“Ye agreed to the union. And your friend Shabib seems to think ye have some redeeming qualities, other than your talent for war. I’ll admit, I have yet to see them, but Shabib assures me they are there, albeit buried deep.”
Shabib needs to keep his mouth shut,James thought.
James rubbed his face with his calloused hands, then faced his king.
“I’ll try. But those qualities may be buried too far to be resurrected.”
“Well, if our Lord can do it after being dead for three days, I’m inclined to believe the Black Douglas can do it whilst still alive. I’ll have the lass sent to your chambers at my behest. Speak to her, show her ‘tis more to the beast than his hard exterior. Best she care for ye before ye wed. I’d not have the lass live in fear of ye as her husband.”
Neither would I.
James averted his eyes and bowed slightly and then retired to his chambers to await his petrified bride to be.
For more times thatshe could count, Tosia wanted to run for the Highlands. Instead, she found herself at the chamber door to the Black Douglas. She raised her fist to knock on his door, but her hand hesitated, hanging in the air. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Enter the lion’s den?Nay.
As she swirled away to run back down the hall, the door flung open, and the man stood at the threshold, his unblinking gaze assessing her.
“Thank ye for joining me. Please enter.”
His voice was low, softer than she’d expected, and the hard lines of his cheekbones and nose weren’t as razor sharp as she’d recalled from days past. Yet his tall, brawny form was as formidable as ever. She swallowed hard, gathered her courage as she gathered her skirts, and stepped inside.
James moved to the hearth, keeping a suitable distance between them. He moved easily, relaxed in the security of his private chambers. They were not much larger than hers with nothing to indicate he was a man of note, a laird, the right hand of the king.
Tosia hesitated near the door, ready for a quick escape if necessary, and clenched her hands open and closed as she waited for James to speak of why the King had commanded her here.
James reclined against the stones of the hearth. “Ye fear me because of what ye’ve heard, aye?”
The question caught her off guard. James’s deep voice rumbled in the sparse area of his chambers in the King’s temporary keep. The room resembled the character of James himself — barren, empty, devoid of any personal touch. And this was the man who was to be her husband?
Tosia wanted to lie to him, feign any knowledge of his escapades on behalf of the Scot’s cause, but that would be a foolish thing to do. He’d know she was lying — everyone in Scotland knew of his reputation as a demon on earth. Lying didn’t become her.
She nodded at his question. “Aye, I’ve heard of ye. Of the Glen Trool victory. Of the Douglas Larder.” Her voice drifted to nothing on that last word. Such a simple word that, because of the black-furred man standing in front of her, had a new and terrible meaning. One only had to speak the word “larder” and the skin prickled in horrified fright. He was a man larger than life, larger than the King in many ways. and if she were honest with herself, she feared this blackguard more than she feared The Bruce.
And here she was, in his chambers, soon to be his bride. Tosia shuddered.
James’s hard face didn’t change or shift at the mention of his vile acts. Rather, he tipped his head slightly, his piercing eyes studying her as she stood by the foot of the bed. He possessed the look of a wild cat preparing to pounce on its prey, and she fidgeted under that gaze.
“Ye think me a villain? That I am no better than the English dogs?”
A hot lump formed in Tosia’s throat. How was she to answer such a question? What woman called her soon-to-be husband a villain or an English dog?
Tosia was many things, but not a fool. Her mother, God rest her soul, had raised her better than that.
She shook her head. “I dinna believe I am in the place to call anyone such a thing. I dinna know ye well enough,” she told him with as much confident honesty as she could muster.
James licked his lips, a slight touch of pink against his black facial hair. The gesture was odd to Tosia, a human touch to an inhuman being.
“Fair enough,” he growled. James shifted against the hearthstones, leaning toward her. “Why don’t ye ask about me? Instead of relying on the grim rumors that surely abound in the Highlands?”
Ask him? What could she possibly ask that wouldn’t sound like an accusation? Like doubt? And how would he take that?
Tosia bit at her dry lip and played with her skirts as she considered. He waited patiently, his arms crossed over his chest (his impossibly broad chest! How did the King manage to find every Scottish giant for his army?) as his gaze rested on her.
“There are rumors that ye are the King’s tactician. Is that true?” That sounded like a valid question, more like she was questioning the rumors, not him.
He nodded, his swath of black waves brushing against his collar. “Aye, myself and several other men — MacCollough and his man Torin Dunnuck, John and Asper Sinclair, Edward — we serve as advisers.”
His answer was direct, to the point, and in the same tone as when she’d first entered the room. He didn’t appear upset or angered that she’d asked.
