock, to you."

"Somewhat. You seem to favor it."

He held up a hand. "Only because it will ease your dilemma."

"Is that all? Or do you think—what many men might think about taking a bride?"

"And what," he murmured, "is that?" As if to spite his studied control, his body surged at the very thought. Oh aye. But he could ignore the pulse of heat running through his body. It was more important to be honest and find solid ground with the lady now. Somewhere along the way he had lost her, and he was not certain why.

"What does a husband expect?" She shrugged. "A wife to do his bidding in the home and elsewhere, a wife who gives up all she owns to his coffers and his inventory. A wife to cater to him in bed. And how is all this to her benefit?"

"You do not mince words."

"I have been married before."

"Not to me," he pointed out.

"You have not been a husband. Or have you?" she added. "I do not even know. I know so little about you."

"I was betrothed," he answered. "She died. The English." Nostrils flaring, he sipped the bland stuff again. No need to tell that tale now. There would be time later.

"Oh," she breathed, setting a hand high over her heart. "I am sorry."

He stared at his hands. "I would never expect my wife to do all my bidding in the home—or elsewhere." He shifted, the rope-slung bed creaking beneath him.

"If we married, we might not even have a home. Or a bed of our own."

"And would we share the bed if we did?"

Pink bloomed in her translucent skin. "We would be married."

The pulse bounded through him again. "You said betrothal would be enough for you. What do you want?"

"I want—" She drew a breath. "I want something true. I want caring that is honest, not delivered from a treatise on chivalry."

"I have not done that."

"I did not think so, but now I wonder at your reasons for agreeing to this."

"That morning at Dalrinnie," he said, "I would not have abandoned you there. I could not leave the kitten in the tree. I think you know that. I cannot abandon you now, in the middle of this dilemma."

"Then I need the truth from you now, because it seems to me all you want is this book—and now, the castle you could gain through me. In that way, you are no different than Sir Malise. Though I began to hope you were."

Frowning at that, he raised the wooden cup and swallowed the rest of the lukewarm herb water, wishing for something stronger. "I am nothing like Malise."

"But you came looking for me at Lochmaben before he ever did. You wanted something. And then I find out Edward sent you for a book that I do not even have!"

"But you will get it in Selkirk, which I did not fully realize until this evening. You have been secretive about this book."

"With reason. Those parchments," she said, "are just verses that he wrote that I put together for binding. There is no book by his own hand. And those pages will not save Scotland, I assure you."

"Edward seems to expect some collection of predictions."

"It is not that." She drank from her cup and set it on the table.

"Not prophecies? Nothing to save Scotland, or give England the advantage?"

"What would do that? He wrote an epic poem." She sounded defiant. "That is all."

"Then if Edward is wrong, then all this fuss is for naught."

"Who dares tell him? Take me to Selkirk and I will get the bound pages and show you how wrong it is. And I will go to Kincraig and you need not worry about me again. So we need not marry or betroth," she said, "or try to please your king."

"You," he said, "are the most stubborn woman I have ever known."

"Then I wonder how many you know, sir, for we are all stubborn and strong by nature. So many men prefer women to be meek that I sometimes wonder if we did not learn, as a breed of womanhood, to curve to a whim that Nature never intended for us. Birth, healing, making a home, feeding and caring for others—these take strength, body and soul. We are not biddable."

"I know. My mother was strong, my older sister as well."

"You have not said much of your sister."

"Dame Agatha," he said.

"Oh! The abbess at Lincluden?"

"The youngest they have ever had—a smart, spirited, beautiful lady. But she has her cross to bear, as they say. That life seems to suit her. You are thoughtful as well as stubborn," he added, glancing up. "I will say that."

"I am only stubborn when I must defend myself."

"Which you do well. And you seem to distrust me, no matter what I do."

"Because you are a threat to me. More than you know."

"You may be the greater threat to me," he murmured. "But I owe you the truth."

"You do—Sir Harper Knight, who does for one king and runs with the rebels of another. Among your many guises, which is the real man?"

He shifted on the uncomfortable bed, a leg stretched out, a knee bent tight, and set the cup on the floor. Leaning forward, fingers steepled, he looked up at her.

"I am," he said, "a knight who pledged to Edward and was betrayed. I am a baron who lost lands to confiscation, lost a near-wife, lost a castle to fire, and friends to bad deaths." He paused, throat tight, truth beating its way out.

"And a harper? Is that true?" She spoke softly.

"A harper, aye, who follows Bruce by choice." He looked up. "I am the forfeited laird of Dalrinnie."

"You." She stared at him. The candle flame flickered, snapped. Outside, wind whipped past the window and creaked against the door. "You were at Dalrinnie before I came there, then," she said, more quietly than he expected. Deserved. "Four years ago?"

"Three." He waited. Had she thrown something at him, cursed him, he would have deserved it. Her pondering calm surprised him. He almost preferred a kettle or cup aimed at his head. He had betrayed her by withholding the truth she valued above all.

"I was outlawed. Gilchrist was riding for Edward by then, Gideon too. I did not adhere—I ran with William Wallace, believing in his conviction, his bare honesty and fearlessness. I was away when they came to Dalrinnie. They burned the place to send most out, though it killed others. Including my betrothed, Lady Beatrix," he said. "The magistrate's daughter. He was not inclined to help an outlawed baron when I needed it."

"They took all from you."

"But for a brace of hounds that Sir David Campbell managed to remove, bringing them to Holyoak, to the care of my uncle. Gideon came later," he added.

"The castle hounds," she said faintly. "Oonagh. Roc."

"Sir David kept two in the castle and brought the rest here. He is a good friend, or rather, he was. I do not know his stance these days toward the Setons."

"He has been a friend to me."

"I am glad of that."

"So," she said, "do you think by marrying me you will regain Dalrinnie?"

Though he dreaded that, it begged to be asked. "I mean to take it back somehow. I am determined. But not through you. That is not my intention."

"What do you want?"

"Just now?" He looked at her. "Your safety. Your respect."

She took in a quick breath. "Thank you for speaking truly."

"Now you, my lady. Will you betroth, then? I will not force you to it."

"Betrothal," she said. "It can be dissolved, if we want later."

"Dissolved. Aye." His heart dropped a little. "So we are agreed?"

"Aye so. Should we take this to the abbot now? He wanted to know."

He hesitated. "These are the silent hours at Holyoak. And he needs his rest."

"But you are leaving in the morning. An errand for the king." She frowned.

"The King of Scots," he clarified.

He loved her quick smile. "I am glad to hear that."

"As long as we are being truthful—I am thinking it is best to take that troublesome book of yours to Robert Bruce. Not Edward."

"Not Edward." Her quick understanding brightened her eyes to silver. "I see. I want to hear more about that."

"You will. For now—"

"It is late. I know. But—I am relieved."

Relief washed through him. "We could take our news to the abbot in the morning," he suggested.

Tamsin began to answer but yawned, a sweet stretch of her mouth and throat, quite like a kitten after all. "When the bells ring for prime? Is that too early? When do you plan to leave?"

"A little after that." Tempted to tell her that Bruce wanted her cousin brought to safety, he held back. Enough for now, he thought, as she yawned again. "Your sister's infusion is taking hold, I see."

"It is. But I am glad—to know more about you." She cupped another yawn.

He held out a hand. "Come here."