Page 24 of The Scot

Chapter 11

Terric was exhausted.

He’d hardly slept the night before, but he dismissed the thought of his bed waiting in the adjoining chamber. All he could think about was John’s next move. Though he, Gilbert, and Lance had spent the last two days going over the plans for a possible battle or siege, ever since Roysa delivered her alarming news about Ulster, he decided he would look at them again.

His people depended on his readiness for battle. He would fulfill his obligations to them just as his father had taught him.

Grabbing the tankard, Terric poured himself an ale and moved toward the fireplace. It was the largest one he’d ever seen, its hearth spanning most of the thick eastern wall. They’d spent little time here growing up, but he still had a clear image of his father standing in this very spot, looking at the flames of the fire. That had been the night he and Rory had asked their mother to accompany Father to the tournament so they all might go. He couldn’t recall his sister Cait being there, but she must have been nearby.

If she’d said no, how different his life might have been.

Best not to think of that.

Or of Roysa.

A distraction was the one thing he absolutely could not afford. It was part of the reason he’d barely left his solar these last two days, opting instead to take his meals there. This evening, however, he’d found himself wavering. He’d nearly decided to take his dinner in the hall.

Because he wished to see her.

Nay, he wished to ravish her.

It was foolish. Beyond foolish. Too many people depended on him for him to give in to his own desires.

He barely heard it at first, but the sound was more distinct when it repeated itself. Terric moved toward the door. Aye, it was a knock. Perhaps Lance or Gilbert suffered from the same sleeplessness.

“I guess I am not the only one . . .”

He froze as he opened the door.

Not Lance. Or his marshal.

A very confused Lady Roysa stood there, eyes wide. And his body immediately responded. She wore a long velvet robe, as fine as one of her fancy gowns. The garment was not exactly revealing, but it was intimate. Given the time of night, he imagined it covered only a shift.

By the blood of Christ.

“I was looking for Idalia. I was sure her bedchamber was here, the second door past the stairwell. Is she . . .”

“Is she inside?” he finished for her. “Nay, my lady. You have the correct door, but the wrong floor.” He pointed below them. “She and Lance are just below us.”

When she began to move away, he discovered he did not yet wish for her to leave.

“Did she—” he started and Roysa stopped to look at him, her lips slightly parted.

Terric continued to stare. Her hair had always been pulled away from her face, but now it hung loose around her shoulders, a shock of darkness against pale cream. The single candle she held gave her an almost ethereal glow. She looked vulnerable almost.

Those parted lips, not intended as an invitation. But damned if he didn’t want to take it as one.

So very different than the woman he’d met in the front of the gatehouse that first night.

“Did Idalia explain?”

A flash of fiery defiance crossed her gaze. “Aye. Though if you had offered a quick explanation, it would have avoided much confusion. Such as, ‘Ulster? Why, he is one of John’s staunchest supporters, a strategist that should not be this far north. He is likely colluding with Langham to attack.’”

She was asking for courtesy. But they were at war, or near enough—courtesy did not warrant his attention.

“I needed to prepare my men.”

“Understood, my lord. It would have been a waste of your time to spend a moment explaining the circumstances to a mere woman. I apologize for disturbing you.”