The Knight (Highland Guard #7.5)(34)

“Because he just rode in to see Father, and Father told me to tell you to have the servants ready some refreshments for his private solar. Apparently they have something to discuss.” Constance’s brows furrowed together. “It must be important, although I don’t think Father is very pleased.”

Joanna didn’t think her heart had beat or a breath had left her lungs since her sister’s pronouncement. Her blood seemed to have frozen solid in her veins.

“Why do you say that?” their mother asked.

Constance lowered her voice. “He was glowering at Sir James, and Father told him they didn’t have anything to talk about.” She shrugged with all the carelessness of an innocent thirteen-year-old. “But Sir James said something to convince him.” She sighed. “Just wait until you see him, Jo, he looks magnificent. I’ve never seen him look so fine. He’s wearing a surcoat with the Douglas arms.”

But Joanna had no intention of seeing him. James had come to speak to her father about business, and probably didn’t even know she was here.

Her gaze shot to her mother. She nodded and Joanna hurried out of the Hall, racing up to her room while her formerly stagnant heart now beat thunderously in her chest.

The next two hours passed in agonizing slowness, as Joanna tried to control her anxiousness, while she waited for the knock upon her door that would tell her he was gone.

She was being ridiculous. When she’d decided to return home, she’d done so with the knowledge that she would not be able to avoid seeing him in the future. She just hadn’t anticipated the future being so soon.

Why was he here? It seemed an odd time to take a break from war with the English king supposedly readying to lead another campaign in the summer. She couldn’t believe King Robert would let one of his most important knights leave at a time like this.

Finally, the knock came. It wasn’t her mother. Instead, it was one of the servants, telling her that her father wished to see her in the Hall. Assuming James was gone, she was shocked when she entered to see him standing beside her father.

Constance was right. He did look magnificent. This was the young lord of Douglas he would have been had the war not come. His hair gleamed like polished ebony, falling in silky dark waves across his forehead, his jaw was freshly shaven, his mail coif and sword shimmered like spotless silver, and his velvet surcoat embroidered with the blue stripe and three stars of the Douglas arms—the azure three mullets argent—was fit for a king. He looked more handsome than she’d ever seen him, but so much the important lord, it made her chest pinch.

She didn’t realize her feet had stopped moving until her father spoke. “Come, daughter. There is no cause for alarm.”

The soothing tones of her father’s voice did little to ease the trepidation mounting inside her.

Though she was conscious of the towering man at his side, she kept her gaze fixed on her father, as she slowly made her way down the center aisle of the otherwise empty Hall. Her mother was no longer seated by the fire and the servants who should be setting out the tables for the midday meal were nowhere to be found.

She stopped a few feet away. “Father,” she said. Then, knowing she couldn’t avoid him any longer, she turned to James and dropped her head in a deferential bob. “My lord.” She lifted her gaze long enough to see his mouth tighten (presumably at the bob, which she’d never given him before), and then quickly turned back to her father. “You asked to see me?”

The normally jovial expression on her father’s face was gone. His countenance was harder than she’d ever seen it, but it softened with concern when he looked at her. “Aye. The young lord has asked for permission to speak with you. I have granted it.”

From his voice, she could tell that it had not been granted easily.

Joanna knew she should refuse—God knew they’d caused each other enough pain the last time they’d “talked”—but after assuming he’d never want to speak with her again, she was also curious as to what he had to say.

Perhaps sensing her hesitation, James spoke for the first time. “Please, Joanna, it is important.”

The quiet urgency of his tone surprised her. As did the look in his eyes when their gazes finally locked. He was pleading with her, which was ridiculous. James Douglas didn’t plead.

“Please,” he repeated, belying her thoughts.

Her chest squeezed. The small sign of weakness made her want to refuse.

“Listen to him, daughter,” her father said. “Then you can decide whether you want me to send him away.”

She looked back and forth between the two men, men who used to act more like father and son than vassal and lord, but now stood in stiff anger, and felt her chest squeeze again. She might not be able to do anything to repair the damage that had been done to her relationship with James, but she could do something about her relationship with her father. She would not let what had happened between her and James come between them. She, too, had a duty. Finally, she nodded.

The moment her father left, Joanna wanted to call him back. Her nerves were jumping, and she had to clasp her hands together to prevent them from twisting.

Perhaps sensing her nervousness, James said, “Will you walk with me outside?”

She nodded gratefully and walked alongside him as he led her out of the Hall and down the wooden stairs to the yard.

He didn’t say anything, nor did he take her arm as he usually did, but he seemed to be doing his best to give her time to get used to him again. But his presence was never anything she could get used to. Awareness leapt to every one of her nerve endings and filled her senses whenever he was near. Just the way he smelled—always so clean with the faintest tinge of soap—made her feel as if she’d drunk one too many goblets of wine.