His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (17 page)

Before he could see the tears threatening to fall, she whirled about and darted through the door. Kieran blocked her way, and she wondered how much of their conversation he had heard.

Her gaze tangled with his blueish one, which was full of empathy and pity.
Too much.
He had heard too much.

Before she could embarrass herself any more, Gwenyth shouldered her way past her husband’s friend and slipped out the door.

* * * *

Aric heard Kieran’s footsteps moments later and swore beneath his breath. Of the three, Kieran had ever been the best at ferreting out the secrets of others.

He wondered if Kieran would understand this hell of need, lust, pride, and something unfamiliar he now found himself in. ’Twas doubtful. Kieran bedded many and stayed with none.

Aric grimaced. Once he had been similar, though without Kieran’s cheerful manner for leading a woman into dalliance. Now, Aric realized, he had wed one and bedded her not at all, despite a strong, disturbing longing to do so. ’Twould seem poor sport to Kieran, at the very least.

“Gwenyth is no passive wife,” Kieran observed without judgment.

Aric knew what Kieran wanted. “You have never been one to mince words. Pray, do not start now.”

“You are right. Now that we are alone, tell me how in the hell Gwenyth came to be your wife upon threat of death, my good friend.”

Without ado, Aric explained. He expected many reactions—shock, dismay, anger at the injustice done Gwenyth. He never expected Kieran’s laughter.

“You, a sorcerer? The clodpates at Penhurst know you not.”

“Nor did they care to,” Aric returned wryly.

“You can scarce accept the magic of your own warfare, much less make a drought from your displeasure.”

“It is not magic, Kieran. It is an odious talent.”

“And someday again it will serve you well.”

Aric shrugged. “For now, I must decide what to do.”

“You will not support King Richard?”

Retrieving his mug of ale from a nearby table, Aric studied its contents. How could he explain to Kieran the atrocity he knew Richard capable of when he could hardly understand such brutality against children himself? He could not tell anyone—not without endangering their very lives, for good King Richard would not hesitate to kill anyone privy to such damaging facts.

“I’ve no wish to support anyone,” he answered finally.

“Someday you will be forced to,” Kieran advised.

Aric knew it to be the truth, but that day was in the distance. His trouble with his wife swirled about him now.

“Rowena seems unhappy that I have returned with a wife.”

“Aye, though it would bring her comfort to know you have not yet lain with Gwenyth. Is that not right?”

Aric cursed the fact Kieran could see so much, often too much. He gave a bitter laugh. “Is it so obvious, then?”

“I guessed as much in part from the way Gwenyth looks at you, sometimes as if you are a riddle she seeks to solve but is afraid to try, other times like you are a bauble she covets.”

“And the other part?”

“Do you truly want to know the manner in which you stare at her?”

Did he? Or would such force him to face whatever sentiment seemed to be growing inside him? “Nay. I am better off without such knowledge.”

“But you want her. And you care for her.” Neither was a question.

Again, Aric wanted to ask if that truth were so obvious, but he refrained, knowing it must be—at least to Kieran. Instead, he replied, “I cannot make her Northwell’s mistress now. The feeling in my gut tells me Rowena would only make use her determination to hurt Gwenyth if I do.”

“And so you protect your wife?” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck as if discomfited. “Have you considered telling her that, instead of letting her believe you’re swiving Rowena again?”

“I have told her as much,” he said glumly, knocking back the rest of his ale. It slid like a lump down his throat. “And still, she does not believe me.”

Kieran sent him a rogue’s smile. “Mayhap you ought to simply show her.”

* * * *

“Lady Margaret Beaufort ’ere to see you, my lord,” a maid said as she entered the great hall. “Shall I send ’er in?”

’Twas the eve before their departure to rescue Drake, and Aric felt ill prepared to deal with politics now, particularly Henry Tudor’s mother. Aric’s blood brother Drake and his own troublingly chaste marriage occupied all his thoughts.

Still, the woman had come a long way, and she certainly hadn’t come to visit, despite a distant familial connection. His great-grandmother had been her great-aunt, but he had never met Lady Margaret in his life. Yet she clearly wanted something. Was she plotting treason?

“How big is her party?” he asked the young maid.

“Just ’er and two men, my lord.”

He paused. What could she seek? “Admit them.”

Within moments, a fashionable woman with shrewd eyes and a softly lined face appeared, her men behind her eager to take refreshment after a long journey.

“My Lady Beaufort?”

She nodded her graying auburn head. “The celebrated White Lion, I presume?”

He nodded in return, sizing up the small woman. She was determined, he decided, and clearly no fool.

“Please sit.” He offered her a chair on the dais. “Wine?”

“Such would please me, aye.”

Aric bade a servant to bring wine, cheese, and bread, then turned back to his unexpected visitor.

“To what do I owe this honor, my lady?”

She cast him a sharp gaze. “Have you not heard of my cause?”

He shrugged. “I am not a man who appreciates gossip.”

“Of course not.” She folded her hands primly in her lap and fixed him with a smile he felt certain had charmed many a man. “There are those who would say Richard Plantagenet killed his nephews so he might gain the throne for himself.”

Aric knew her speculation to be horrifyingly true. “And what would you say, my lady?”

“Like you, I am not much for gossip. However, for those people who believe Richard guilty, they cry he makes a mockery of the throne.”

“I have heard that much,” he conceded.

“And their numbers grow. Richard is not a popular man.”

“Many kings are not.”

She nodded. “My son, Henry Tudor, is the last grown man with Lancaster blood.”

Here it was, the treason. The choice. Could he support a king who had come to power by foul means or support a usurper who would kill a king instead of two boys to gain such power?

“I have always been a Yorkist,” he returned with care.

“That is the beauty of my…proposition to you, my lord. You can be both.”

Aric frowned. The woman did not strike him as simple. How could she say something so baldly impossible?

“I see I have confused you. Let me be plain.” She leaned forward, and her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Help put my Henry on the throne. Once there, the dowager queen has agreed to wed her eldest daughter, Elizabeth of York, to Henry. The Lancasters and the Yorks will unite to form a new Tudor dynasty. No more war. No more need to choose sides, my lord. What say you?”

Aric’s heartbeat drummed inside his head. His mind raced as he smelled a trace of the woman’s floral scent and the fresh rushes upon the floor. Margaret Beaufort smiled smugly. ’Twas a good plan, to wed the dead princes’ eldest sister to this Lancaster man, and well she knew it.

And Aric wanted to throw himself into the fire. Anything to end the bloody, ceaseless war.

Anything except endanger his friends, his family…and Gwenyth. Anything except return to battle himself.

“I think it sounds much like treason, my lady.”

Margaret stood, her spine straight, her chin lifted with pride. “Perhaps you should think on it further, Lord Belford. I shall be in touch.”

“When?” he barked.

She merely sent him another mysterious smile. “When the time is right.”

CHAPTER TEN

Aric leaned against the cold stone wall, dragging air into his starved lungs.

An unconscious Drake lay at his feet.

Cursing the damp chill of the Scottish midnight air, Aric again lifted his friend, easing Drake’s long, limp body over his aching shoulder. Drake groaned but did not awaken.

’Twas for the best, Aric felt certain. Drake’s hair, hanging now between his shoulder blades, smelled as dirty and foul as the rest of him. Drake’s normally tanned skin appeared a pallid imitation, making him look as if he might fade into oblivion. And he was so thin, Aric could feel Drake’s ribs against his shoulder, poking each time he took a step toward Drake’s freedom. Merciful God, let naught happen to risk it.

Aric did not think Drake would have survived much longer in that dungeon hell. If he survived at all.

The fresh, brutal scars on Drake’s back pointed to nay.

Aric wanted to kill Murdoch MacDougall. No apologies would change his need; no explanations would soften his hate. Murdoch deserved to die like a dog, for he had treated Drake in that manner—and worse.

“
Pssst.
Aric!” Kieran whispered through an entrance to the now-empty wicket gate.

“’Tis clear?”

“Aye. I had but to knock a few heads together. Hurry! The roaming sentries will come this way again soon.”

With a nod, Aric anchored Drake to his shoulder and stooped down to make his way through the small tunnel. Mercifully, they encountered no resistance.

Bribing the jailer had not been difficult. But he and Kieran had been compelled to eliminate a host of other guards, either with fists or blades, in order to secure a clear path to the outside of Dunollie Castle, home of the MacDougall clan. ’Twas one time Aric welcomed the battle and blood—anything to save Drake.

As a stiff Scottish wind blasted over the wild crags of heather-dotted land, Aric made his way toward safety, carrying his blood brother—trying to push concern at bay. Kieran kept watch for interlopers in front and behind them.

Within minutes, the trio made their way to their waiting horses. Fearing for Drake’s condition, Aric was suddenly glad he had had the foresight to procure a wagon of sorts to transport Drake. His friend could not otherwise endure the difficult trek back to Guilford’s estate in England, where he would be blessedly safe.

Kieran and Aric tied their horses to the wagon. Kieran climbed in to drive the makeshift vehicle. The scents of rain and desperation tinged the empty night as Aric scrambled up beside his unconscious friend and prayed.

The three-hour ride south to an inn he and Kieran had deemed safe seemed an eternity. By moonlight, Aric had caught snatches of this gaunt, almost yellowed friend. He looked years older and wore tatters of the very clothes he had donned the day his father had been murdered, over seven months ago.

Aric knew then Murdoch MacDougall was a monster whose cruelty was only outmeasured by his hatred for his younger half brother.

Once at the inn, exhaustion tried to claim Aric. With ruthless control, he shoved it back. Beside him, Kieran worked with a grim, tired face as they carried Drake up the dark stairs, to a waiting room.

The fire inside the chamber burned brightly. A light repast of wine, bread, and cheese had been laid out, as they had requested before leaving for Dunollie. In the morn, the innkeepers would provide a heartier breakfast. Aric only hoped Drake would live long enough to eat it.

Heaving a worried sigh, Aric helped Kieran lay Drake on the room’s lone bed.

“We’ll need water,” Aric said finally, trying to temper the anger he felt at seeing his friend’s pitiful condition in full light.

With a tight-jawed scowl and fierce eyes, Kieran stared at Drake, seeing the damage done to their friend for the first time. “Bloody hell! That man is a savage.”

Aric nodded, knowing the bleak expression in Kieran’s eyes was reflected in his own. If Drake died, a part of him would die as well. The part that remembered laughter by the river when they had gone there as young men to spy on the village’s bathing women—and saw an old crone instead. The part that remembered each of them taking a knife to their palm and sealing a pact to protect one another forever in blood.

Staring at Drake, Aric realized he had failed his friend miserably and vowed he would do everything possible to stave off death.

“Aye, Murdoch is savage,” he said to Kieran. “Get the water.”

With a tight nod, Kieran disappeared out the door and down the steps. Aric removed Drake’s shirt, peeling away the ribbons of its back that clung to fresh lash marks in his skin. Working to control his fury, Aric moved to Drake’s pants, noticing that everywhere he looked, his friend’s skin was so browned by dirt and grunge, he wondered if it would ever come clean.

With a fresh blanket, Aric covered Drake’s bare form and sank on the mattress beside him. “Live, my friend. We are here, Kieran and I.”

A thick lump rose to his throat, and Aric worked to swallow it down. Drake must live. Murdoch could not deal in such treachery and win.

“The innkeeper’s wife is heating water for a bath. We can start with this.” Kieran entered and gestured to a clean bucket of water, lye soap, and a bundle of cloths in his arms.

“Quickly,” Aric barked.

Side by side, the two men worked. Aric washed Drake’s face, now covered with a crusty, misshapen black beard. Kieran soaped Drake’s hands, arms, chest, and neck. By mutual consent, the men turned Drake over to his stomach.

Lash marks confronted them across nearly every inch of Drake’s back. New wounds over fresh scars over older scars, all covered in thick grime. Aric shivered, while Kieran looked as though he were restraining the urge to hit someone or something.

“Not now,” Aric whispered. “The time will come, my friend.”

With a jerky nod, Kieran poured fresh water into the bowl and prepared a fresh soapy cloth for Drake’s back. Aric placed the cloth on his friend’s open wounds.

Drake came up screaming, dark eyes wild, glazed.

Gently, Aric and Kieran restrained Drake and lay him down upon the bed.

“You are gone from Dunollie, Drake. We are here to help you,” Aric assured.