it. I lost your
favor--in the battle. I was never sure how. Will you forgive me?"
She laughed and shook her head. "There's
nothing to forgive. I wish we had time--that things were not as they are. How
you'd work to earn my heart even though you already have it."
He planted a hand against the pine and
leaned over her so that she was pressed against the trunk of the tree. "Do
I? Do I have your heart?"
She shuddered as she slid her fingers into
his hair. He drew her against him before he pressed his mouth down hard on hers.
He felt her lips soften, part for him. Then his tongue was probing, pushing,
and, in some odd way, drinking up whatever it was that was inside her that
drove him insane. He braced his hand on the pine behind her to keep from
crushing her with his weight and pressed his body close. She was small, soft,
and warm against him. He heard a faint, helpless moan and knew it came from her.
The taste of her mouth was honey but not
nearly as sweet as its softness or the dart of her tongue against his or the painful
surge of heat that spread through him. A few moments ago, he had been calm. Now
he burned.
Suddenly, she recoiled and pushed both
hands against his chest.
James was shuddering like a lathered horse
as he pulled away. He still felt the ghost of her mouth on his and clenched his
fist to keep from grabbing her back again.
"We can't do this," she whispered.
Before he could stop her, she darted away, lifting her skirts to run towards the
camp. He let her go, following her at a distance to see she got back safely.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Glendochart,
Scotland: July 1306
The men-at-arms were lazing about the camp
in the dusk, gathered in clumps around small fires. No feast would be held
although the king and his ladies were eating their evening meal at what had
been last night's high table. No one expected them to eat oat bannocks or a
half-burnt bit of venison whilst sitting on the ground.
Lady Elizabeth motioned to James to join
them as the king severed the leg off a grouse and handed it to her. "You'll
have a place between Lady Isabella and me, Sir James." She raised an
eyebrow at her husband. "I saw that he brought these this afternoon. And
you, my lord, returned empty handed."
Bruce smiled genially. "So I did. James
has an amazing knack for it." He waved James towards a place at the bench.
James knew his face was hot, but he took
the place anyway. The Lords of Douglas weren't so great that he expected a
place next to the queen, but a camp of fleeing fugitives was nowhere for
ceremony. When he turned to Isabella to offer her a slice of the grouse from
his knife, a smile flittered across her lips. He paused.
Across the table, Edward Bruce, seated next
to the elderly Earl of Atholl, was frowning at him. Thomas Bruce smirked in
James's direction, an amused tilt to his eyebrows.
"My lady?" He offered her the
slice of meat.
She inclined her head, indicating her
bannock trencher. As he gave it to her, he kept wondering what that smile was
about. Had she had something to do with this strange invitation to sit between
her and the queen?
Lady Marjorie, seated next to the king,
began kicking the table, and he rested his hand on her shoulder. He leaned over
to whisper a word in her ear. The child wrinkled her nose at him but sat still.
Isabella squared her shoulders after a
moment and turned to James with a smiling mien. "Someone told me that you
grew up in Bishop Lamberton's household, Sir James."
He thought about it for a moment, wondering
if he really wanted to talk about where he grew up and then shrugged. Why not? "I
wouldn't say I grew up there although I was his squire for several years."
He stripped the meat off the leg of a
grouse with his teeth and waited whilst both ladies turned to him in surprise. "I
would have sworn that his Grace told me so," the queen said.
"I was the bishop's squire. He has the
right of it there." James tilted his wine cup one way and then another,
looking into
favor--in the battle. I was never sure how. Will you forgive me?"
She laughed and shook her head. "There's
nothing to forgive. I wish we had time--that things were not as they are. How
you'd work to earn my heart even though you already have it."
He planted a hand against the pine and
leaned over her so that she was pressed against the trunk of the tree. "Do
I? Do I have your heart?"
She shuddered as she slid her fingers into
his hair. He drew her against him before he pressed his mouth down hard on hers.
He felt her lips soften, part for him. Then his tongue was probing, pushing,
and, in some odd way, drinking up whatever it was that was inside her that
drove him insane. He braced his hand on the pine behind her to keep from
crushing her with his weight and pressed his body close. She was small, soft,
and warm against him. He heard a faint, helpless moan and knew it came from her.
The taste of her mouth was honey but not
nearly as sweet as its softness or the dart of her tongue against his or the painful
surge of heat that spread through him. A few moments ago, he had been calm. Now
he burned.
Suddenly, she recoiled and pushed both
hands against his chest.
James was shuddering like a lathered horse
as he pulled away. He still felt the ghost of her mouth on his and clenched his
fist to keep from grabbing her back again.
"We can't do this," she whispered.
Before he could stop her, she darted away, lifting her skirts to run towards the
camp. He let her go, following her at a distance to see she got back safely.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Glendochart,
Scotland: July 1306
The men-at-arms were lazing about the camp
in the dusk, gathered in clumps around small fires. No feast would be held
although the king and his ladies were eating their evening meal at what had
been last night's high table. No one expected them to eat oat bannocks or a
half-burnt bit of venison whilst sitting on the ground.
Lady Elizabeth motioned to James to join
them as the king severed the leg off a grouse and handed it to her. "You'll
have a place between Lady Isabella and me, Sir James." She raised an
eyebrow at her husband. "I saw that he brought these this afternoon. And
you, my lord, returned empty handed."
Bruce smiled genially. "So I did. James
has an amazing knack for it." He waved James towards a place at the bench.
James knew his face was hot, but he took
the place anyway. The Lords of Douglas weren't so great that he expected a
place next to the queen, but a camp of fleeing fugitives was nowhere for
ceremony. When he turned to Isabella to offer her a slice of the grouse from
his knife, a smile flittered across her lips. He paused.
Across the table, Edward Bruce, seated next
to the elderly Earl of Atholl, was frowning at him. Thomas Bruce smirked in
James's direction, an amused tilt to his eyebrows.
"My lady?" He offered her the
slice of meat.
She inclined her head, indicating her
bannock trencher. As he gave it to her, he kept wondering what that smile was
about. Had she had something to do with this strange invitation to sit between
her and the queen?
Lady Marjorie, seated next to the king,
began kicking the table, and he rested his hand on her shoulder. He leaned over
to whisper a word in her ear. The child wrinkled her nose at him but sat still.
Isabella squared her shoulders after a
moment and turned to James with a smiling mien. "Someone told me that you
grew up in Bishop Lamberton's household, Sir James."
He thought about it for a moment, wondering
if he really wanted to talk about where he grew up and then shrugged. Why not? "I
wouldn't say I grew up there although I was his squire for several years."
He stripped the meat off the leg of a
grouse with his teeth and waited whilst both ladies turned to him in surprise. "I
would have sworn that his Grace told me so," the queen said.
"I was the bishop's squire. He has the
right of it there." James tilted his wine cup one way and then another,
looking into
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