Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

14

WE HAVE BEEN

The English Camp,

Dunfermline

The same morning …

LAMIA DELAMARE SAT up in bed, her heart pounding. It was dark inside the tent, although she could hear the rumble of men’s voices, the clang of iron, outdoors. The camp was awaking.

Pushing her unbound curls off her face, Lamia closed her eyes in an attempt to keep the dream in her head. She couldn’t forget that word—for it held the key.

“Fuimus,” she whispered aloud. It was Latin—a tongue that Lamia was fluent in. “We have been … what do you think it means, Fantôme?”

Something warm and dry shifted against the skin of her right arm, and then a tiny scaled head appeared from the sleeve of her night-rail. A forked tongue darted out. Witch and familiar looked at each other.

“Is it a message of some kind?” Lamia mused, “or maybe a warning?” Moments passed, and then she frowned. “Perhaps it is a clan motto?”

Ants marched over her skin as she threw back the bed covers and rose to her feet. “I had a dream, Fantôme,” she announced, depositing the small white snake onto the bed and wriggling out of her night-rail. “And in it, I saw the English defeated.” Naked, she reached for a clean chemise and shrugged it on. Then, seating herself on the edge of the bed once more, she rolled on her hose. “We can’t let that happen.”

Indeed, the vision of that dream still lingered.

A great battlefield.

Trampled gold and red Plantagenet banners.

Bodies of English soldiers strewn across the muddy ground.

And the whispered word: Fuimus.

If it were indeed a clan motto—and she wasn’t sure it was—Lamia had to find out which clan it belonged to. She also needed to do so without alarming the king and queen.

Lamia’s mouth firmed as she donned a silver-blue cotehardie and fastened a heavy belt around her slender hips. She then twisted her unruly flaxen hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. However, as always, wayward curls escaped, framing her face. One man in this camp knew more about Scottish clans than any other. She had to seek him out.

“Come, Fantôme,” she murmured, reaching out her hand and allowing the tiny albino grass snake to slither up her wrist and under the bell-sleeve of her cotehardie. Fantôme—whose name meant ‘Ghost’ in French—went everywhere with her. Her familiar had been with her a while now, nearly eight years. Since before she and Margaret had traveled from France to England so that her mistress could wed the English king. “We shall find Sir Hugh.”

Ducking out of her pavilion, Lamia straightened up and cast her gaze about her. The last of the snow had melted, turning the camp into a bog. A grey sky stretched overhead this morning, and a damp breeze caressed her face. Lamia wrinkled her nose; although she resided in the inner perimeter, this morning’s breeze carried in the stench of the privies and the reek of stale sweat, along with the pungent odor of horse.

The shouting of men at sword practice drifted across the camp. The army was less than three weeks from departure now. Shortly, they would march on Stirling.

Lamia’s brow furrowed. Of course, if she wanted to hunt down Sir Hugh, she would have to venture out of the sanctuary of the inner perimeter. The knight usually spent his mornings overseeing combat training.

Lifting the hem of her skirts, Lamia picked her way across the muddy ground. A sigh escaped her. How she tired of this dirty, drafty camp. Once they took Stirling, she could live in comfort again. Lamia imagined steaming baths scented with musk, her favorite perfume. She fantasized about sinking down into the hot water, a goblet of rich French wine at her elbow.

Now, that was living.

Passing through the gate into the camp and ignoring the curious gazes of the guards, Lamia struck off toward the training arenas. Men clad in hauberks battled with swords—the blades wrapped with cloth—while a bald knight bellowed instructions at them.

Nicholas Harrington halted his shouting when he caught sight of Lamia approaching and cast her an appraising grin.

Lamia ignored him. Sir Nicholas wasn’t the one she’d ventured out to speak to this morning. Instead, her gaze shifted to where Hugh de Burgh stood a few feet back, his brow furrowed with concentration as he scrutinized his men’s technique. Robert le Breton stood with him. Like Sir Nicholas, the dark-haired knight favored Lamia with an appreciative look as she neared.

“Good morning, Sir Hugh … Sir Robert,” she greeted them with a bright smile.

“Lady Lamia,” Robert nodded to her. Lamia inclined her head to him before she focused wholly on his companion.

To her surprise, her pulse quickened as she met Hugh’s eye. Ever since she’d joined the queen on campaign, Edward’s commander had fascinated Lamia. Big, stoic, with unquestioning loyalty to his king that she appreciated, Sir Hugh was a man of many layers.

She’d learned that he’d been married once, although he’d lost his wife to childbirth. Hugh’s manner could be dour, although she’d noted the change in him this winter. His handsome face seemed younger, his hazel gaze less guarded. She’d also noted that he disappeared most evenings.

The whole camp knew of the lover he’d taken in Dunfermline.

Lamia had been keenly disappointed, for she’d hoped to entice the knight to her bed one day. Hugh was exactly the sort of man—of high rank, wealth, and standing—that she sought for a husband. Jealousy had twisted her belly when she’d learned of the Scotswoman he was seeing. She’d even considered casting a hex upon his lover. However, one morning, just over a week earlier, Hugh had returned to the camp with a face like thunder. Lamia had been out taking a turn around the perimeter, arm in arm with Margaret. The women had watched the knight storm past.

“What ails Hugh this morn?” Margaret had murmured.

“I’d say things have soured with his woman,” Lamia had replied, relief and a little vindictive pleasure spiking through her.

And she’d been right—for Hugh de Burgh no longer left the camp in the late afternoons.

This morning, his face wore a shuttered expression. Nonetheless, it didn’t put Lamia off. Her gaze lingered on his broad shoulders before sliding down his powerful body. Of late, this man had become something of an obsession, one she couldn’t shake. Lamia had taken a few paramours over the years, yet the lure of a man who wouldn’t succumb to her easily was too tempting to ignore.

Especially a man of Sir Hugh’s caliber.

I won’t give up, Lamia promised herself. By summer, Hugh de Burgh will spend his nights in my bed.

“Good morning, Lady Lamia,” he greeted her gruffly. “How are you faring?”

Lamia reached up, twirling one of the ringlets that framed her face. “Very well, thank you. How are preparations going for our departure?”

“Well enough.”

“So, we’ll be ready to leave at the end of the month?” she asked, boldly holding his gaze.

“Aye,” he replied, giving her an assessing look. “I take it that you are as impatient as the men to see us take Stirling?”

“I certainly am.”

She inclined her head then. “Sir Hugh … I have a question for you.”

He arched an eyebrow. Meanwhile, Sir Robert was watching them with a knowing smile upon his lips and Sir Nicholas had resumed his bellowing. “Watch yourself de Chertney … that was a sloppy feint!”

Lamia ignored both other knights. “You are familiar with the mottos of the Scottish clans, I take it?”

“Aye,” he murmured, his brows drawing together. “Why?”

“Have you ever heard of them using ‘Fuimus’?” she asked.

Hugh inclined his head. “We have been … aye, it’s the Bruce motto.”

Lamia’s belly fluttered. So it was a clan motto after all. She’d heard of the Bruces—a powerful and ambitious Scottish family. Had the dream been a warning?

Margaret must learn of this.

She realized then that Hugh’s gaze was searching her face, perhaps noting her reaction. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just a wager the queen and I were having,” she replied with a shrug, twirling the lock of hair once more. “Nothing important.”

Hugh’s brow furrowed as he watched Lady Lamia Delamare walk away. It was a sensual walk, the sway of her hips causing most of the men nearby to stop and gawk. Her cotehardie hugged the slender lines of her body. Nearby, he heard one of the men murmur something appreciative.

Turning back to the training arena, Hugh was surprised to see that both Nicholas and Robert were watching him rather than the comely lady-in-waiting.

His frown deepened. “What?”

Robert smirked. “That was a pretense if ever I saw one.”

“Aye,” Nicholas added with a rueful grin. “Sir Hugh … I have a question for you,” he mimicked with a saucy French accent.

Hugh snorted. However, he had to admit his friends had a point. It seemed odd that Lady Lamia would venture out into the training arena, braving the mud and lustful stares of his men, to ask him something so trivial.

He hadn’t missed the way she’d boldly held his eye, utterly ignoring Robert, as she played with one of the curls that had escaped her bun.

She desired him.

Hugh’s mouth thinned. After Nessa, he was done with women for the time being.

The reminder of his lover made his belly clench. He tried not to think of her these days. Yet his encounter with Lamia had brought the memories back.

He’d awoken late that morning, just over a week ago, with a dry mouth and a pounding headache, to find the cottage empty. Rising from the bed, he’d hauled on his clothes and called out to Nessa, thinking she’d gone next door to see to her pony. However, when he’d ventured out to the lean-to, he’d discovered it empty. A search inside the cottage itself revealed that she’d taken provisions and clothing with her.

Nessa had disappeared.

Head still pounding, Hugh had stood by the smoldering hearth and tried to recall the events of the night before. They were strangely hazy, and his pounding temples didn’t make remembering any easier. But he managed to recall that she’d poured them both wine then, and they’d talked.

Hugh tensed then as he recalled the scene, a chill stealing over his body. He’d then growled the filthiest curse he knew.

The wine … she drugged me. Christ’s blood, what did I tell her?

Even now, he couldn’t remember.

Nicholas turned back to watch the men as they resumed their training. Grunts and the muffled thud of bound blades punctured the damp air.

Hugh clenched his jaw, seeking once more to recall the things he and Nessa had spoken about as they’d sipped wine, yet his memories were muddled.

“All’s well with you, Hugh?” Tearing his gaze from the men, Hugh glanced then at Robert. The watery morning sun glinted off the crucifix the knight wore around his neck. His friend was watching him with an assessing look that made Hugh’s hackles rise.

“Of course,” Hugh replied, his tone terse. “Why?”

“You haven’t been into Dunfermline in days.”

“Aye, and what of it?” Hugh injected a warning tone into his voice, yet Robert continued to watch him steadily.

“What happened to that woman you were seeing?”

Hugh drew in a slow breath, trying to bank his quickening temper. He’d known Robert le Breton a long while—it was the only reason he didn’t bite the man’s head off.

“It ended between us,” he bit out between clenched teeth.

Robert inclined his head. “She got upset about you leaving?”

“You should frequent whores … as I do,” Nicholas piped up with a grin. The bastard had been eavesdropping rather than concentrating on overseeing the training. “They’re less complicated.”

Hugh scowled. “We’re terminating this discussion now,” he growled, “And wipe that grin off yer face, Nicholas … before I do.”