The Heather Moon (45 page)

A thundercrack and a burst of rain startled her, jolting a path through the haze of passion. She gasped and pulled away, and a moment later shoved at him.

He stepped back, palms out for peace. His gaze was steady through the dimness. She stared at him, her breath heaving, as his did.

"How did you—what did you—how—"

"Sit down," he said firmly, taking her arm to guide her toward the bed. She went there, sitting, drawing the coverlet over her knees. She watched as he sat an arm's length away, the mattress sinking with his greater weight.

"How is it you are here, and not in the dungeon?" she asked, folding her arms over her chest, over her wildly beating heart.

"Archie suggested that I come to your chamber," he said. "We have been talking in the hall. I told him the truth."

"And what truth was that? About Jean Hamilton? About Musgrave, and the wee queen?"

"Aye, all that. More than that," he said, watching her.

"What more? He knew what the smashing of that clay jug meant," she said, frowning. "How did you explain it?"

"With a simple truth," he murmured. "I told him that I love his daughter."

She stared at him silently. The rain sheeted outside, and thunder rumbled, fainter now than the thud of her heart. She said nothing, nearly afraid to speak.

"I told him," William went on, "that I am tormented for love of his daughter, and that I am saved. That I am a stronger man now, for knowing her, than I was before." His gaze locked with hers, steady and bright, even in the shadows. "She is part of me, and I am part of her. She is the fire inside my soul, and I hope that I am the fire in hers. I know that I flare her temper, at least," he added in a dry tone.

"You told him all that?" she whispered.

"Not all," he murmured. "Some of that is only for you to hear."

Again that surge of the heart, as if her soul stretched out, yearning to touch him. She wanted to throw herself across the space between them and sink into his arms. But she only tilted her head and looked at him, cool and calm. "Do you mean this?"

"Tamsin," he said, and sighed, looking down, brushing a hand over the linen quilted coverlet. "You humble me. You push me. You fill me, and now you've shattered me with that cursed jug. I've lost your trust, and I dinna know how to gain it back."

"There is only one way," she said. "With truth."

"All that I have ever told you, or will ever tell you, is the truth. I have never lied to you. I never will."

"I knew naught of Jean, or Musgrave, or this awful plot—"

"You didna ask. I would have told you."

"And Musgrave, and the plot?"

He looked at her steadily. "I promised the queen dowager that I would do secret work for her, in the interest of Queen Mary. I wasna free to tell you, or your father, why I appeared to be Musgrave's comrade in his scheme. I knew what you thought, but I couldna correct it then. What Archie heard from Arthur Musgrave is exactly what the Musgraves believe of me. What I want them to believe."

"You have been acting as a spy for the court?" she asked.

"Madame the Queen Dowager wants to know what threat King Henry poses for her daughter. I hoped to thwart the English plan, once Musgrave revealed his next move."

"But my father has stopped Musgrave," she said.

He shook his head. "Musgrave has outwitted us. He has sent some others to do the task, while Archie was collecting his list, and while I kept you for a pledge and awaited a meeting. I was mistaken. I should have gone to him earlier. I should have—" He fisted a hand, thumped it on the bed in frustration. "There is little time, now, perhaps none at all. I must leave soon and try to discover this, try to stop it. But I couldna go," he said, and looked at her intently, "without telling you this. Without seeing you. That is a weakness of mine, I think. That I must have your trust. Your faith. Your love," he murmured.

She stared at him, her heart beating, her emotions racing. Her left hand rested on the quilt, and William reached out to curl his hand over hers, caressing her thumb with his, sending shivers through her. She wanted more, but stilled the wildness that urged her toward him. She had to be sure.

"Musgrave means to abduct the wee queen," she said calmly. "And you have never been part of that?"

"Do you truly think that I would do such a deed?"

"I... didna want to believe it. But the others said—"

"Believe anything you wish of me, but dinna think I would let harm come to a child. Or to my queen."

"Oh, Will," she whispered. "Pray pardon—" Her voice caught. "I was wrong to assume, just because others insisted. I panicked. I was torn between my father and kinsmen, and you. They confused me—told me things about you—"

"Just trust me," he said fiercely. His hand gripped hers hard. "I would never allow harm to come to Mary Stewart. And I didna seduce Jean," he said firmly.

She paused, knowing that her faith would only be full in him again when she knew the whole of that. "When I heard the ballad, I felt as if perhaps I didna know you, as I thought I did."

He sighed, let go of her hand. She sat back, watching him. "That song is no harbinger of truth," he said.

"The ballads can tell stories of what goes on at court, and in the Borders, and within clans," she said. "I have heard them all my life. I know they are often true."

"Some are quite true, aye," he said. "And some are naught but gossip. The one about Jean and myself is mostly rumor. Few know the truth of it."

"Tell me," she said quietly.

He drew a foot up to the mattress, rested his arm on his knee. "You know I was taken from my family, the day my father was hanged. Malise Hamilton took me away. For years, he and the earl of Angus watched over me like hawks, their prize prisoner, the pledge that bought obedience from some of the fiercest Bordermen, the riding name of Scott."

"Aye," she said. "I knew some of that."

"I hated Malise," he said bluntly. "I resented him as a lad. When I became a man, I ignored his power, and gained my own place in King James's court. And I didna shy from troubling him then. He had a daughter," he added. "I met her only a couple of years ago. She was... breathtaking. Beautiful, sure of herself, full of laughter. She became one of Madame's ladies. A court poet said Fair Jeanie Hamilton was a red rose among pale lilies."

Tamsin curled into herself, hearing that. "And so you fell in love with her," she said.

"I had loved other women, but I didna know then what love truly was," he said. "But Jeanie took my heart like a thief. And she made me laugh. Ironic, I think, that the daughter of my enemy showed me how to laugh again."

"She must have been lovely," Tamsin murmured. She felt very unlovely, herself, in that moment. "And she must have loved you very much—the bonny laird."

"She once said that she made it her cause to vanquish the bonny laird. And she did. I played the fool for a petty queen, and I didna see it. We trysted often. She craved jests and laughter, wine and merriment... and she craved bonny lairds, apparently."

Tamsin resisted a rush of jealousy. She lowered her head and sat in the dark, and thought of that beautiful young woman. She felt too aware, then, of her small, strange hand, her sagging braids, her ragged shirt.

A poor half gypsy could not compare to a fine lady, she thought, but that bedraggled gypsy loved the bonny laird more than anyone ever could. The thought gave her some courage. She raised her head and looked at him.

"I should have had more sense," he said. "I blame myself."

"She was part of it too," Tamsin said. "And she was beautiful, perfect. You loved her."

"I lusted for her," he said quietly. "I didna love her."

She tipped her head in wonder. "You didna love her?"

"I thought, at first, that I did. I even thought about wedding her, and risking her father for a good-father. But I soon saw that she lacked devotion and loyalty. She wanted laughter and dancing, gambling, heady sensations. She would never have been a faithful wife. She didna love me, but she desired me, as I did her. We were lovers, but I wasna her first. Nor was I her only lover, as I found out."

Tamsin stared, shocked. "Is Katharine... your daughter?"

"Jean said so. And when I look at the child... aye, she is mine. I know it."

"You didna marry her when you learned she was with child?"

"She never told me," he said. "I was away, on a mission to Flanders, gone for months. We had parted, for I had discovered that there had been others. When I returned to Scotland, she had left court in fear of disgrace. She went to her father's castle. By the time I learned of the child, 'twas too late."

"Too late?"

"Her father kept her confined, but she hadna been well, so she didna protest. When she told him who the father was and asked him to summon me, Malise grew furious. So she escaped in the black of night, near eight months gone with child, and rode to Rookhope with hopes of marriage."

"'Twas a foolish thing to do," Tamsin murmured.

"She was a foolish lass, in some ways. By the time she came to our gate, she was already laboring. My mother and sister delivered Katharine, a hard birth." He shoved a hand through his hair. "I sent for a priest. But Jeanie died before he arrived. She lost her lifeblood," he added. "She didna deserve that."

Tamsin sighed, sat forward, reached across the gap between them. She touched his arm, rigid muscle beneath the linen of his shirt. "Dear God, Will."

"'Tis why I have Katharine, and Malise doesna," he said. "She was born in my house, my own daughter. I allow him to visit her, though it bothers my mother to see him. I willna deprive him of Katharine, or her of a grandsire. He does love her, I think. But she will stay in my safekeeping," he added fiercely.

"And the ballad?" she asked. "How did it come about?"

He shrugged. "Who can say? Some clever poet—the court is full of them—who knew us, who heard the rumors that I used her to hurt her father, but who never heard the truth. People love that sort of tale."

"And you have lived with the rumors all this time?"

"I canna stop them. I wouldna try."

"Surely you want the rumors to end, so you can gain back your reputation."

"I would rather mine be ruined than Jean's," he said. "She was well loved at court. Let them think the bonny laird disgraced her. I willna spoil her memory with the truth."

"Ah, Will," she said. "I think you did love her."

"I am grateful to her." His voice thickened suddenly. "She gave me Katharine."

Tamsin felt her own throat tighten, felt tears prick her eyes. She nodded, unable to speak, filled with sympathy, with a love that was so strong, now, that she could neither suppress nor withhold it, and never would again. She uttered a small sob and held out her hands to him.

William reached out and pulled her into the circle of his arms, while the rain sheeted outside, and a roar of thunder rolled past the window. But in the midst of that torrent, Tamsin was where she wanted to be, needed most to be, at last.

Chapter 27

"O gin my love were yon red rose,

That grows upon the castle wa'

And I mysell a drap of dew

Down on that red rose, I would fa'."

—"O Gin My Love Were Yon Red Rose"

She felt like paradise in his arms, sanction for his sins, a warm, graceful pledge of forgiveness. He had longed for this, for her, and thought he had lost it forever among the spilled wine and clay shards in the great hall. Gratitude, relief, and a flooding of love, pure and real, swept through him. He wrapped her in his arms, dipped his head, and sought her mouth, kissing her until they were both breathless with wanting. He drew back and framed her face in his hands, their breaths in tandem.

"Tamsin," he said, his voice husky. "I canna repair that broken jug. 'Tis beyond hope, that. But let me try to piece back together"—he lingered kisses over her brow, her eyelids, her mouth again—"your heart, and mine."

She sobbed in answer, and looped her arms around his neck, bringing his head down to hers. She melted into him, the curves of her body fitted to his where she draped over his lap, and leaned into his chest. He lost himself in the comfort of her kisses, while hands soothed and sought, and all he did, she did, stoked the fire that blazed sure and hot within him.