Banks of clouds were forming in the distance. A cool wind began to blow, and the Scots-gray clouds Meleri had viewed in the distance were now overhead. She heard the approaching sound of a horse coming up behind her and she moved to the side of the narrow path to give the rider room to pass, hoping as she did it would be Robert.
When she caught a glimpse of the horse and rider, her heart froze in terror.
Philip…
Even from where she stood, she recognized the hard lines of his face and the black cloak that billowed out behind stiffly held shoulders. Even if she were unable to see his face, she would have known it was Philip, by the manner in which he rode his horse with no regard for the well-lathered beast.
Transfixed, she stood watching him until she realized he was not slowing down. Afraid he would try to run her down, she turned quickly and grabbed up her skirts so that she might run faster. It was both fear and desperation that propelled her forward over the rough ground, mindless of the sharp stones that pierced the soft soles of her shoes and the brambles that reached out of nowhere to scratch her arms and face.
She was almost to the top of the hill when she felt the burning sting as her hair was nearly pulled from her scalp. A split second later, she was lifted from her feet and jerked backward. She fell down…down…down…into a dark and fathomless abyss.
Before she opened her eyes, Meleri knew she was gagged and bound, just as she knew the name of the person who had done it. Thankful he had not bound her eyes, she looked around.
Overhead, a rainbow-hued ring encircled a full moon, where long gossamer clouds stretched away from it, like bony fingers pointing at the world below and curling through the trees. Silver-dusted moonshine stole the color from the earth, painting everything from a palette with varying shades of ghostly white, leaving everything etched in black and white, like the crisp, distinct outlines of a silhouette.
The temperature had been much higher earlier in the day. Now the warm gaiety of the sun had vanished, leaving only shadows and the somber coolness of spectral fingers, clammy and cold. Next to one of the crumbling walls, she could see Philip hunched down beside a fire, adding more wood. They were near an old priory, for behind him, firelight danced over old religious drawings, still visible on the walls.
She closed her eyes, hoping he would not realize she was awake, when suddenly the gag was ripped away and her mouth was flooded with a strong metallic taste. She opened her eyes and saw him standing over her. She looked past him, staring at the murals again, where golden light from the leaping flames cast huge demonic shapes that frolicked gleefully over the time-forgotten murals.
He glanced at the mural. “Evil triumphs over good.”
“Perhaps, at least for the time being,” she said, “but in the end, good will always triumph.”
He said nothing more, but stood looking down at her, a nightmare presence in the midst of waiting shadows. Her skin pricked, and all her senses came acutely alive, waiting, watching in readiness.
“So, here we are, two young lovers, alone at last.”
“Lovers!” she almost spat the words. “You mock the very word when you say it.”
“I saw you leave Beloyn. Were you coming to find me?”
“Hardly.” She almost told him she was looking for her husband, but realized he would surely kill Robert if she did.
“I regret having to hear that. It would have made everything ever so much nicer.”
“For you, perhaps.”
“He has turned you against me, not that I am surprised. You were always more susceptible to falsehood than the truth. Not that it matters. The important thing is, you are my future. My entire future, and that is why you are coming with me now.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Dear, dear, was that stress in your voice? Let me see now, what am I going to do with you? I have asked myself that same question. Now that I have you, I must consider my choices. The way I see it, I have three alternatives. First, I could leave you here, bound to perdition, to rot in this holy place, unless something more benevolent happens and you are rescued. Of course, the likelihood of that happening is remote, since this priory is well hidden and known by relatively few. That would be such a shame, such a terrible waste. You truly are a lovely piece—not quite my taste, but I can recognize quality. Second, I could marry you on the spot. That would ultimately please my father and secure my inheritance. Although I fear you are not too receptive to the idea, at least not now…which would leave me with no choice but to take you somewhere private, where there are any number of items perfected to change a stubborn mind. Third, I could kill you now and have done with it, but that would be putting a bullet in my own back, because you are far, far more valuable to me alive…at least for the time being. Therefore, I think we will go with the second one. What say you to that?”
“I say you will never get away with it.”
“I will leave you to the council of your own wisdom, as well as your inborn desire to remain alive no matter the cost. You do know you either marry me, or you will never leave here alive?” He stuffed the dirty rag back in her mouth and tied it behind her head. “Sorry, love, but I can’t leave you screaming at the four winds, now, can I?”
“Ump…rumplsh…mmphm!”
He laughed. “Careful, sweetheart, you are going to choke yourself if you keep trying to talk.”
Meleri leaned her head back against the tree where she was tied, while she tried to dislodge the cloth jammed into her mouth. She gagged. Closing her eyes, she willed the frantic beating of her heart to slow. It would not do to use all of her energy on a fluttering heart. Dismal though the prospects were that she would ever be rescued, she thought of Robert and wondered if he was looking for her. She dozed off, with thoughts of Robert on her mind.
When she awoke, she saw Philip’s golden head bent in front of her. “You probably don’t deserve it, but I have brought you some water.”
He removed the gag and she nodded her appreciation, her mouth too dry to speak. He held a tin cup to her lips and she drank greedily.
“Don’t drink it too fast or I won’t give you any more.”
When she drained the cup, she looked at him and said, “More.”
He laughed. “If only you were so greedy for me,” he said wistfully, then rose to his feet. “It is time we were off. It will be daybreak soon.”
He must have seen the surprised look on he face, for he said, “Melli, my dear, surely you didn’t think we would stay here indefinitely? We must be off to England, by way of Gretna Green, of course, where you and I will be married.”
She had already decided not to rail against him, for she knew it would do her no good in the end, nor would it further her cause. It would only serve to keep him on guard. It was her hope that by being the model captive, he would relax enough to make a mistake or two. She would be ready when he did.
He untied the rope that bound her to the tree, but he left her hands tied behind her. “I cannot ride like this,” she said.
“You don’t think I’m going to put you on your own horse, do you?”
He retied her hands in front of her and helped her into the saddle on his horse. A moment later, he mounted behind her, and they rode away from the priory.
As they rode, she found herself dozing off a time or two. When she finally awoke, the sky on the horizon was beginning to get an edge of dull steel gray. Joy flooded her soul at the thought that morning was on its way. A lot of good it will do you, she admonished herself. Philip is not some vampire who will see the sun and slink away. The joy ebbed from her slowly.
Her eyes were wide open now and she watched the road ahead. Before long, she thought she caught the shadow of something moving near the edge of the trees that lined the road, but decided it was a large animal—probably a deer—or her imagination.
As they rode up a steep hill and crested the top, a green, shimmering mist seemed to come out of nowhere. It hovered in the air directly in front of them. The strange sight caused Philip’s gelding to whinny and dance around nervously before he reared. When he came down and his hooves slammed against the hard ground, Meleri’s teeth jarred painfully.
Philip cursed and she knew he was having difficulty controlling such a big horse with her in front of him. Eerie green mist or not, she knew her only chance was now, for there might not be another one.
Without a single thought to what she might do to herself, she took a deep breath and threw the entire weight of her body to the left, shooting out of the saddle like a projectile. She twisted sharply in midair and landed on her side; her shoulder slammed against the rock-hard ground with such force, she heard it crack, fearing she might have broken her arm.
His horse reared again, and the impact of his mighty hooves shook the ground beside her. She heard Philip utter another curse and knew she had only seconds. She prayed it would be enough time to get to her feet and run, before he brought his mount under control and came after her.
She struggled to her knees, jabbing one of them against a sharp rock. She ignored the pain and pulled herself to her feet. She held her throbbing arm, looked into the shadowy, early morning light and decided the best thing was to run, in any direction.
She plunged ahead, guided by instinct and the faint hint of coming morning. She ran, with blood running down her leg and a sharp, twisting pain stabbing into her chest. Robert, Robert, Robert, she kept repeating to herself, over and over.
Behind her, she could hear the sound of a horse, and she ran faster, but not fast enough, for the next instant, she felt Philip’s body slam hard against her before he rolled over her and down a small embankment. The impact knocked her to her knees and she struggled to get up again. She did not want to waste time by looking back, so she kept on running, ignoring the pain. She had no way of knowing where he was until she was a few steps from the top of the hill and felt his hand close around the collar of her dress.
She only had time to think, Please God, don’t let it end this way, before he jerked her back, while she was still fighting to go forward.
“Damn you! Hold still!” he shouted.
“Let me go! Don’t you understand it’s over and you’ve lost!”
“That is where you are wrong, you devil’s spawn!”
Thrown off balance, his hands closed vicelike around her arms before he spun her around to face him and she stared up into a face that was barely human. Before she could take a breath, his hands, like the claws of a wild animal, closed around her throat.
He said her name and cursed her before he drew back his hand, and she knew he was going to drive his fist into her face to silence her. She tried to scream, but was never certain if she did or not, for she was only aware of opening her mouth and the feel of air rushing from her throat. He swore again, damning her name.
Before she could realize what was happening, she was released with such force, she dropped like a stone. She landed with an excruciating blow to her head, followed by a blinding light. When the pain passed, she opened her eyes to a world that was spinning. She was mindful only of the sharp hooves of Philip’s horse as they raked the air and pawed the ground, dangerously close to her head. She shuddered at the sound of Philip’s hate-filled voice as he said, “You aren’t saved yet, you bitch! Not by a long shot! I’ll be back, and I will find you!”
He spurred Neptune. The big horse leaped forward.
Not able to understand why he fled and left her behind, she looked around to see if something frightened him away.
She had never prayed so hard to see Robert coming to rescue her.
Through the fine morning mist that was moving swiftly across the fellside, she made out the darkly cloaked figure of a man dressed all in black. She blinked her eyes to clear her blurred vision, then realized it was her own blood that made it so difficult to see. He came toward her, a sword of enormous proportions held in his hand.
She recognized him as the same strangely dressed man she had seen before. She reached her hand out toward him. “Help me…”
She could feel the blood running down her leg and from her mouth. Her arm and head ached abominably, but she managed to crawl to her feet. She was about to call out to him, when he gave her a brilliant smile. Immediately, his figure began to radiate and grow dim.
Meleri was suddenly aware she could see the hillside behind him, as if his body was transparent, enabling her to see right through him. She wiped the blood from her eyes and watched as his image hovered only a moment longer, before it disappeared altogether.
Footfalls came up behind her. Her heart stilled. Philip was returning. That was why the ghost left. There was no one to help her now, save herself. She started limping, gradually increasing her pace until she was running down the side of the hill.
“Meleri, for the love of God, will you stop!”
She almost cried at the sound of Robert’s beloved voice. But she lost her footing and went sprawling, rolling and sliding over sharp rocks that cut into her, until she came to a stop.
Before she knew what was happening, she was grabbed and hauled, without a hint of compassion, to her feet.
“Lord deliver me from a stupid woman! What in the name of hell did you think you were doing, shooting down the side of the hill on your belly looking like you thought you could fly? Didn’t you hear me calling you? Here, give me your hand…did that bastard tie you up? Here, now! I know you are glad to see me, but you need to be still, and stop grinding your nose against my shirt, so I can untie this knot…Dammit! Hold still! You gave me the worst fright of my life, do you know that? Look at you, bleeding from a dozen holes, every ounce of visible skin scraped clean as a deer hide.”
“It hurts.”
“Well, you’d better be thankful about that, because that’s the only thing that’s keeping me from turning you over my knee and beating the drawers off of you.”
He yanked his cape from his shoulders and wrapped it around her. “You’re as cold as the Firth of Tay. You will probably catch a cold, and I’ll have to nurse you out of that one, as well. Hugh! Bring me some whisky.”
“Iain?” she whispered.
He turned back to her. “He’s all right. He and two of the men went after Philip. Here, lean on me and drink some of this. Do you think you can ride?”
She opened her mouth to answer and swallowed a loch full of liquid fire. Coughing and sputtering, she looked up at him, just as he poured another burning river down her throat.
“Don’t look at me like I’m feeding you poison. It’s whisky. It will warm you, if it doesn’t leak out all of the holes in your hide, first.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Trying to be the noble hero and save the woman I love, but as always, you are too damn headstrong to let anyone help you, so you beat me to it and saved yourself.”
“It wasn’t me. It was the ghost,” she said as darkness started to descend.
He gathered her close to him in his arms and said, “Easy love, I’m taking you home.”
Robert stood over her, stroking her forehead and speaking softly, in an assuring tone, telling her she was safe and all would be well. God love him, he had never in his life prayed so hard that what he said would prove to be true. He could not lose her. Not now, before he had a chance to tell her what she meant to him, before they shared a lifetime together and raised the barins he hoped they would have. If she would only open her eyes; if she would speak; if she would move but one tiny finger—anything, to show him she was still with him, that she had not gone away and left him, as Sorcha had done.
The agony of waiting and not knowing…it was eating into the heart and soul of him. She was so pale, so still, so small. He had never felt so helpless.
Gram pushed a chair behind him and told him to sit down. “You won’t be of any use to her when she wakes if you are too exhausted to speak. Whatever you can do standing up, you can do sitting down.”
He sat, gathered her small, pale hand in his and brought it up to his lips. “Don’t leave me.”
Meleri made no indication that she had heard him, and he lay his head on the pillow beside her and closed his eyes. He did not open them until much later, when the rest of the family came into the room, and the sound of it woke him.
It was an hour after that, when he first noticed her eyes were moving beneath the paper-thin lids. He leaned his head closer and told her how much she meant to him, how much everyone here had come to love her—him most of all.
She began to stir, slightly at first, and he knew she could hear voices long before she could open her eyes. He kept on talking to her, identifying the others as they spoke, telling her Agnes and Lady Margaret were hemming a new dress for her, that Gowan and Fingal had arrived with a bouquet of heather for her.
She tried to speak, but no sound came forth. He put his hand on the side of her face and said, “It’s all right, lass. You’re safe at home. Rest now.” He was surprised at the emotion he felt when he touched her, for no one had ever been able to elicit such an aching tenderness from a mere touch. He realized she was crying, and he brushed the tears from her cheek.
She turned her face and kissed the palm of his hand. It was not an expression of love, but one of gratitude. Poor lass, did she not know it was he who was grateful, who would be grateful until the day he died? He gathered her to him and held her in his arms, content for now to do nothing more than rub her back in a consoling way. “Don’t cry, lass. You are home now. Nothing can harm you.”
“You came,” she said. She lifted his hand and brought it to her lips so she could kiss his palm again.
He would never forget the terrible feeling when he discovered she was missing. He wished with all his being that he had found that bastard, Waverly, but Iain and the men had returned, having lost his trail when it began to rain.
She opened her eyes. “You saved my life. I would have died if you had not come and frightened Philip away.”
“No, lass, you saved yourself. Waverly was already gone by the time we arrived.”
“But I saw you. I saw you coming up the hill in your cape, with a sword in your hand.”
“Black Douglas,” Lady Margaret said. “It must have been the ghost of William that she saw.”
Robert lay her head back against the pillows and brought the blankets up to cover her. He was about to turn away when she clutched his hand. “Where are Corrie and Dram?”
“Downstairs. The gate at the stairs is closed. They won’t bother you.”
“Bother me,” she whispered. “I want them here.”
“Here? You want them in here, with you?”
“Feel safer…I want them here,” she whispered.
“Then you shall have them.” He sent the twins to bring the dogs.
She had drifted to sleep again but awoke when Dram nuzzled her hand with his wet nose. She opened her eyes and smiled at Dram, before she placed her face against his wiry whiskers.
“Corrie?”
“On the other side of the bed.”
She turned her head to see Corrie resting on the bed next to her. Robert could not help noticing Corrie’s great brown eyes were watching her, as if she understood what had happened. Meleri pulled her hand out from beneath the covers and stroked Corrie’s head. “Stay with me,” she said, and closed her eyes.
After she was asleep, Robert left her with the dogs and walked Gram from the room.
“Whatever you decide to do,” she said, “don’t let your concern for her override your good judgment.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is a rare man who is not moved by the sight of a woman’s tears.”
Some time after Robert and Gram had gone and Meleri was alone, she had another visitor—one who came into her room, bringing the mist with him. He moved without a sound, a dark cape swirling about him, and at his side, he carried a great sword.
Even in her sleep, she felt a presence and knew she was not alone. She opened her eyes and saw him standing just a few feet away. Corrie and Dram began to whine. “Go away,” she said. “You frighten the dogs. I do not want you to be real. I do not believe in ghosts.”
In an instant, his image began to shimmer and he was gone. It was confirmation enough that he had only been a figment of her imagination, for he did not look like the sort to obey a woman’s command, whether he was real or imagined.
She put her hand on Corrie’s head and closed her eyes. The next time she opened them, the heat of the early morning sunlight bathed her face in warmth. Agnes was by the window, drawing back the drapes.
“How are you feeling, milady?”
“Like I’ve been beheaded,” she whispered. “My throat hurts abominably.”
“You have the beginnings of a nasty bruise. Did he choke you?”
“I don’t remember.”
The door opened and Robert walked in, followed by Iain and Lady Margaret. “We came to see if you were ready for visitors,” Lady Margaret said. “You’ve been sleeping for so long, it is becoming harder and harder for all of us to stay away.”
Meleri wrenched herself upright, remembering her cuts and scrapes as they began to throb. She frowned and looked around the room, remembering her other visitor. “He was here.”
Robert tried soothing her. “No one has been here.”
“No, he came back. He was here, in my room, dressed as he was before. He had a great sword. I thought at first I was dreaming, and I told him to leave, that I did not believe in ghosts.”
“What did he say?” Robert asked.
“Nothing. He vanished.”
Lady Margaret patted her hand. “You probably were dreaming, like you said.”
Iain’s voice broke in. “Robbie…”
Robert went on talking. “Thankfully, you are almost recovered and that should be the end of it. No more ghosts. No black cape. No big sword.”
Iain’s voice cut in again, stronger this time. “Robbie, look.”
Meleri looked along with everyone else and saw it in the corner, propped up against a chair, the sword’s long sliver blade catching a gleam of sunlight.
Hugh picked it up and held it with both hands. “St. Columba! It is as heavy as the devil.”
“It probably belonged to the devil,” Robert said.
“It is newly polished,” Iain noted.
Hugh handed the sword to Robert, who took a moment to accustom himself to such size and weight. Soon, he wielded it with a reasonable amount of dexterity. “A beautifully balanced two-handed claidheamb-mor,” he said, using the Gaelic term. “A true, honest-to-Scotland claymore.” He glanced at Iain. “What do you make of it?”
“It’s authentic…made before the sixteenth century, I would say. See how the quillons are at an angle to the blade and how they are diamond shaped? And here…see how each quillon ends in an ornament made of four open circles of iron?”
“Aye,” Robert said. “The claymores that came into use in the 1600s were basket-hilt, because the hand was no longer protected by a steel gauntlet.”
Watching Robert swing the claymore, Iain began to sing softly the words of a satirical song from the turn of the century.
The sword at thy arse was a great black blade
With a great basket hilt of iron made;
But a long rapier doth hang by his side,
And huffing doth this bonny Scot ride.
Bonny Scot, we all witness can
That England hath made then a gentleman.
Robert rested the claymore, tip pointed to the floor. “Of course, the big question isn’t what kind of claymore it is, but whose claymore, and where did it come from?” He turned to Iain. “Do you think he left it?”
“Of course he did,” said Lady Margaret. “This sword proves we are dealing with the ghost of Black Douglas and not something Meleri dreamed.”
“And here I thought I was Black Douglas,” Robert said.
“You are the present one. I am speaking of the original.”
Hugh laughed. “Robbie, you are only a copy.”
Gram shot him a silencing glance. “According to the legend, Sir William had a great claymore. This one fits that description.”
“A lot of claymores would fit that description,” Iain said.
“There is one way to find out,” she said. “Supposedly, the earl’s claymore was inscribed.”
Robert and Iain began to look the claymore over carefully. “Here it is,” Iain said at last, “but the words are faint and difficult to read.”
“Can you make out a name?” Robert asked.
Iain didn’t answer right away. After a few seconds, he said, “Yes, I can make out the name William, First Earl of Douglas. There is another inscription, but it is too worn to be legible. I can barely make out the word better, and perhaps this one is mighty, but I am not certain.”
“At least we know it is William’s sword,” Robert said, “even if we aren’t certain how it got here.”
“He brought it,” Meleri said.
“Well, if he did, I don’t understand why he would leave it,” Iain said.
“No one believed he existed,” Gram said, and Meleri felt the truth of those words bite into her. “He left his claymore as proof. A child could figure that one out. The legend says the Douglases will be restored by the truest Scot, one with a stout heart.”
“That’s it!” Iain said.
“That’s what?” Robert asked.
“The inscription on the claymore,” he answered, searching the long blade for the faint inscription he could not make out before. “Here it is: Better is a stout heart than a mighty blade.”
The three of them turned to stare at Meleri. “It isn’t me!” she cried. “If you had only seen me out there, quivering like a bowl of jelly, knees knocking, whining and sniveling like a baby. The moment I got a chance, I bolted like a runaway sheep. I am a coward, through and through. I come from a long line of cowards. We always have at least one in every generation.”
She paused, watching them, seeing they did not look convinced. “I’m such a coward, I’m too cowardly to stay a coward. I am ready to pass the gauntlet to someone else. I have been choked, chased, pushed, knocked down, tied up, gagged, cursed, propositioned, lied to, ignored, humiliated and embarrassed to the point that I quit. I withdraw my nomination from whomever it was that nominated me. I do not want to be the one with the truest heart or the stoutest heart, or a Scot’s heart, either. I will keep my own English heart, if you please. I want to live the rest of my life being normal…and normal people do not cavort with ghosts.” She crossed her arms in front of her. “Now, is there anything I said that anyone did not understand?”
“I think you just about covered everything,” said Lady Margaret.
“Aye, I’ve never heard anything so tragic,” Iain said without a hint of sympathy.
“Your point,” Robert said, “but the game isn’t over yet.”
She tried again. “Why is everyone looking at me? Don’t I have any say in this matter?”
“You’ve been clucking like an overfed hen since we walked in,” Robert said.
“You should feel honored. The earl has never appeared to anyone before,” Lady Margaret said.
“Then tell him to go honor someone else. Not that it matters. I was making the whole thing up. I wanted attention and I thought that would be a good way to get it.”
“And you made this up, as well?” Robert asked, holding up the claymore.
She scoffed. “Anyone could have left that in here. It probably came from the armory.”
“This is the claymore that belonged to the first Earl of Douglas. It hasn’t been seen since his death,” Lady Margaret said.
“I grow weary of all of this,” said Meleri. “I have been through a lot. My brains have been addled. I have a vivid imagination, for goodness’ sake! It could not be a ghost. I will not accept that. I refuse to believe in them.”
“Apparently, that doesn’t make any difference. He obviously believes in you,” Iain said.
“Well, I don’t want him to,” Meleri said, so crossly that everyone laughed. “And I don’t want his fusty old sword, either. I wish he would take it back and choose someone else to frighten.”
“Don’t say that,” Iain teased. “You might hurt his feelings.”
“I hope he heard me! I hope he is hurt enough to choose someone else. I am not a Scot. I will never be a Scot. My heart is anything but stout. I am as yellow as a kite’s claw. I told you before, I come from a long line of faint hearts. One glance from Philip and I have all the fortitude of melting wax. I was everything you could possibly associate with being a coward—afraid, yellow, hen-hearted. I don’t have the courage of a bloody chicken.”
“Don’t fash yourself, lass. This is nothing you should concern yourself with now,” Robert said. “The most important thing is for you to feel better.”
“I do feel better. I was just a little shaken up.”
“I think I will see what the twins are up to,” Lady Margaret said.
“I’ll go with you,” Iain said.
Meleri watched them file out of the room, and when they were all gone save Robert, she glared at the claymore leaning against the wall. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared harder. “I wish Iain had taken that bloody thing with him. I don’t want it in here,” she said, sounding as irritable as she felt.
Robert came to sit down on the bed beside her. He picked up her hand and smiled faintly. “Such small hands to have been through so much.”
She lifted her chin and let go with a pathetic sob, happy that for once she had managed to arouse his rarely used sympathy. She was suddenly startled when he threw back his head and the room rolled with the sound of his laughter.
She had been right when she decided the most beautiful sound in the entire world was the sound of Robbie Douglas’s laughter. She waited patiently for him to take her in his arms. When he did not, she said morosely, “I would think you would at least offer me some comfort.”
“Do you now?”
“Yes. I have been sorely treated and my body aches abominably. A little tea and sympathy would go a long way toward restoring my good humor.”
“I might be persuaded toward sympathy, lass, but I can’t abide by your English way of loving something as abominable as tea.”
He was still holding her hand, still stroking her fingers, and for quite some time he seemed content to do only that. Then, at last, he looked up and smiled at her, his face an odd mixture of amusement and compassion. “I suppose you, being a woman of high temperament, are having a difficult time with patience.”
“No, what I am having a difficult time of is making a decision. I am fairly rendered asunder trying to decide which I want more, to pick up that basin there and break it over your head, or to throw my pride to the wind and ask you to hold me.”
“Then let me take the choice away from you.” He put his arms around her and drew her against him, cradling her head against his chest. “How’s this?”
She sighed. “Better,” she said. “Infinitely better.”
That was true. It was better. Not as good as it had been before, for pain was still in her heart, softened somewhat by the knowledge that Robert had cared enough for her to come after her. He also made an effort to act as if he cared. Was it possible? Could he have come to care for her, in spite of his original intention to use her against the king? All this thinking made her head ache. Right now, she did not want to think about it anymore. She would think when she felt better.
They remained as they were for quite some time, neither of them talking, until at last, she asked, “What are you going to do?”
“About what?”
“Philip.”
“It’s my worry. I will take care of it.”
“I know you will, but what do you plan to do?”
“Perhaps I will pay him a visit.”
“In England?”
“Aye.”
“You don’t need to go there yourself. Can’t you send someone?”
“If you want your eggs hatched, sit on them yourself.”
She shook her head and said, “I speak of danger, and he answers me with eggs.”
“Shh,” he said, and kissed her on the nose. “Rest and let someone else do the cackling for a while.”
“A cock may crow, but it’s the hen who lays the eggs.”