Page 61 of The Scot

Running to his mount, Terric ignored James’s calls.

“Who do I tell? How will you return? Lord Dromsley?”

But Terric could not waste another moment. He rode as fast as the hill beneath him would allow, taunted by the sight of the bridge and the men beyond it.

The wooden planks creaked under their weight.

If he could not delay them, James would be lucky to escape with his life. Well, his scouts would warn Dromsley even if James could not. Terric tightened his grip, cursed himself for a fool for allowing this to happen, and rode directly toward the enemy.

“Your sister does not seemherself this morn.” Lance clearly had meant the comment only for Idalia’s ears, although Roysa could still hear him.

They sat in morning mass, Dromsley’s chaplain urging them to pray for Terric’s safety.

None were supposed to have learned of his mission. But the knowledge had spread, as information does, and his absence had been noted. Gilbert had finally told the men. Who had told their wives. Who had told the servants. In just two days, all of Dromsley knew, which was just as well, according to Gilbert.

By now, they’d have reached the bridge. If all had gone well, they would be returning home.

“Aye, ’tis very much Roysa,” Idalia whispered back. “She does this when worried.”

Roysa assumed this meant her gown. And headpiece. The extra care she’d taken with her appearance this morn. Unfortunately, it was the only thing under her control. Since she and Terric had not even announced their betrothal, Roysa had no purpose at Dromsley. She could not handle the castle’s affairs or take inventory of their stores. Even at Stokesay her duties had kept her mind from her dismal circumstances and hope for a possible escape from it. There was nothing except endless days and nights of waiting.

And worrying.

“I can hear you,” she whispered back. “Both.”

Finally, when she thought she could bear the sitting and listening no longer, mass ended.

But something odd was happening. At first she thought it happenstance, that the chamberlain should look at her so, but others were staring at her too.

As they filed out of their seats, she said, “Idalia. They are looking at me.”

Her sister put a finger to her lips. She only spoke once they were well beyond the chapel. “Lance, I will meet you in the hall.”

He lifted Idalia’s hand, kissed it, and bowed to them both. It struck Roysa that he most certainly did not look like any blacksmith she had ever known. Lance’s grey and deep blue surcoat draped down to his knees. And while it was not overly ornate, he did look very much like the lord that he was. With manners to match.

“Come,” Idalia said, pulling her hand.

Although Roysa did not know where she wished to take her, she had another destination in mind.

“This way.”

Taking a candle from the wall, she led Idalia to the lovely window seat in Chapel Tower. When Idalia spotted the window, Roysa bit back a smile.

“’Tis lovely, is it not?”

“Aye.” Idalia sat, gesturing for Roysa to join her. “How did you . . . ahh. Terric brought you here.”

“I cannot deny it.” Nor did she want to. Those memories were sweet, and she wished she had more of them to keep her company while he was away.

“Roysa, what you said in the chapel . . .”

“I was simply being silly. I worry for Terric. For us.” Except her sister’s expression—was that pity?—indicated she had not been wrong after all. “Tell me.”

“There are rumors.” Her sister shrugged.

“Idalia?”

“I did not want to mention it, but neither do I wish for you to be unaware.”