Read The Honor Due a King for Free Online Page B

and mud, but –”
    “Before we were parted at Dalry,” she interrupted, “you used to loan me your cloak. Sometimes just to lie on, when the ground was hard or wet. Do you remember, James?”
    I nodded and, bashful as a mountain hare, averted my gaze. Eight years ago. She was only a girl then – and I barely a man. Our forces nearly destroyed at Methven by the Earl of Pembroke, we had gone into hiding, moving ever southward through the Highlands, intent on reaching the western coast and going on to Ireland. But at the Pass of Dalry, we were attacked by John of Lorne and his fierce Argyll warriors. In a moment of desperation, Robert sent the womenfolk back north with his brother Nigel. Robert saved my life that day when I fell from my horse.
    “I never forgot how kind you were to me,” she said, curling her arm inside mine and leaning her head upon my shoulder. The cadence of my heart quickened. “I wish there was some way I could repay that kindness. Some way I could let you know how much your company meant to me.”
    A lone blackbird cawed from the treetops in the encroaching darkness. Startled, Marjorie gripped my arm harder, her fingernails pinching my flesh through the cloth of my sleeve. As the bird flapped overhead and flew away, she exhaled, relaxing her hold.
    “They could have been such bleak days,” she said lowly. “I was so often hungry and tired. I remember that keenly. But I was never afraid. Never. Not with you beside me.”
    Her hand slipped downward, until she held mine. I closed my fingers around hers, sensing her gaze on me.
    “I thought of you every day, James.” She drew in a breath, held it long. “ Every day. Sometimes, the hope that I would see you again was the only thing that kept me going.”
    I looked at her then ... and saw her differently. Not as the laughing girl with golden curls who had shared my saddle over the many miles of Highland deer paths. Not as Robert’s beloved daughter and heir, to be protected or taught as the occasion demanded. Not as a former captive of England’s king, to be pitied for her years of undeserved solitude. No, I saw her just as Boyd did: as a woman, vulnerable and bewitching all at once and all too temptingly near.
    And it filled me with guilt to think of her that way, just as it filled me with an undeniable madness to take her in my arms.
    I slipped my fingers from hers and stepped backward. “It’s nearly dark.”
    She clutched at my forearm, full lips pouting. “Did you not think of me, too, James? Did you ever think of ...” – she tilted her head – “of us?”
    She had been a young girl then, like a sister to me. Until now, I had always thought of her as such. No, she had merely mistaken my concern for affection. My duty was, and always had been, to watch over her, to protect her. Robert had sworn me to it.
    “I prayed often for your safe return,” I mumbled, but even that, I feared, was saying too much. I jerked an arm toward the path leading back to the abbey. “Come, please. If your seat goes empty at supper, your father will come looking for you.” And flay my hide for letting you rove about.
    I expected a protest – some sulking at the very least. Instead, she raised her heart-shaped chin, blue eyes bright, and issued a challenge: “Race me, James Douglas. Twenty counts head start.”
    She snatched up the front of her gown, shins bare above slippered feet, and ran back up the path to the abbey steps, never looking back, the wake of her laughter rolling across the expanse.
    ***
    I n the days that followed, I had strict orders from King Robert that Lady Marjorie was not to be allowed beyond the abbey’s walls without an escort. True to her capricious nature, she proved incompliant, shirking her guards and slipping away at every opportunity. Sometimes I found her with Sibylla at the river’s bank, watching the ducks skim over the water while the sun languished in the western sky; sometimes in the infirmary before prime,