Page 153 of Wicked Highland Heroes

Talbot nodded. “I sent word that Seward can attend us this week—at his leisure—for the wedding feast.”

“You are playing with fire.”

“With that woman?” He snorted. “Aye, that I am.”

He remembered his surprise—and shock—when her blade sliced the flesh of his wrist. He also hadn’t forgotten the feather-light weight of her body across his thighs. He hadn’t met her before tonight, hadn’t cared if the sight of her shriveled his bollocks to the size of peas. She represented the possible end of constant warring, the birth of sons, and daughters he would have to heavily dower if they, too, turned out to be horse-faced like their mother.

But Rhoslyn Harper wasn’t horse-faced, and her body—her body belonged to a woman who hated him. He would have no trouble consummating the marriage, but he would have to tie his wife’s hands to the bedpost to keep her from plunging a knife into his back while he drove into her. He felt himself harden at the thought and grimaced. It might not have been as pleasurable if she had been horse-faced, but it would have been safer.

“Is the king’s favor worth allying ourselves to such vipers?” Baxter’s voice disrupted his thoughts. “She will cause you misery all your days. I would not ask it of you. No one would.”

Talbot crossed to the table near the hearth where a pitcher of ale sat and poured two mugs. He returned to his friend, handed him a mug, and motioned for him to sit on the bench in front of the fire.

They sat and Talbot took a long, fortifying drink of ale before he said, “My marriage is not about incurring favor, as you well know. I can no more ignore Edward’s command than Lady Harper can ignore her duty.”

Though she had done just that tonight. That was unfair, he realized. What Scottish noblewoman would willingly marry an English knight, and a bastard knight at that, even if he had been legitimized?

Lady Rhoslyn Harper was not stupid, as he had learned tonight. Clearly, she didn’t agree with the pervading Scottish sentiment that the extended period of relative peace between Scotland and England meant that Edward wasn’t trying to bring Scotland under his rule.

Baxter finished his ale and set the mug on the bench beside him. “You have enough land and wealth to live well the remainder of your days. You no longer need please Edward.”

Talbot took a draw on his ale. His wrist ached. He would need several mugs to ease the pain, but not so much as to dull his wits when he was finally alone with his bride. He glanced at the door connecting the solar to the antechamber that led to his bedchambers. He had expected more shouts when he’d slammed the door in her face. She was too quiet. Had she accepted her fate? He snorted. Not that one.

He took another gulp of ale, then said, “You are naive if you believe Edward will ever release me from service.” Talbot flashed a tired smile. “I have made myself too valuable.”

“And this is how he rewards you? Exiled in this God forsaken country.”

Talbot stretched his legs toward the inviting fire. “God forsaken, perhaps. But also far from the certain trouble brewing in England.”

“And if the Guardians cannot maintain peace in Scotland?” Baxter demanded. “How much peace will there be here, even this far north? Wallace has no intentions of letting Edward rule Scotland, even if the Guardians are fool enough to let him seize power.”

Talbot sighed. He could always count on his captain to name the worst of his fears. “The Guardians chose Edward to arbitrate because he can break the deadlock, and he has the power to enforce his decision. No one wants war in Scotland. Not the Guardians, not Edward—nor I. You put too little faith in our king.”

“I know our king,” Baxter shot back, but with no real malice.

“No matter,” Talbot said. “Any rebellion that breaks out here is preferable to war with Wales or France.”

Or England, for that matter.

If Talbot could maintain order, here in Buchan, Edward was unlikely to call him to service for anything short of a large campaign. He tired of killing. Seventeen years was enough.

“Let us pray the problems here in Scotland remain small,” he said.

Baxter regarded him from the corner of his eye. “Your betrothed tried to kill you.”

Talbot barked a laugh. “Women are troublesome.”

Baxter gave him a sidelong glance. “I have often wondered that he doesn’t worry that your mother’s Scottish blood might sway your allegiance.”

“Edward believes that I will be accepted because my mother was Scottish. I never knew her. I am no more Scottish than you are Flemish.”

“I am loathe to admit it, but the place suits you,” Baxter said.

“And the rest of Lady Rhoslyn’s property will suit me as well.”

Whether the lady liked it or not.

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