A Sword Upon The Rose (24 page)

Sincerely,

Your Father, Sir Alexander Comyn

Alana’s hands were shaking as she finished reading her father’s letter. She could not quite breathe, and she hurried to a chair and sat down.

She was alone in the hall. Iain had left her there to read the missive in privacy, ordering everyone away.

Sir Alexander had heard of her treachery, and he did not believe it. But the news was true. And now, he wanted her to join him at Balvenie. Her sisters would be there. He would be there.

He wanted to become acquainted with her, finally, that much was clear!

How could she go? She was a traitor to him, her uncle and their cause!

“Alana?”

She turned to glimpse Iain standing on the threshold of the hall. He was concerned. “I am not very well,” she managed to say.

Iain strode to her. “Ye have finished reading it?”

She nodded and handed it to him. When he had given her the roll, the seal had not been broken. “You may read it if you wish.”

He quickly held it open and read the brief missive. Grimacing, he rolled it up and handed it to her. “Ye cannot go. It is a trap.”

She leaped to her feet. “What do you say?”

“Yer father entices ye to Balvenie, where ye’ll be imprisoned fer treason.” He was final.

“I don’t believe that! You read the letter. He doesn’t believe that I am a traitor and he wants me to meet my sisters!” She was breathless. “I think he wants to get to know me, at last!”

“Since when do ye play the fool?” He was cool. “Yer father is dancing to Buchan’s tune. Can ye not see that the earl is behind this?”

Alana gasped, shocked by the suggestion that her father would be inviting her to Balvenie upon the earl’s command so she could be seized and captured. It was impossible. “I do not believe that.”

He clasped her shoulder. “Alana, why, after all these years, does he wish to see ye? Think!”

She pulled away. “People change, Iain.”

“Ye want to go?” He was incredulous.

“I don’t know! But I want to know my father better, before he dies! Have you forgotten about my vision? He will die in this war! I want to meet my sisters!”

“At what price, Alana? At the cost of being thrown in a cage like Buchan’s wife, fer the rest of yer life?”

She knew Iain was trying to protect her from capture or even death, but she could not believe that if she went to her father, he would hand her over to the earl. “You’re wrong, Iain. My father is not trying to lure me into a trap.”

“I forbid ye from going,” Iain said. “And that is the end of it.”

Alana choked.

“And, Alana?” Iain was now walking away, but he paused. “Yer a traitor. Ye have betrayed the Earl of Buchan and King Edward. So, no matter how yer father entices ye, no matter how ye feel, ye cannot go to yer father, not now, not ever.” With that pronouncement, he strode from the hall.

Feeling sick, Alana collapsed upon her chair.

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.”