The Rogue: A Highland Guard Novella (The Highland Guard) Page 9

  She stood to face him; her hands fisted into tight balls at her side. “So you will marry my cousin and you will both be miserable, but it won’t matter because you didn’t break your word to Jamie, is that it?”

  Her voice made it clear how asinine she thought that was—which he just as clearly did not appreciate. God, she hated when he retracted into the stiff, arrogant, I-can-do-no-wrong knight.

  His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “What makes you think we will be miserable?”

  She wasn’t going to be the one to tell him about Elizabeth. “You would see it if you stopped worrying about what everyone else thinks and look at what is right in front of you.”

  He took her by an arm and hauled her against him. The heat of his body was like a spark of wildfire to her senses setting them aflame.

  “What the Devil is that supposed to mean?” he growled.

  She lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated or put off by his anger. “It means that I think you are too stubborn and convinced that you aren’t capable of caring about someone to see that you do.”

  “Who?” He dragged her closer with a sneer. “You?”

  But he wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted her to think. His nostrils flared when the contact made her nipples harden against him. She could practically feel the attraction firing in the air between them. She gave him a look that dared him to deny this. “Aye, me.”

  Choose me.

  He made another growl of frustration and pulled her in even closer. He wanted to kiss her. She could see it. Feel it. Every muscle in his body seemed to be straining with the effort of holding himself back.

  Her heart squeezed. For a moment she thought he would break. That he would give in to this… in to them.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he set her purposefully away from him. “You are wrong. I have no intention of falling in love with you—or anyone else for that matter.”

  Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she was just seeing what she wanted to see.

  But when he walked away, Izzie realized that whether she was right or wrong no longer mattered. He was going to choose her cousin, and the door that had opened in her heart would slam closed. Although if the heavy darkness that weighed upon her chest was any indication, it might already have.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Randolph could see just fine. He knew exactly what he was doing. “Both be miserable…” He scoffed. Whatever the hell Izzie thought she knew, she was wrong. His fists clenched as he stormed through the abbey gate in search of Douglas. He was perfectly content, damn it.

  The fact that he’d been up most of the night pacing the very small floor space of his tent—nearly tripping over his page and squire a dozen times—and wanting to put his fist through a wall, didn’t mean anything. He was angry, that was all. Irritated.

  She was the one who was being ridiculous. He was supposed to put aside his plans and break his word because she claimed to see something he couldn’t? After a handful of days, Isabel Stewart knew him better than he knew himself? And why was she so certain that he cared about her? Because they shared a few unusual interests? Because the passion between them was explosive and made him do things—nearly taking her innocence for one—that he’d never done before? Because every time he looked at her, he thought about how she’d looked coming apart in his arms, and he wanted to see it again and again? Because she made him laugh a few times and relax more than he had in… ever? Because they’d shared a few intimate conversations, and he found himself telling her things—personal things—that he’d never spoken of before?

  That didn’t mean he “cared” about her—which he damned well knew was lass-talk for love. He liked her, of course—and wanted to swive her something fierce—but he was hardly the type to fall in love after a few days. The idea was laughable—ludicrous really. He was much too practical and clearheaded for romantic drivel like “love at first sight.” He didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. He knew the ladies at court thought him romantic because he espoused the gallantry and courtly gestures of a knight, but that was what was expected. It was all part of the dance. He didn’t really believe any of it.

  Izzie would probably say it was a performance—another act. Even if it was, so what? The ladies liked it, and there was no harm. It was what was expected of him as one of Bruce’s greatest knights.

  But he wanted to be the greatest and having Elizabeth Douglas by his side would help him achieve that… wouldn’t it? Of course it would. She was his perfect complement and would be an asset to him at court. Izzie, on the other hand, didn’t even seem to like court that much; she would probably just make him laugh all the time by whispering wry observations in his ear while he was trying to be serious. Elizabeth was rich, landed, connected—all things Izzie was as well, he couldn’t help thinking—and the most beautiful woman at court. At least that’s what people said—and what he’d thought. But that was before he’d noticed Izzie’s delicate, timeless, more modest beauty, which was much more…

  Ah hell. He had to stop this. He wasn’t going to fall in love with anyone. It was a distraction he didn’t need. Just because he couldn’t forget how she’d looked at him yesterday—all hurt and imploring—and how it had felt as if a boulder was on his chest, didn’t mean he should do something rash. He’d given his word, damn it. And for the past six years since he’d returned to the Scottish fold, that had meant something. He wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize what he’d achieved because he was a little confused, and some irritating lass who thought she could see things he couldn’t had him all twisted up in knots.

  He sure as hell wasn’t looking for a way to get out of it. That wasn’t why he was here. He’d entered the abbey rectory and now stood in the private chamber used by the abbot (and the king while he was in the city) waiting—pacing, what the hell was the difference?—while one of the monks fetched Douglas. He’d only sought him out because of what Izzie had hinted at. Aye, it was for Elizabeth’s sake that he was here. She wanted this marriage just as much as he did, didn’t she? She’d seemed amenable enough when they’d discussed the matter. Perhaps a bit subdued, but he thought that she was just being modest and reserved. He’d never heard her name linked with another man’s and she certainly hadn’t singled out any men for her attention that he’d noticed.

  He’d seen her looking at MacGowan a few times, but he knew that wasn’t anything. MacGowan was a childhood friend from her village, but the blacksmith’s son was hardly suitable as a prospective suitor.

  He turned at the sound of the door opening as his friend and rival strode into the room.

  Douglas gave him the black scowl that had helped earn him his epithet and came to a stop, squaring off in front of him as if preparing for a fight. It was an odd tact to take—even for the always-confrontational Douglas—and made Randolph’s eyes narrow. Was Douglas anticipating some last-minute objections?

  “What’s this about, Randy? I thought today was the big day. Isn’t it my sister you should be asking to see?”

  Randolph ignored the diminutive, which he had Hawk to thank for (he was irritating, too), and answered. “I will, but I wanted to speak to you first.”

  “I thought we discussed everything yesterday. We’ve agreed on the tocher, and if you are trying to get more land out of me—”

  “It’s not that.”

  His friend’s face darkened. Randolph thought he muttered a curse. “Is it Elizabeth? Has she said something?”

  Douglas was a little too anxious. Randolph’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “About what?”

  “Nothing,” Douglas said hastily. Either Randolph’s ignorance as to what he might be talking about, or his own realization that he’d given away too much seemed to relax him. Angry and confrontational gave way to gregarious and smiling. “I thought you’d spoken to her and made your intentions clear.”

  “Aye, but I just wanted to make sure that the lass is not being pressured.” They both knew by whom. “I want to make sure that this is what she wants.�
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  “Of course it is.”

  “She has told you as much?”

  “I spoke with her on the very subject last night.”

  “So there isn’t a reason to think she would be… uh, unhappy?” He’d been about to say miserable.

  It was Douglas’s turn to narrow his eyes suspiciously. “What’s this about, Randolph? Where is this coming from? You aren’t having second thoughts and trying to get out of it, are you? The contracts have already been drawn up. You gave me your word.”

  Randolph stiffened. “I know, and I’m not.”

  “Good,” Douglas said with a hard slap on his back. “Then hadn’t you better send for my sister?”

  That’s exactly what he should do. He’d given his word. But for one moment, Randolph felt paralyzed with something akin to panic.

  The stay of the executioner’s axe would not be coming from Elizabeth. Izzie could tell from her cousin’s distress when she’d returned from her “errand” last night that she would not be the one to put a stop to the betrothal. Indeed, after a talk with her brother, Elizabeth seemed to be resolved to going forward with it. Joanna was obviously furious with her husband for interfering and tried to broach the subject a few times with Elizabeth—“You do not need to rush…”—but her cousin made it clear she did not wish to talk about it. It was all but decided.

  From the way Elizabeth jumped every time the door to Joanna’s solar opened and closed, Izzie guessed the “but” would be imminent. Thus, it was a surprise when the knock came that the call was for Izzie and not Elizabeth. Walter wished to see her to discuss something “important.”

  If her heart was pounding a little fast as she hurried across the yard to the abbot’s house—which had largely been taken over by the king—she told herself not to be foolish. Walter might wish to see her for any number of reasons. It probably didn’t have anything to do with Randolph. But the tiniest part of her wondered if it could. Had she somehow gotten through to him?

  She paused when she reached the entry. Walter’s squire hadn’t said where he’d be waiting. She took a few steps toward the small outer vestibule, which she knew was being used as a receiving chamber for the king, not wanting to disturb anyone. The room was empty, but a few moments later, the door leading to the king’s chamber opened and her tall, gangly cousin strode out.

  A little younger than herself, the Sixth High Steward of Scotland still looked more youth than man. Freckled, with brown hair tinged with a great deal of red, Walter had the ruddy good looks that would grow more pronounced with age. His seemingly perpetual good cheer and broad smile brought a twinkle to his blue eyes that never ceased to make her smile in return.

  “That was fast, cousin. I’m sorry not to be here when you arrived. I hope you were not waiting long?”

  Embarrassed by her obvious eagerness, Izzie tried not to flush—unsuccessfully. “Your squire said I should come right away.”

  “Aye,” Walter said with another smile. “I have some good news.”

  “You do?”

  “I’ve had a request for your hand that I have been led to believe will be agreeable to you.”

  Surprise—shock—stole her breath. Her already pounding heart started to hammer with anticipation as the realization surged through her in a giddy wave. She knew it wasn’t just her! Randolph had seen what she had and changed his mind. He’d chosen her.

  “I am,” she said, unable to contain the eagerness in her voice.

  The enthusiasm of her reaction seemed to take Walter aback. “I’m thrilled to hear that, Izzie. It’s a fine match—an excellent one. Your brother can’t speak highly enough of him. He said in his missive that you’d gotten to know one another recently and seemed to enjoy one another’s company.” Missive? Izzie’s heart plummeted before her head caught up. “I know he’s a bit older than you and has been married before, but maturity and patience can be great benefits in a bridegroom, I’ve been told.”

  His face reddened, and she would have wondered what he’d been told if her heart wasn’t shattering all over the floor.

  Not Randolph then. Had she really thought it might be? She felt… God, she felt like such a fool.

  “With the lands in your tocher abutting his, you will have the largest baronies in Berwickshire.”

  “Sir William de Vipont,” she said, understanding. “The Lord of Langton has asked for my hand.”

  “Did you think it was someone else?” Walter asked with more perceptiveness than she would have wished. “If there is someone else who interests you, I can—”

  “Nay,” Izzie cut him off, barely hiding her horror at the idea of him finding out the truth. Her foolishness was bad enough without anyone else discovering the level of her stupidity. “There is no one.”

  Walter beamed. “Good. Shall I write him back and tell him you accept?”

  She had no reason not to. It was indeed a good match. Sir William was a highly respected baron of vast lands in the Borders. He had been closely aligned to the Earl of March—and thus the English—until about a year ago. But Izzie’s eldest brother, Alexander, had fought with Sir William when he’d made his peace with Bruce and had come to look at him as something of a mentor.

  The last time Alexander had been home—before the most recent time with Sir Stephen, that is—he’d introduced them. She’d liked the older warrior, who was probably in his midthirties, very much. He had the refined manners that came from spending so many years in England with the sturdy, no-nonsense battle-hard look of a Scot.

  Her heart had immediately gone out to him when he’d spoken of the loss of his young wife the year before in childbirth. A son who hadn’t survived. The unapologetic emotion in his voice had moved her greatly.

  It hadn’t been difficult to guess what her brother was hoping for, and she might have been amendable to the idea had Sir Stephen not arrived in the interim and swept her off her feet.

  And now there was Randolph. Or was there? Was it all in her head?

  Seeing her hesitate, Walter added, “He can protect you, Izzie.”

  From Sir Stephen and men of his ilk. Walter didn’t need to say it; she understood. And she didn’t doubt it. Sir William was the kind of man built to make women feel safe. Formidable in size and strength, he would hold fast to what was his with a ferocity that few men would dare challenge.

  She nodded. “I know. It is an excellent offer, and one I’m sure I would be hard-pressed to refuse.”

  “But,” Walter said with a frown, anticipating her next word. “You are refusing him?”

  Izzie shook her head. Her heart wanted to, but her heart had already been proven a fool once—maybe twice. She didn’t know why she was hesitating, but she couldn’t believe she’d been so wrong. “Nay, I would just ask for a few days to consider it.”

  Walter grinned, obviously relieved. “Of course. Take all the time you need. I know lasses do not to like to appear too eager. It won’t hurt to keep him guessing for a few days,” he added with a wink.

  She wished she could return it, but it was taking all her effort to hold back the tears that suddenly seemed to be prickling behind her eyes. Instead she nodded.

  “It’s better to let the excitement die down anyway. You don’t want your news to get lost.”

  Izzie paused, everything inside her having suddenly grown very still and very cold. “What excitement?”

  “I’ve just heard from Jamie that Randolph is asking Ella to marry him. The king has ordered a feast for the midday meal today with an even bigger one tomorrow after the betrothal ceremony.”

  The blood slid from her face, and her eyes widened with shock. “The what?”

  Walter laughed at her reaction, not seeing the pain that had provoked it. “Aye, I know it’s fast, but Jamie doesn’t want to waste any time with the English preparing to march in a few months. With everyone of import already here, he said there was no reason to wait.” Walter leaned down. “Between us, I think they are planning something with the castle. Knowing Randolph,
it will be dramatic.”

  But Izzie wasn’t listening. All she could think of was that it couldn’t be true.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was true. He’d done it. Izzie couldn’t believe it. But not long after she returned to the guesthouse after meeting with Walter, Elizabeth came bursting into the room with a smile so exaggerated and forced it seemed in danger of shattering like a piece of overblown glass.

  She and Randolph were to marry, she said. She was “thrilled” (which didn’t explain why her eyes were sparkling with tears) and hoped they would be happy for her. Izzie managed a long hug (mostly so her cousin wouldn’t see the tears in her own eyes), but Joanna was so disappointed, she could barely murmur a choked, emotion-filled congratulations. There would be a feast to celebrate at the midday meal, Elizabeth continued with enough brightness to light the city at night, an even bigger celebration tomorrow after the betrothal ceremony, and a wedding to plan for in three weeks.

  Three weeks?

  Izzie’s knees buckled. She felt as though she’d been kicked in the stomach. She hoped no one had seen her stagger.

  “Is something wrong, Izzie?” Elizabeth asked. Izzie cursed, realizing her cousin had been watching her. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m not feeling very well,” Izzie answered truthfully.

  She felt ill. She must have looked it, too. Both Elizabeth and Joanna became immediately concerned.

  “Perhaps you should go lie down for a while,” Joanna suggested. The sympathy in Jamie’s wife’s gaze made Izzie wonder if the other woman suspected something of the truth. “Elizabeth and I will discuss all the details and fill you in on everything when you feel better.” Or never, Joanna seemed to add silently.

  Izzie nodded gratefully.