As king, he needed to find a way to balance the horrific darkness of James with a sense of potential loss so the man didn’t make a final, overreaching step from which he might not return. The Douglas was adrift, even with his clansman and his Moorish friend. They didn’t anchor him, not in the same way having a family might.
Robert had been struggling with that issue — how to anchor Douglas, provide a counterbalance for his somber pain that drove him to the brink of lunacy. Otherwise, Robert might find his own soul past the point of no return.
And as God had been doing for the past several months, He dropped the solution to this Douglas problem right in his lap in the form of a slender, pleading missive.
Would Douglas accept it? Only if his king commanded it. And by God, Robert would command it. He had the solution mapped out.
All he required was for James to say aye.
Aheavy rapping atthe door of the study interrupted the Bruce’s thoughts. He moved to his seat behind the desk and settled himself.
“Enter,” he commanded.
The giant Douglas man entered on confident feet and in two long strides was before the Bruce. He bowed briefly then leaned his own gigantic frame on the armchair back that squealed in protest. Robert flicked his eyes to the offended seat, wondering if it would splinter under James’s weight.
Robert the Bruce was a man of fair size. Some even claimed him to be large — quite appropriate for a Scots warrior. Other men, many from the Highlands like the red-headed Sinclair and his brothers, bordered on immense, making Robert feel small in comparison.
There were none that Robert had met who compared in size or demeanor to Black Douglas.
The man wasn’t just tall — ‘twas like setting an ancient pine next to a sapling and calling the pine tall. Even giant didn’t fit, as it was too small a word. Was there a word that fit a man such as James? If so, Robert didn’t know it.
And it wasn’t only his height. Many men in the Scottish Highlands were tall, but the breadth of James — his shoulders, his chest, his back, his legs — the sole comparison Robert could muster was the Greek story of the half-bull monster that lived in the maze. James was a veritable Minotaur.
Black as a title fit him well, not for his disposition, but for his rich black mane that brushed his shoulders in a matted wave, his gray eyes lined in deep black lashes, and the grim expression the man wore without end. Even his voice was a grumbling, rolling voice that easily struck fear into most men.
Aye, Black Douglas was a fitting name.
A name Robert wanted to scale back, at least a hint, to save both his soul and James’s.
James’s gray eyes studied Robert in the way he imagined a wildcat might study a vole. With stark and unending patience, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. A chill coursed over Robert’s back.
Douglasmustaccept this request.
Robert bided his time for several moments, shifting through the parchments on the desk before turning his gaze to James.
“I’ve a letter, James,” Robert began, working to frame his words in the best light possible. James prided himself on his hard nature, his warrior status, his ability with a sword. Marriage, if not love, was not something James was searching for. If anything, Robert knew the man was running from those earthly trappings.
He’d heard the rumors, and many lasses found the Black Douglas exciting, mysterious, a man they might conquer. Beautiful lasses, ones any man would be pleased to find in his bed. Yet Douglas shunned them all. From what Robert’s men had said, Douglas didn’t take anyone to his bed since he’d arrived.
Guarding his heart? Guarding his body? Was the man so jaded he didn’t feel safe or comfortable finding his release with maids at the keep? Even when they had been ensconced at Threave earlier in the spring, he hadn’t allowed anyone close to him.
Only Thomas and his dark friend the Shabib the Moor were permitted close conference.
Well, they and Robert himself.
Robert shook his head. No, James wasn’t going to receive this information well at all.
“What’s in your letter? Something from one of your Highland clans?”
James’s voice reflected the man. Deep and resonating.
“Ye may want to sit for this,” Robert told James, sweeping his hand to the wood-backed chair presently threatening to buckle. If James were mad, as many suggested, as his own history suggested, then having that giant, black-haired man sitting instead of towering over him was a prudent idea.
James stared at Robert unmoving then lifted one bushy eyebrow and settled his girth into the chair that protested all the more. From the corner of his eye, Robert noted the Moor had followed Douglas to the study and now shifted to stand behind Black Douglas, his dark, long-fingered hands lost in the draping folds of his blue cape. Between the two of them, they commanded any room in which they stood, overpowering even the presence of a King, Robert begrudgingly acknowledged. Aye, a fine weapon indeed.
But a weapon that must be controlled.
Robert’s hand grasped the letter that potentially held a measure of that control.
