Page 8 of My Highland Bride

“How do you know my name?” I ask, startled.

He gives me the look of one who knows me, but I am assured we have not met. I would remember such a man clearly.

Standing back and bowing so very properly, still grinning, he introduces himself.

“Erik Stokerton, at your service, my lady.”

I gasp. Could this be the very same Erik Stokerton who once marched into our hall claiming he was no longer the son of Bern but would prefer to be a Moray instead? My excitement of having a new brother was quickly squashed when my father promptly set the tall, skinny neighbor’s son on his horse and rode him immediately home, explaining that he could not choose a new father simply because he disliked the number of hours he was made to sit with his tutor.

That was before the Battle of Hendrelds Hill, of course, after which I never saw Erik again.

“You are not a queen’s guardsman,” I accuse, even though Erik had not specifically claimed to be. I’d drawn that conclusion all on my own.

“Nay,” he says cheekily, “I am not.”

He is the queen’s second commander, the youngest in the Curia’s history. Former champion of this tourney. Edingham’s most famous warrior, he fought a contingent of Merians so fiercely he was hailed by Cettina’s father, King Malcom, on the battlefield, brought immediately to court, and named as personal guard to the princess.

This cannot be the same boy I knew. And yet his smile is the same. Erik’s smile always reached his eyes, even as a boy.

“’Tis really you.”

He hands back my peppermint.

“Shall I be offended you did not recognize me when I knew who you were right away?”

I gesture toward our tents. “You had an advantage, Erik.” I immediately correct myself, “Lord Stokerton.”

“You will not use my given name because our fathers are two stubborn old goats?”

A truth if I’ve ever heard one.

“I will not use your given name because you are a Curia commander and ’twould not be proper to do so.”

“Come here, Reyne.”

We are much too close now, considering he is no longer a boy but an immensely handsome man, but I do as he asks anyway.

As bold now as he was then, he snatches the pouch from me and tosses it to the ground.

“What are you about?”

And then he takes my hands. Gasping, I attempt to pull away. But he holds them steady, turning both over so my palms face upward. As if that were not improper enough, he starts massaging my hands, focusing on the area between the thumb and forefinger.

“Close your eyes,” he bids.

I do it, unable to believe this gorgeous stranger is not a stranger at all but Erik Stokerton, the queen’s commander. And, if the rumors are true, her lover as well.

“I assume the peppermint is for a headache?” Erik asks, still massaging my hands in that very strange spot.

“Aye.” I’ve had them since childhood but am surprised he remembered, and even more surprised he so quickly connected the peppermint to my ailment.

“If we were successful in starting a fire to boil water, it would not have helped much. You must choose stems with more leaves and, as I mentioned, be sure to pick them in early bloom. The ones you have would not prove very potent.”

As he continues his ministrations, I actually begin to feel a bit better.

“This is a more effective treatment if the pain is not substantial.”

His fingers are rough, not surprising for a warrior’s hand, but they’re also gentle. Suddenly remembering where we are, and the possibility one of the men could come along at any time, I open my eyes.