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Too soon, her wedding was a mere day away. Tosia’s jitters, her nerves, her disquiet grew with every passing hour, passing minute . . . King Robert’s household, James’s men, even her own brother tried to assuage her apprehension, and she tried to take their counsel to heart, she did. But whenever James’s intense, black-lashed gaze landed on her, or his gruff voice spoke to her, trepidation surged through her, pounding in her head and making her hands shake. The rumors of his dark nature, his reputation as the beast of Scotland, outweighed any other words about the man.
The night before she was to wed, she came late to the evening meal in the main hall, having spent most of night in the kitchens preparing oats and onions for the blood pudding. Her fingers stank of the arid tang of onion, and her eyes had watered the entire time. She lost herself in her task, true, but she knew in her heart she was also trying to avoid those in the main hall. She couldn’t bring herself to lay eyes on the Douglas man who tomorrow would be her husband.
Only when Brigid kicked her out of the kitchen to find her meal did Tosia enter the hall, hesitant and subdued , and she sat at the first bench where a platter of venison and peeled turnips sat undisturbed. She picked at the food. A hot ball of unease filled her stomach, making it impossible to eat.
“Och lass. I was afeard ye would’ve missed the evening meal.”
The thundering voice behind her made her jump. The enormous hulk of James stood behind her, his companions Shabib and Thomas next to him. The Moor gave her a slight nod, one to calm her jumpiness no doubt, but to no avail. The king himself was walking through the tables toward them.
As if her heightened nerves needed further vexation. She lowered the knife on the table and the hot ball in her belly burned more.
“I’ve no’ been hungry, milord,” she said in a slight voice as she dropped her gaze to her lap.
“’Tis understandable, lass. Much has happened over the past sennight, and with tomorrow —” He kept his voice level, trying to sooth her anxiety, but with these three men crowding her, Tosia was lost.
“Pardon me, please, milord.” Rising awkwardly, she gave the men a quick curtsy and raced for the darkened stairwell as fast as her legs could carry her.
Once she was hidden in her room, Tosia exhaled. Her stomach roiled as she breathed, and she dove for the chamber pot, thinking she’d lose what little she had eaten that day. But there was nothing left, and she only dry heaved until she was weak.
Sitting on the floor, she shifted to lean against her bedding. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, and she wiped them away with the stained sleeve of her kirtle. Her head fell back against the bed and she gazed at the ceiling beams, wishing she were back in her cramped croft with her mother and brother, wishing she were anywhere but here.
“Ye frightened the poor lass well enough,” Robert commented as he closed the door to his cramped study. “Ye’ll have to talk to her, James. She canna wed ye if she fears ye. What manner of wife would that be? If she is to be your calming balm, ye must show her that ye do have a caring side.”
James raised an eyebrow. He had long thought the king’s sense to be skewed, prone to folly, and here he was, the victim of it. The lass was attractive, he could not deny that, her hair as rich and earthy as his former Douglas holdings and eyes as ruddy as the Scots uisge-beatha. But he barely saw those eyes for all she kept her gaze lowered. She was also well-built, not one of the sickly, small women who’d struggle to lift a bucket.
He had hoped that his vow to her the day she’d arrived assuaged at least a few of her concerns, but from how she’d reacted to him, that didn’t seem to be the case. Wedding a woman who feared him more than the devil didn’t interest him in the least. He wasn’t the type to welcome an unwilling woman to his bed. What was he to do?
“What makes ye think I have a caring side?
“Ye agreed to the union. And your friend Shabib seems to think ye have some redeeming qualities, other than your talent for war. I’ll admit, I have yet to see them, but Shabib assures me they are there, albeit buried deep.”
Shabib needs to keep his mouth shut, James thought.
James rubbed his face with his calloused hands, then faced his king.
“I’ll try. But those qualities may be buried too far to be resurrected.”
“Well, if our Lord can do it after being dead for three days, I’m inclined to believe the Black Douglas can do it whilst still alive. I’ll have the lass sent to your chambers at my behest. Speak to her, show her ‘tis more to the beast than his hard exterior. Best she care for ye before ye wed. I’d not have the lass live in fear of ye as her husband.”
Neither would I.
James averted his eyes and bowed slightly and then retired to his chambers to await his petrified bride to be.
For more times that she could count, Tosia wanted to run for the Highlands. Instead, she found herself at the chamber door to the Black Douglas. She raised her fist to knock on his door, but her hand hesitated, hanging in the air. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Enter the lion’s den? Nay.
As she swirled away to run back down the hall, the door flung open, and the man stood at the threshold, his unblinking gaze assessing her.
“Thank ye for joining me. Please enter.”
His voice was low, softer than she’d expected, and the hard lines of his cheekbones and nose weren’t as razor sharp as she’d recalled from days past. Yet his tall, brawny form was as formidable as ever. She swallowed hard, gathered her courage as she gathered her skirts, and stepped inside.
James moved to the hearth, keeping a suitable distance between them. He moved easily, relaxed in the security of his private chambers. They were not much larger than hers with nothing to indicate he was a man of note, a laird, the right hand of the king.
Tosia hesitated near the door, ready for a quick escape if necessary, and clenched her hands open and closed as she waited for James to speak of why the King had commanded her here.
James reclined against the stones of the hearth. “Ye fear me because of what ye’ve heard, aye?”
The question caught her off guard. James’s deep voice rumbled in the sparse area of his chambers in the King’s temporary keep. The room resembled the character of James himself — barren, empty, devoid of any personal touch. And this was the man who was to be her husband?
Tosia wanted to lie to him, feign any knowledge of his escapades on behalf of the Scot’s cause, but that would be a foolish thing to do. He’d know she was lying — everyone in Scotland knew of his reputation as a demon on earth. Lying didn’t become her.
She nodded at his question. “Aye, I’ve heard of ye. Of the Glen Trool victory. Of the Douglas Larder.” Her voice drifted to nothing on that last word. Such a simple word that, because of the black-furred man standing in front of her, had a new and terrible meaning. One only had to speak the word “larder” and the skin prickled in horrified fright. He was a man larger than life, larger than the King in many ways. and if she were honest with herself, she feared this blackguard more than she feared The Bruce.
And here she was, in his chambers, soon to be his bride. Tosia shuddered.
James’s hard face didn’t change or shift at the mention of his vile acts. Rather, he tipped his head slightly, his piercing eyes studying her as she stood by the foot of the bed. He possessed the look of a wild cat preparing to pounce on its prey, and she fidgeted under that gaze.
“Ye think me a villain? That I am no better than the English dogs?”
A hot lump formed in Tosia’s throat. How was she to answer such a question? What woman called her soon-to-be husband a villain or an English dog?
Tosia was many things, but not a fool. Her mother, God rest her soul, had raised her better than that.
She shook her head. “I dinna believe I am in the place to call anyone such a thing. I dinna know ye well enough,” she told him with as much confident honesty as she could muster.
James licked his lips, a slight touch of pink against his black facial hair. The gesture was odd to Tosia, a human touch to an inhuman being.
“Fair enough,” he growled. James shifted against the hearthstones, leaning toward her. “Why don’t ye ask about me? Instead of relying on the grim rumors that surely abound in the Highlands?”
Ask him? What could she possibly ask that wouldn’t sound like an accusation? Like doubt? And how would he take that?
Tosia bit at her dry lip and played with her skirts as she considered. He waited patiently, his arms crossed over his chest (his impossibly broad chest! How did the King manage to find every Scottish giant for his army?) as his gaze rested on her.
“There are rumors that ye are the King’s tactician. Is that true?” That sounded like a valid question, more like she was questioning the rumors, not him.
He nodded, his swath of black waves brushing against his collar. “Aye, myself and several other men — MacCollough and his man Torin Dunnuck, John and Asper Sinclair, Edward — we serve as advisers.”
His answer was direct, to the point, and in the same tone as when she’d first entered the room. He didn’t appear upset or angered that she’d asked.
The chambers suddenly seemed overly-warm, and droplets of perspiration rolled down her back under her chemise. She wanted to lift her hair from her sweaty neck, but her fingers were frozen in the fold of her skirt. Yet his patient nature emboldened her.
“Glen Trool, ‘twas your strategy?”
James inclined his head. “Aye. The funnel strategy. ‘Twas successful and the Bruce had his first true victory over the English. We repeated it again here to overtake this keep. But ‘tis no’ my idea. I could only wish to be so clever.”
Tosia stiffened and tilted her head. It wasn’t his idea? But he said the rumors had been accurate! Why did he speak with such mystery?
“I dinna understand. Ye said ye are the king’s tactician. Was it another adviser’s idea then? How did ye get credit?”
At this, James’s check twitched, and if Tosia didn’t know any better, she might think he was hiding a smile. But this was Black Douglas. This man didn’t smile — he had no softness in him.
“No’ quite. I was the one to speak the idea to the Bruce, but the idea itself wasn’t mine. I was educated in France and studied there most of my life. I wasn’t always a wild demon, aye?”
He raised a sardonic eyebrow, and Tosia’s hand flew to her mouth. He admitted to being such a creature?
“The idea belongs to a Spartan king in Ancient Greece. King Leonidas, have ye heard of him?” Tosia shook her head. Her own education was limited to a few pieces of literature, basic sums, and sewing. She had heard of Ancient Greece but had learned little about such an enigmatic place.
“He was a king in a tight place, much like our own Bruce. A better organized and more powerful enemy, the Persian empire, was knocking at their gates, and King Leonidas was not going to bend his knee, no matter what the Persian king demanded. They forced the Persian army to thread in a thin line through the Pass of Thermopylae and managed to keep the Persian army at bay until reinforcements arrived. I was taking a lesson from a much smarter man — so smart a man, our own beloved William Wallace did the same thing at Stirling Bridge. I only took a brilliant historical strategy and shared it with our king so he might put it into effect.”
Tosia’s whole body stilled as she tried to understand what James was saying. He wasn’t architect of monstrous military strategy? That these tactics were used in wars before now?
He again relaxed against the stones, so casual, as though they were discussing the harvest and not the history of death and destruction. So she asked another question.
“The larder?” She could barely speak the word — it came out as a breath. At this James stood straight, and her heart stopped in her chest. Was that it? Had she crossed a line?
“Aye, the larder.” He grumbled, yet his eyes, those hard stormy eyes, were not as hard as she remembered.
He took a step toward her, and Tosia backed up until the post of his bed struck her back. The air left her lungs as she struggled to take in any breath. Had she angered him? Was he going to take his fury out on her?
“The larder,” he repeated. He had halted a few feet from her, close enough that she could reach out and touch that fearsome, broad chest, if she so desired. How could anyone dare to desire?
“It seems so dreadful, aye? Such a dark and dire act, to condemn so many men to a vicious death and burn it all to the ground. To poison the water. To make the land uninhabitable. To curse that piece of land for eternity? To seemingly curse my own soul? Even Shabib had a bit of a qualm with it, but even he too, came around. If ‘tis possible he may hate the English more than I.”
He admitted it! Was he cursed? Tosia’s hand crept to her neck as her eyes remained riveted on his face.
“Do ye think I acted without thought? Too aggressively? That ‘twas too much evil for one man?”
Tosia’s mind swirled, and she was certain she was going to faint. She was alone in the chambers of an admitted demon! The words stuck to her tongue.
“The larder,” he said in an almost nostalgic tone as he rubbed his beard. “Aye, seems dramatic, but ‘twasn’t my idea either.”
Was he telling himself that to make it easier? “Another ancient tactic?” she ventured.
That twitching cheek again. “The Romans. After they destroyed Carthage in battle, having attacked homes one by one in a horrific slaughter, they then took apart the city stone by stone, and then burned the rest of it to the ground, so that Carthage might never rise against Rome again. Razing the enemy’s land is another historic military tactic, and one I believed sent a message to the English.”
Dinna ask! Tosia commanded to her lips, but they disobeyed.
“What message is that?” she asked, her voice wavering under the looming shadow James cast in the firelight — a devil from the very flames of hell.
“That we Scots are willing to watch the world burn to secure our freedom, no matter who we kill.”
“No matter who?” Tosia choked out. Was her own life at stake?
In a flash, James was nearly touching her, his hellish heat enveloping her, and his wide palm cupping her cheek. She had nowhere to go to avoid his touch, her back was compressed so hard into the bedstead, she was sure it left marks.
“Of the English, lass. What we do, what I do, is for my people, my country, and I would do anything, anything, to have their freedom from these violent oppressors. And for ye, my bride, though we may no’ have sought this arrangement for ourselves, that vow extends to you. I’d burn the world to ash for ye, to protect ye.”
He moved in closer, so his muscled chest brushed against her breasts, and with his hand, lifted her face to his. His breath was warm on her skin, scented with mead and bread.
“With my wedding to ye, I give ye no’ only my name, but the protection of my body, until my last breath is yanked from it against my will. As long as ye are mine, I will guard ye against every evil thing in this world.”
He moved his head so his lips were perched right over hers.
“Every evil thing, but me,” he said then caressed her lips with his in a movement that was so gentle, she couldn’t believe the kiss came from the man known as a monster.
His touch was light, as his knuckles caressed her jaw. He held her with such delicate arms, he seemed to be a completely different man, not a demon. Her lips responded in kind, meeting his and parting slightly when coaxed by his tongue. Her hand clutched at her skirts in heady desperation and her sense whirled. Who was this man who was at once a devil and a lover? Who was both hard and gentle? What was she to make of him?
The more she tried to grasp her thoughts, the more they twisted from her mind, until his lips left hers. He raised his head and dropped his fingers from her face, and all that remained of the man and his kiss was her red skin roughened by his beard.
“Ye should go. Ye are no’ yet my wife, and I would no’ have your reputation sullied. That is, if ye have no further questions?”
One thick, raven eyebrow slanted high on his brow and he moved to the door, opening it. Tosia’s words failed her again, only this time not from fear, but from something deeper and unfamiliar. As her hands still twined in her skirts, she curtsied quickly and escaped through the door into the dimly lit hallway.
Only then did her breathing resume.
James stood firm and straight as the lass rushed from his chambers, as though all the demons of Galloway chased after her.
And didn’t they? James scratched his thick beard with one hand and reached to his groin to adjust his ballocks with the other. The lass, in all her fearful beauty, created a yearning deep inside — something he hadn’t felt in years. Decades. If ever. As a man accustomed to finding his release between the willing thighs of a tavern maid or a whore, the prospect of a wife, forced though it might have been, intrigued him.
And she might fear him for their entire marriage, as long as it lasted — James could easily find himself at the wrong end of an English sword or Edward’s beastly trebuchet — but at least the lass would have the protection of his name for the rest of her life.
He vowed to protect her with everything he had, and he would, even if it was only his name from beyond the grave.
Protecting her with his body? James glanced at his torso and arms. His chest and arms, hidden presently by a fine tunic gifted to him by the Bruce, bore witness to scars, a patchwork of near-deaths and agonizing pain and fear of pus. The lass wasn’t getting a milquetoast gentleman. He hoped she was prepared to meet the monster under his clothing.
Yet, when he kissed her, he didn’t feel much like the monster he was accused of being. Rather, he felt like a man, a skin and hair man with a rising cock and throbbing heart, and a desire to hold this lass and love her as a man loved his wife.
James shook his head and departed his chambers to join the Bruce for an evening of drinking, one which promised an abundance of mead and fine uisge-beatha to celebrate James’s upcoming nuptials. The king mayhap had a sound idea in bringing the lass to Auchinleck castle to wed him.
He’d certainly felt the monstrous side of him temper the longer he was in the room with her. And when his lips brushed hers, no monster at all.
Only a man, through and through.
