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“My apologies for startling you, my lord. A servant heard a door and thought you might be awake and needing assistance.”
“We will leave at dawn, Master John. It seems the rain has finally ended?” At least, it appeared so from his chamber, though the slits were small and light rain easily could have avoided notice.
“Aye, my lord, it has. Do you care to break your fast in the hall or shall I have the cook pack your party a meal for the road?”
“For the road,” he said. “And if you could have my men woken as well.”
He nodded. “Aye, my lord. Will that be all?”
Haydn thought back to his and the steward’s original conversation. “You mentioned a boon when we arrived. . .”
The steward shook his head. “Nay, my lord. I can not ask it of you. Apologies for—”
“Your hospitality has been most generous. What can I do for you, Master John?”
Something had made the man nervous, and Haydn could only guess it had to do with what he wanted to ask him.
“I hesitate with this request but, as I’m desperate to get her a message. . .” He took a deep breath. “My daughter married a Scot, from the borderlands. Just north of Brockburg.”
He immediately understood. And the steward’s request was an easy one to fulfill. “You know my family well, then,” he mused.
“My daughter’s husband,” he whispered by way of explanation.
“’Tis no crime to be married to a Scot,” Haydn reminded him.
“In these uncertain times. . .” He trailed off.
Haydn thought to reassure him. “I can easily have a message brought to your daughter,” he said. Brockburg, the seat of Clan Kerr, was just north across the border from Bristol, where he was headed. His cousins often came to and from both residences. Surely one of them could send a missive quite easily. “I am headed to the border myself,” he said.
The man’s smile was Haydn’s reward for his service. Clearly he worried for his daughter’s safety, and on that point, Haydn would not falsely reassure him. Though the corridor between Bristol and Brockburg was relatively safe, courtesy of their two families’ alliance, elsewhere along the border was anything but. Even the monthly Day of Truce was proving to be less and less effective now that King Edward had essentially staked a claim in Scotland.
“Thank you, my lord.” Master John bowed. “I will prepare the message immediately and see you are sent off with provisions. If you will pardon me, Lord Waryn.”
He watched as the steward disappeared down the stairwell and turned toward his chamber. There, in its threshold, was his wife. He hadn’t heard the door open. Did she do it quietly lest she be heard? Had she been listening the entire time?
“I thought we travelled to Hillstone?”
Haydn wished now, more than ever, they’d had that talk the night before. What could he say? Certainly he wasn’t ready to simply trust her to be loyal to him, to his family?
Pushing aside thoughts of their night together, Haydn willed himself to consider his family. The border was dangerous, more now than ever. And they were all in the crosshairs. His aunts and uncles, his cousins. . . .
“Not we, Phillipa. You.”
Chapter Twenty
She spun back inside the chamber, attempting to close the door, but Haydn was too quick. He pushed it open and stepped inside, reaching for her. Phillipa slipped away as her husband closed the door.
Pretending he was not standing just behind her, she walked toward the fire, still roaring as it had last night, courtesy of Haydn no doubt. The same Haydn who was not coming to Hillside Manor.
“I must get to Bristol,” he said, coming upon her from behind. When he placed his hand on her arm, she closed her eyes. “Phillipa, look at me.”
She could not. He would see the tears that had begun to form in her eyes. Even closing them did not help. Her throat tightened with the implications of his admission, one he’d not shared with her.
“You were to leave me there.”
“Phillipa. . .”
Since she refused to budge, he stepped around her to her front, but still she would not open her eyes. His thumb brushed her cheek, wiping away a single tear that had escaped from under her lashes.
