Page 21 of The Protector’s Promise

“Your other gown is being washed, my lady,” the girl said.

“What is your name?” she asked the maid as she watched the servants carry buckets of deliciously hot water into the chamber.

“Elaine,” the girl replied, nimbly preparing her gown. By the time the tub was filled and Elaine handed her a large piece of lavender soap, Marion forgot everything. Her quest for the stone, her longing for the man who should be her enemy. All of it fell away as she closed her eyes and reveled in the thought of clean skin. She had not had a true bath in more than a fortnight, and the pleasure of the prospect was akin to . . .

Nay! She’d not think of that kiss.

But of course she would. It had occupied her thoughts ever since. At first the passion and intensity had startled her, but her surprise had melted away. She’d not once thought to stop him, for her body ached for the very thing he offered. Though it was wrong for too many reasons to count, his lips had felt—

“My lady?”

She focused on the maid, who handed her a drying cloth.

Turning her attention to getting dressed, Marion rushed to dry her hair and get into the gown. The sooner she could get dressed, the sooner she could eat.

The only time Marion had been this hungry before was the night of the banquet her father had commissioned in her honor. Excited, she’d entered the hall at Ormonde only to realize he’d intended for the banquet to pressure her into choosing a suitor. When Marion saw all the young men seated in their hall, she’d decided not to eat that night, or the following day, out of protest. She’d been quite young, and foolish.

As she dressed, Marion learned that Elaine had joined her aunt and uncle at Camburg the year before, after both of her parents were killed in a raid. A familiar tale along the border, and one Marion was accustomed to hearing from her own people. But in their stories, it was the English who destroyed families and were to blame for their current troubles.

Belatedly, she realized Elaine did not seem bothered that she was Scottish. She would certainly not remind her of the fact now.

As soon as Marion was dressed, Elaine escorted her down a long corridor and down a winding stairwell. The great hall was bright and well decorated, filled with red and yellow striped banners and fine tapestries. Ten trestle tables were lined up, set for the morning meal. And as she entered the room, every single one of the men and women sitting at them turned to stare.

That was the reception she’d expected.

She paused and stared back, but she found her eyes drawn to the far end of the hall. How could she have missed him earlier?

Court stood and walked around the high table toward her. He looked nothing like he had the day before. The growth on his cheeks gone, his hair freshly washed. Clad in a fine surcoat of black and gold, Court looked every bit the lord.

By the time he reached her, all eyes were on them. Bowing, Court extended his hand. When she took it, the same feeling came over her as when she’d awoken in his arms the day before.

The mad notion that she never wanted him to let go.

“Well met, my lady.” He guided her toward the high table.

“Good morn to you, my lord,” she responded formally.

When they sat, it was just the two of them.

“Do you have no visiting nobles?” she asked. The high table at home was nearly always full. Her father had always been fond of entertaining despite the danger that lurked just outside their castle walls.

“Just one,” he said, pushing his trencher toward her with a wink.

Eventually, the others went back to their meal, though Marion caught a couple of men and women glancing at her covertly, eyes narrowed, as if she were the enemy.

Which, of course, she was.

“Camburg’s hall is . . .” She looked up at its wooden beams and around to the whitewashed walls. “. . . splendid.” And she meant it.

“Richard adored this castle,” he said. His tone was warm, as it always was when he spoke of his former mentor. “When he put me in charge of it, I was truly shocked. At the time, it was one of many properties he owned, but with the exception of Kenshire, I believe it was his favorite.”

“At the time?” She picked up a piece of bread and ate without reserve.

“Sara has since given many of the Caisers’ holdings back to the crown.”

She was about to ask why when he continued.

“To appease Lord Lyonsford”—he looked sideways at her—“the man to whom she was betrothed.”