The Recruit (Highland Guard #6)(59)

Not realizing the state of panic he’d thrown her in, Davey went on. “Hell’s gates, it was something! We almost had them, thanks to Sir Kenneth.” He shook his head in boyish amazement. “I’ve never seen men fight like that. At least I think they were men. It was difficult to tell, until the one got close enough when he came at me with his sword.”

Mary was grateful that the edge of the bed was so near, because her legs suddenly didn’t feel strong enough to hold her. She sank onto the soft mattress, grabbing one of the four wooden posts to steady herself.

Davey was oblivious and opened his mouth to continue, but Sir Kenneth cut him off. “You’re frightening your mother, lad. Perhaps you might share your stories with your fellow squires instead?”

The boy’s eyes lit up with excitement. It was obvious that the prospect of telling battle stories to an appreciative audience was too tempting to resist. “If you are sure you don’t need anything?” It was Mary’s turn to frown. Why was Davey being so attentive to Sir Kenneth? “Do you need help with your armor?” he asked.

“I don’t think I will be wearing armor for a while, but I’m sure your mother can get me anything I need.” Mary shot him a glare, not mistaking the innuendo. “Go,” he said to Davey. “I’ll see you in the yard in a few minutes.”

Davey raced by her but she stopped him. “Wait,” she said, catching him by the arm. She reached out and gently smoothed his hair back from his face. She gave him a tender smile. “You have a smudge on your brow.” She tried to wipe it away with her thumb.

For a moment, he seemed to sink into the caress, enjoying the motherly contact. But then he startled and twisted his head away. “Don’t!” He cast a mortified glance to Kenneth. “It’s nothing.”

Before she could think how to respond, he darted out of the room.

The rejection, though understandable, stung. Thirteen-year-old boys didn’t need their faces wiped by their mother. No matter how desperately she longed to go back to recapture his lost childhood, she could not.

Not with Davey at least.

“When I was his age, everything my parents did was embarrassing to me—especially my mother. Now I’d give anything to have her fussing over me.”

Mary stiffened, not realizing how carefully he’d been watching her—or how much her expression must have given away. Embarrassed and yet strangely moved by his effort to soothe her. “She died?”

He nodded. “Some years back.”

Not liking the moment of connection—or perhaps liking it too much—she changed the subject to the one that had been bothering her. “Why are you here in Sir Adam’s chambers, and why was Davey with you?”

He reached for a black leather surcote that had been tossed on the back of the wooden chair and started the somewhat tricky proposition of putting it on with a bandaged arm. She resisted the urge to offer to help, knowing she shouldn’t get too close to him.

She thought he might be avoiding her question, but finally he said, “I’m staying with Sir Adam and the boy offered to help.” He arched a brow speculatively. “I could ask the same of you.”

She blushed, knowing he had a point. She shouldn’t have come to Sir Adam’s chamber alone. “Sir Adam is an old friend of my husband’s—and of mine.”

“Then it seems we have something in common. Sir Adam’s father fought with my grandfather in the last crusade. I’ve known him since I was a lad. I fostered with his nephew.”

He winced when the bandaged part of his arm tried to pass through the sleeve.

She bit her lip, but kept her feet planted. “Your arm, will it be all right?”

He gave her a mocking smile, finally shrugging the surcote onto his shoulders. “I didn’t think you cared, Lady Mary.”

She glared at him impatiently.

His mouth quirked. “I might not be able to lift my sword for a few days, but there should be no lasting damage. Nor should it affect other body parts, if that’s what you are worried about.”

She flushed, despite knowing that he was just trying to embarrass her. Apparently the man was outrageous on both sides of the border. “I’m sure England’s eager young widows and their attendants will be greatly relieved.”

The dry observation only seemed to amuse him. She knew she should go. But something stopped her. Something about what Davey had said. Something she didn’t want to believe.

What did Davey mean, “Thanks to Sir Kenneth?” She worked it out as she spoke. “This journey to Ettrick was because of you. You told them where Bruce’s men would be.” She stopped and looked at him, aghast. “You betrayed them.”

Although there was no outward sign that her accusation bothered him—his expression remained perfectly impassive—she had the feeling that it had. His perfect, dare-you-to-resist-me mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “I think that’s a rather dramatic way of looking at it. I had knowledge, and I used it. This is war, my lady. ‘Betrayal’ is part of the game.”

“Is that what this is to you, a game? Pieces on a chessboard to move around? Ebony or ivory, you choose whatever side will put you in a better position?” The tic in his jaw was the only sign that she’d pricked his mocking facade. “What of honor? What of loyalty?”