Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

10

CLAWS

“SIR HUGH,” A woman’s voice hailed Hugh as he strode across the clearing between the king’s pavilion and his own.

Hugh slowed his pace. He then turned, knowing without seeing who had spoken. Queen Margaret had a soft, musical voice that often carried the hint of a smile. Yet this one—although heavily accented in French like the queen’s—was lower, with a slightly husky edge.

Lamia Delamare.

She stood a few yards behind him, swathed in a thick purple cloak. She’d pulled the fur-lined hood up, and it framed her pert features.

“Lady Lamia,” he murmured, inclining his head politely.

Lamia approached him, boots crunching over fresh snow, an impish smile curving her lips. “We have seen little of you, of late, Sir Hugh.” Her pale eyes fixed on him. “You haven’t joined us for supper in weeks now?”

“I’ve been busy readying the men for the spring,” he replied. It wasn’t a lie. His days were spent organizing patrols, overseeing the camp, and ensuring that his men didn’t lose their fitness and fighting ability.

However, his nights were spent with Nessa.

Thomas, who was a good lad and never asked awkward questions, had gotten used to having the commander’s pavilion tent to himself. But, of course, others had noticed his absence as well.

“The men say you aren’t spending your nights in camp,” Lamia continued, her gaze never leaving his. She then inclined her head. “Have you found yourself a local lass?”

Hugh frowned. A rebuke simmered within him. It was none of this woman’s business how he spent his nights. His behavior wasn’t that unusual: no doubt a few of the other men here had found Scottish lovers.

When he didn’t reply, Lamia glanced down, long eyelashes fluttering. She then toyed with the hem of her sleeve. “I counsel you to be wary, Sir Hugh,” she murmured.

Hugh’s frown deepened. “And why’s that?”

“A man in your position might be targeted by unscrupulous Scots.”

Hugh huffed a laugh. “I didn’t get to this position by being a lackwit,” he replied with a shake of his head. “But I thank you for your well-meaning concern all the same.”

Lamia lifted her gaze to him once more. Her mouth pursed, and a faint blush stained her pale cheeks. Hugh was aware his reply came across as a trifle patronizing, yet it couldn’t be helped. He had somewhere else to be. He needed to bathe, and he didn’t want to keep Nessa waiting at the alehouse.

Hugh dipped his chin once more to the lady-in-waiting. “Good afternoon, Lady Lamia.”

Not waiting for her response, he continued on his way.

The enemy surrounded her this evening.

Nessa raised the tankard to her lips, taking a sip. As she did so, she surveyed the room. It appeared she was the only Scot being served in here. Apart from the harried proprietor and his two apple-cheeked daughters, who carried tankards and platters of food across the rush-strewn floor, English soldiers filled the alehouse. They’d taken over the place, had driven the locals out—or maybe the men of Dunfermline had decided to drink elsewhere.

The rumble of male voices and laughter filled the dim interior of The Abbot’s Arms. A fug of peat smoke hung under the low beams, so strong that it stung Nessa’s eyes.

Leaning back against the booth she shared with her lover, Nessa noted the curious looks and smirks she and Hugh were attracting. None of the other soldiers in here were taking supper with women. Instead, they drank, diced, and played knucklebones at the round trestle tables.

Those smirks made Nessa’s hackles rise. Of course, they likely were entertained by the sight of their commander taking supper with his Scottish whore.

Nessa clenched her jaw. Like the locals, she’d have preferred to dine elsewhere this evening. Nonetheless, her need to get Hugh to loosen his lips made her cast aside her discomfort.

Shifting her attention back to Hugh, she noted that he ignored his men. Instead, he appeared completely at ease, one arm slung across the back of the booth as he raised his tankard to her.

“Thank ye for inviting me out tonight,” Nessa spoke up, meeting his eye with a smile. “Although I’m sure we’ll be the talk of the camp by morn.”

He gave a soft snort in reply. “I think it’s too late for that.”

Nessa arched an eyebrow, inviting him to elaborate.

“Gossip travels faster than the plague,” Hugh said ruefully, shaking his head. “With little to do but wait, folk busy themselves in the affairs of others far too much.”

Nessa laughed. “Then why add fuel to the fire by inviting me to dine with ye in a public place?”

Hugh held her gaze for a moment before his mouth lifted at the corners. “I suppose I just wanted to spend some time with you … away from that drafty cottage.”

Their supper arrived then, two dishes of mutton with oaten bread. The young woman serving them thumped the dishes down on the table and cast Nessa a baleful look before stalking away.

Traitor. Nessa had read the expression in the lass’s face clearly. Irritation spiked within her as she tore her gaze from the girl’s stiff back. Of course, it would look that way. The proprietor of this alehouse and his daughters had no idea who she really was—or that she’d dedicated her life to preserving their freedom.

Stifling a sigh, Nessa focused on her supper instead. The roast mutton smelled delicious, and she picked up her eating knife, readying herself to dive in.

“I was thinking today, Nessa, of how little I know of you,” Hugh spoke up once more. “I’ve spoken of Grosmont, of my kin, and my life there … but all I know about you is that you’re a healer who lives alone here in Dunfermline. You have never even told me your clan’s name?”

Nessa, who’d been about to take a mouthful of mutton, stilled. “I don’t have a clan,” she replied after a pause.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Every Scot has a clan. You must know who your people are?”

She shook her head, tensing. She was reluctant to reveal her past to him—but in doing so, she might get him to lower his defenses. Drawing in a deep breath, she replied, “I was a foundling … abandoned by my mother shortly after birth. A woman … a healer and wise woman … found me and brought me up as her own.”

Hugh swallowed a mouth of meat, his gaze never leaving her face. “And your childhood,” he asked after a pause. “Was it happy?”

She nodded, favoring him with a smile. “Colina became my mother … and I never missed the woman who’d abandoned me.”

“Where did your birth mother leave you?”

“Upon a tree-stump … for the fairies to take me. My adoptive mother believes I was likely born with a caul … and so my parents thought me a changeling.”

Silence fell between them. Hugh’s mouth thinned. He’d likely heard of such practices. ‘Fey births’ were part of Scottish folklore. If a bairn was born with a caul—a piece of the birthing sac still in place over the face—folk believed that this meant the babe was a changeling. Such births were incredibly rare—the thin sac was harmless enough, and was pulled away straight after the birth. But that didn’t stop people from believing it signified something was wrong with the child.

Seeing how his eyes shadowed, Nessa shook her head. “Don’t look so concerned, Hugh. I was saved and brought up by a woman who loved me.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “But it’s not the start in life you should have had.”

Nessa shrugged. “No, it wasn’t … but some have it much worse.”

Aye, she’d been a foundling, but she’d grown up safe and cared for. Colina had never hidden the truth from her. As soon as Nessa was old enough to understand, the High Bandruì had explained her origins. All the druidesses of the order were foundlings. Some, like Nessa, had been left to die in the wilderness by superstitious folk. Both Fyfa and Breanna had been also. Fyfa had a large birthmark on her left thigh, and Colina had suspected her parents believed it was the sign of the devil. Breanna had been a strange infant, Colina had admitted. The bairn had hardly ever cried, and the High Bandruì suspected this had frightened her parents into abandoning her.

Other members of the order were orphans, abandoned on the steps of abbeys. Colina had simply crept in early and stolen away with the child before the nuns discovered them.

Nessa took a bite of mutton. Enough about her. It was time she got Hugh to talk.

“So,” she said, reaching for the bread and tearing off a chunk. “I suppose I should ready myself for yer departure?”

Her lover raised his eyebrows yet didn’t reply.

Undaunted, Nessa pressed on. “Ye are leaving, aren’t ye?”

Hugh cast her a veiled look. “It sounds as if you are keen to rid yourself of me?”

“Of course not,” she replied with a shake of her head. “But a woman likes to know how long her lover intends to warm her bed.”

Hugh met her gaze squarely then, his strong jaw tightening. “And a man prefers the company of a woman who doesn’t nag him, Nessa.”

Silence fell between them.

Nessa frowned, anger igniting in her belly. “Nag?” Her voice hardened. “That’s what ye think of me, is it?”

“No,” he drawled, “but since you’ve asked me that twice already this week, you certainly risk turning into a fishwife.”

Fishwife … presumptuous English bastard, how dare he?

Slowly and deliberately, Nessa put her eating knife down. She then started to slide from the booth. Aye, she was a little vexed, yet his arrogance had given her an idea. Perhaps if he thought he’d offended her, he’d let his defenses down.

Hugh’s gaze widened. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Why?”

“Agreeing to have supper with ye was a poor choice on my part.” She paused then, glaring at him. “I’ve no patience with men who think themselves better than their womenfolk.”

However, before she could slide out of the booth, Hugh’s hand shot out, his fingers closing gently around her wrist. “Please … don’t go.”

Nessa’s jaw firmed. “And why not? Ye don’t wish to be in the company of a fishwife.”

His gaze narrowed. “Are you really so easily offended?”

“It would appear so.” She held his gaze, surprised to find her heart now thumping against her ribs. It seemed that he’d truly upset her after all. “I didn’t grow up in yer world, Hugh. I’m neither yer wife nor yer chattel. I won’t mind my place.”

He stared back at her, surprise flickering in his eyes—surprise and something else.

“Sit down, Nessa,” he said gently. “I apologize for offending you.”

Their gazes held, the moments stretching out.

Letting her anger cool, Nessa did as bid. Aye, showing her lover that she had claws wasn’t such a bad thing. Some men liked a woman with spirit, and she saw from the look on Hugh’s face that despite his earlier comment, she now commanded his complete attention.

Slowly, Hugh let go of her wrist, and she sank back down into the booth.

A tense silence settled between them now, the easy camaraderie they’d enjoyed earlier gone.

Clearing his throat, Hugh leaned back against the back of the booth, his gaze searching her face. “We’re leaving in four weeks,” he said finally.