“Ye dinna have to tellme if ye dinna want to,” Tosia told James as she began to wipe away the filth from his skin. “Ye’ve fought before and come home to me, but this, ‘tis the first time I’ve seen ye so, weel . . .”
“Bloodied?”
Tosia dipped her head at the harsh reality of the word.
“Aye. Was it bad?” Her voice dropped low as she continued her ministrations, trying to wash every last drop of blood, every last bit of dirt, from his body.
He stilled under her hands, his skin taut against the rigid muscles.
“Bad enough. Bad because we’d entered under a banner of truce and were forced to rescind that truce. When a new strategy is made all of a sudden, the results are usually less clean than when a full set of tactics are embarked upon.”
Her hands moved easily over his shoulders and back, lightly scrubbing with the rag. James dropped his chin to his chest and moaned deeply. She took advantage of his position to wipe the rag over the grime on his neck and he moaned again, a resonant rumbling that touched her at her core.
“So ‘twas a trap? And ye had to account for that?”
He tipped his head to the side so she might scrub behind his ear.
“Aye. Your new ally Simon had spoken true. We set up a type of pit trap for the second regiment of men who rode in early that morn.”
Tosia dipped the rag into the bowl and paused, the water rushing in rivulets over her hand.
“What did ye do to them? The Englishmen in the trap?”
He shifted to give her a sidelong gaze that was at once hard and shrewd. In that instant, and her stomach knotted.
“We dispatched them. They will no’ have the opportunity to lay another trap again.”
James and his men killed them,that’s what he was telling her in his subtle way. Tosia resumed her scrubbing, moving in front of him to bathe his chest. James sat up tall on the stool and puffed out his chest, granting her full access to his body.
“What of the emissary?” she asked, keeping her eyes on her task. She was afraid to look into those granite eyes and bear what they might convey.
“If he did no’ know himself and his men to be sacrifices,” he told her in a tense voice, “then they at least knew a trap was to be set. Everything the emissary might have said would be a lie otherwise, and he had to know that.”
Tosia’s hand stilled. “What did ye do, then?”
James’s own large hand rested atop hers, holding her close to him as if he feared she might pull away when he told her of what he did. That she’d pull away from the monster he oft had to become in battle.
“The English, they were scattered on the road. But the emissary was expecting them, one way or another. We didn’t disappoint.”
This time, Tosia did raise her eyes to his face. She didn’t understand his implication. “What do ye mean? Ye said the men were killed. How —?”
James released her hand, and she was certain she noted his lips tug as if to smile, as if to flatter himself on what had transpired.
“They had no more use for their armor or weapons, so we donned their tunics, set our own plaids aside, and put on their armor. Thus, when we rode up to the manse, and the emissary welcomed us inside with open arms. He was expecting the English, ye ken, and the English he received. Or rather, their clothing. The men underneath, weel, he was no’ expecting them so much.”
Tosia clutched the damp cloth to her chest and gasped. “Ye used their own clothing against them? Like a costume?”
James nodded, his smug expression no longer hidden. “Aye, we did. The emissary and his men had no’ notion of what happened until his own kinsmen appeared to turn on him. Before the Bruce ran the emissary through with his sword, he did remove his helmet, so that the emissary’s final sight was of the King of Scotland. He thought it fitting, aye?”
Astonishment at James’s casual words over so dire a deed stilled Tosia, as she stood stock-still before him. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his head into her belly. Her hands had their own will and found his hair, threading through it, twisting and brushing the black locks.
How did he manage to findanypeace after such a battle? To have hope crushed, to turn around and slay those who betrayed him, then ride home to find sanctuary her arms? To shed the skin of the beast and just be a man, a captain, a husband, took more mettle than Tosia could imagine. Perchance speaking those horrors aloud gave him a way to forget the events, move on with his life, until the life he lived was one of peace under an independent Scotland.
Tosia found it difficult not to judge him, but she wasn’t there; she wasn’t a soldier— at best she’d been the bearer of harrowing news. How could she judge him for the actions he deemed necessary once presented with that information?
She couldn’t.
Instead, she finished wiping down his face, chest, and belly, helped him removed his stained braies (and tossed those in the fire as well), and then put him in the bed. Tosia shrugged her dampened kirtle from her shoulders where it fell in a creamy pool on the stone floor and joined him in bed.
