Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

9

TIME TO SPILL SECRETS

NESSA DREW A blanket around herself before she pushed her hair out of her eyes and cast a glance over her shoulder at the man sprawled upon the coverlet.

Hugh de Burgh had indeed stayed a little longer.

In fact, he’d remained overnight in her bed. He slumbered deeply now, after a largely sleepless night.

Nessa smiled. It was a tired, yet slightly loopy smile—the smile of a woman who’d been well bedded.

Rising to her feet, she stretched like a cat. Then, pulling the blanket tightly about her, she padded across to where the remnants of the brick of peat still glowed. It was close to going out. She added more fuel to it and then stirred the embers to life, before putting on some water to boil. The pale light of dawn peeked through the cracks around the shutters and doors. It was so cold this morning that Nessa’s breath steamed. However, she didn’t pay the chill any mind.

After the night she’d just passed with Hugh, the cold barely touched her.

She couldn’t get the silly smile off her face.

Pull yerself together, a stern voice cautioned her. Suddenly, it was as if Fyfa and Breanna were standing next to her. Remember why ye lured this man into yer bed.

Nessa’s smile did fade then. She imagined her sisters’ steady gazes resting on her, reminding her of who she was. And who Hugh de Burgh was.

Glancing back at where her lover was starting to stir, Nessa frowned.

Aye, she had to remember what was at stake here.

The English were a blight on Scottish soil, and like some foul disease, they steadily marched north. Every year, more Scottish clan-chiefs bent the knee to The Hammer. Even the likes of William Wallace hadn’t managed to stop them. The freedom fighter had currently gone to ground; no one knew his whereabouts.

Nessa turned away, her mood clouding.

The Guardians of Alba had watched over these lands since far back in the mists of time, when the Romans had tried to conquer the forests and mountains of Caledonia. The Romans had eventually failed—and so would the English.

Nessa’s gaze flicked then to her work table. She had prepared a mix of herbs, Pennyroyal being the principal ingredient, which she would take, along with a charm whispered as the sun rose high into the morning sky.

The last thing she wanted was for her womb to quicken—especially with an Englishman’s seed. One of the first things Colina had taught Nessa, after her moon flow began at fourteen winters, was how to prevent a bairn from taking root within her. A Guardian of Alba couldn’t devote herself to protecting Scotland with a brood of bairns hanging from her skirts.

A murmured oath behind her drew Nessa’s attention then. She turned once more, to see that Hugh had sat up.

“Is it dawn already?” he asked, his voice hoarse with sleep.

“Aye,” Nessa replied, forcing a smile. “I’m about to make some broth. Would ye like some?”

“I’d better get back to camp,” he replied, shifting off the bed and walking naked to where his clothing still lay upon the ground. “Before my squire sends out a search party for me.”

Nessa’s gaze tracked him. Did the man have any idea how beautiful his body was? Probably not—there wasn’t much vanity in Hugh de Burgh. She wagered he cared little for his looks.

He retrieved his clothing and dressed deftly.

“Ye have a squire?” she asked lightly.

“Aye, Thomas has been with me for a few years now … the lad fusses over me like a mother hen.”

Nessa kept a smile firmly fixed in place. “Do ye have any bairns of yer own, Hugh?”

He straightened up then as he laced his hose. His eyes shadowed, his handsome face tensing. “Aye,” he murmured. “A son. My wife, Anne, died birthing him … it’s been four years now, and I’ve not seen the lad since.”

He didn’t need to say anything more. His gaze said it all. This man harbored regrets.

Nessa pulled her scratchy blanket tightly around her. She suddenly felt exposed, uncomfortable. Enough of this. She was here to seduce him, not empathize. As yet she’d gained nothing useful from Hugh de Burgh. She had to make sure he returned to her bed.

Even so, she held her tongue as he dressed. This was a crucial moment. An overeager woman could ruin her chances in the cold light of dawn.

Hugh reached for his chausses, tying them on. Moments later, he’d also donned his gambeson and hauberk. Watching him dress, Nessa marveled at how easy he made it look. Then, retrieving his gloves, he approached her.

Nessa was a tall woman, yet Hugh towered over her.

Hooking a finger under her chin, he raised her face so that she met his eye. “Can I visit you again, Nessa?” he asked softly.

Nessa gazed up at him, triumph thrilling through her. Bless The Three, she was starting to get somewhere. Hugh was guarded and doggedly loyal to his king, but if he continued to visit her, she’d find a way to break down his defenses, a way to discover when and where the English would strike next. “Aye,” she whispered back.

“Good.” He leaned down then, his warm lips brushing against hers in a soft, sensual kiss that promised more. When he drew back, Hugh favored her with a slow, lover’s smile. “I’ll see you soon then.”

Three weeks later …

Teeth gritted against the cold, Nessa urged Honey through the snow, steering the mare away from the high drifts. Her mount snorted, tossing her head. After days of being cooped up, the garron wanted to run. They’d left the outskirts of Dunfermline—squat cottages frosted with snow, icicles hanging from their eaves—and rode toward the dark line of trees north of town.

Nessa usually went into Dunfermline on foot, yet she’d had a number of supplies to buy at market this morning, and so she’d ridden instead. An icy wind whipped in from the north, stinging her cheeks and ruffling Honey’s dark mane as they headed home.

Nessa’s fingers, which gripped the reins, ached with cold.

She couldn’t wait till spring.

Don’t wish time away, lass. Colina’s voice whispered to her. Not when ye have yet to get anything useful from yer lover.

“I don’t understand it,” Nessa muttered, voicing her frustration aloud. “The man’s as tight-lipped as a clam.”

In the weeks that had passed since Hugh de Burgh had first come to her bed, he’d visited her most evenings and always stayed the night—but he’d revealed nothing useful.

Instead, he’d told her more about Grosmont Castle, about the son he’d only seen once, and about his younger brother, Kit, who’d been a bit of a rogue in his early years. He’d even spoken of his widowed mother, who’d never been the same since the loss of her beloved husband. However, Hugh said little about the wife he’d lost, and less still about his king and the campaign Edward was in the midst of.

Muttering an imprecation under her breath, Nessa squinted ahead, at where her dwelling sat at the edge of the woodland, a thin column of smoke drifting from the turf roof. The sight of her home usually made her smile, yet this morning she was in ill spirits. It was the end of February now; this was likely the last snow before the thaw began. Eventually, the vast English army would heave itself off the valley floor east of Dunfermline, where they’d wintered, and march off.

But she had no idea when they planned to depart, or what their destination would be, and her frustration increased with each passing day. Frustration and nervousness—for each day she lingered here was one day her own people wouldn’t have the advantage.

“I can’t let Hugh get the better of me,” she told her pony. Honey plodded on, ears pricked toward their destination, oblivious to her rider’s words. “I should be done with my scruples and just use witching to get him to loosen his tongue … the others likely would.”

She didn’t doubt it. She was being entirely too principled. She’d wanted Hugh to give up his secrets naturally, as the result of a night of passion. Some of their couplings had been torrid—yet de Burgh remained as reticent as ever to divulge the details she needed.

Still brooding, Nessa returned to her cottage. She stabled Honey and carried her leather satchels, bulging with supplies, inside. She’d bought some aged cheese, butter, and dried sausage. She’d also stocked up on some bottles of bramble wine, made during the autumn and left to age over winter.

Yet Nessa wouldn’t need to dig into her stores until the following day. Hugh usually stayed for supper, but this evening he’d suggested they meet for a tankard of ale and a dish of roast mutton at an alehouse in town.

Nessa had readily accepted his invitation. Perhaps, after a few ales, the knight’s tongue would loosen.

Stacking the wine bottles upon a shelf, Nessa stepped back. Her gaze lingered on them before her mouth compressed.

Aye, she’d waited long enough.

If she didn’t get anything out of him at the alehouse, she’d have to take action. Next time he came to her bed, she would drug his wine. It was time Hugh de Burgh spilled his secrets.

“I have decided we will indeed strike Stirling next.”

The king’s words fell heavily in the warm air inside the tent. Hugh shifted upon his seat. He’d been expecting such an announcement. Edward’s ice-blue eyes held a flinty look.

“Finally!” Prince Edward held up his silver goblet aloft in a toast. The prince sprawled on a nest of cushions, across from where his father reclined in his chair. “The men need a good scrap … and so do I.” He cut Hugh a veiled look then. “Does the commander of our army agree?”

Hugh frowned. The three men were alone, except for two page boys, who stood unobtrusively in the corners, waiting to jump to the king’s commands. It had been a long and bone-numbingly cold day. The afternoon was drawing on, and Hugh was keen to bathe before meeting Nessa in town. The Abbot’s Arms put on a fine meal, and he wished to take Nessa out for the evening. However, the king had summoned him. “Aye,” he replied. “Stirling makes sense.”

Indeed, they’d spoken at length over winter of the various places they’d attack next. Stirling ‘the brooch of Scotland’ was a strategic choice. It was the bridge between the Lowlands and the Highlands. And, at present, the fortress was back under Scottish control.

It had galled Edward to lose Stirling in the past—and he knew the king was itching to take back the castle.

Hugh lifted his goblet to his lips and took a deep draft of wine. He then focused on the king. “And when do you propose to march?” He was aware his voice sounded flat. The truth was he felt conflicted. Part of him was eager to move on, while another part dug its heels in—for he hadn’t spent nearly enough nights in Nessa’s bed.

Edward’s cool gaze speared him. “In a month … if that’s not too soon, Hugh?”

There was no mistaking the challenge in the king’s voice, or the smirk upon the prince’s face. Nonetheless, Hugh refused to rise to the bait. “No,” he answered. “The worst of the weather will be over by then.”

Edward grinned in response. “Good … I intend for us to lay siege to Stirling’s walls by April.”