Kingslayer's Daughter Read online

  She sucked in a breath and went weak in the knees when he cupped her breasts.

  “Ye’re a temptress, Sarah North.”

  “It’s the bonnet I need assistance with,” she replied, “not supporting my breasts.”

  The ease with which the word breasts rolled off her tongue took her by surprise. Munro had breached more barriers than she could have imagined.

  He shrugged. “Ye canna blame a mon for wanting to put his hands on such beautiful globes.”

  She inhaled the scent of his still-damp hair while he fixed the bonnet.

  Giles’ voice broke the spell. “Ready,” he yelled.

  Mixed Emotions

  Munro kept an eye on Sarah throughout the short graveside ceremony conducted by Reverend Grove. She retained her composure until the gravediggers began to lower the coffin. He put an arm around her waist when she swayed. She accepted the kerchief he offered, but didn’t lean into him. He got the feeling she was doing her best to cope with conflicting emotions.

  At the sexton’s nod, she inhaled the perfume of the sprigs of dried lavender she’d brought, then tossed them into the grave. “I’m sorry it’s not Chepstow,” she said softly, “but I know you’re together again.”

  She stood like a statue, watching as clods of earth were shoveled into the grave, but allowed Munro to ease her away after Grove left.

  “What’s in Chepstow?” Giles asked when they reached Edgbaston Street.

  Sarah replied before Munro could advise him to hold his peace. “My father is buried there.” She squeezed Munro’s hand and confided, “That was surprisingly easy to say.”

  His heart swelled. Sarah was blossoming like a snowdrop breaking through the frozen ground after a long winter.

  Giles looked back at the cemetery.

  “Are your parents buried here?” Munro asked.

  “No,” the boy replied sadly. “They didn’t find their bodies in the ashes.”

  Sarah put her arm around his shoulder. “But you can be assured they’re together in heaven.”

  Giles leaned into her, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

  Munro admired her compassion for an orphaned boy she barely knew, but it dawned on him Giles might complicate the campaign to convince Sarah to move to Scotland with him.

  He liked the boy and admired his resilient good humor. Perhaps the solution lay in ensuring a future for him in Birmingham that didn’t depend on Sarah. Another apothecary?

  It was a daunting prospect, given that he knew no one in the town with influence, and it was unlikely Giles would want to return to King Edward’s if Munro offered to pay the fees.

  He’d never been one to back down in the face of a challenge. When Sarah unlocked the door of the shop, he made his first move. “Mayhap ye can let me have yer spare key?”

  * * *

  Munro and Giles stayed downstairs to give Sarah a chance to change her clothes. She removed the bonnet, relieved to have it off her head, then perversely decided she didn’t wear her best outfit often enough. After donning an apron, she set out the leftovers for luncheon, then retrieved Reginald’s key from her mother’s satchel.

  When the two arrived, she handed it over, not fully understanding why she had mixed feelings about doing so.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he promised with a strange glint in his eye.

  She had no doubt he expected her to leave Birmingham and begin a new life in Scotland. That’s what wives did. She’d moved to Birmingham for Reginald. Giving Munro unfettered access to her living quarters signaled the first step in her surrender. She thirsted to be his wife, yet was conflicted.

  The shop was at last hers. She’d endured too much at Reginald’s hand to give it up without a second thought. The people in the neighborhood would have no one to turn to for remedies if she closed the shop, and finding a buyer would be nigh on impossible. What would become of Giles? She’d lived in England her whole life. Could she live with Scots? Given the general opinion of their tribal culture and untamed land, did she want to?

  There were many reasons to stay put, but Munro couldn’t remain in Birmingham indefinitely. He had family obligations. He might try to convince her otherwise, offer to cede the earldom to his brother, but in the long run he’d resent her for it. He was a proud Scot who would never feel completely at home in England. An earl’s son living in a cramped apartment above a shop—it was absurd.

  “Ye seem preoccupied,” Munro said as tucked the key in his waistcoat pocket and took his seat at the table.

  Giles stretched out his hands and bowed his head, launching into his prayer of thanks as soon as they were all holding hands. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.”

  Without further ado, he broke off a heel of bread and bit into it.

  “Short and sweet,” Munro quipped with a smile. “Must be hungry.”

  Sarah felt uncomfortable as the meal progressed. Giles retreated into uncharacteristic silence. The funeral had likely evoked too many dire memories. The intimate rapport she’d enjoyed with Munro earlier had evaporated. The stern set of his jaw betrayed his preoccupation. His campaign to woo her to Scotland would soon begin in earnest.

  However, it was important he read Henry Marten’s letters before that. She’d learned a lot about her parents and herself from the well-worn pages. Munro had to know everything there was to know, even if it meant he might withdraw his proposal. The prospect tightened the knot in her belly. “I suggest Giles and I spend the afternoon in the workroom preparing for the morrow. There’s a great deal to learn, young man, and we’ve lost too much time already.”

  Giles nodded, his mouth full.

  Munro frowned. “I can help, if ye like.”

  She shook her head. “I was hoping you’d spend some time reading Henry’s letters,” she said.

  He took her hand. “I will.”

  Their gazes met and they both silently acknowledged she’d surrendered yet another piece of herself to him.

  * * *

  Sitting in the upholstered chair, Munro stared at the satchel on his lap for quite a while after Sarah and Giles had gone downstairs. He had a keen interest in history. The letters were, in effect, important historical documents. However, he doubted he’d be able to read them with a dispassionate eye. It wasn’t just any history, it was Sarah’s.

  She seemed to have found therein the answers to questions that had plagued her all her life, and she’d trusted him enough to give him access to the contents.

  He opened the flap and pulled out the sheaf, surprised at its bulk, though Sarah had said there were at least a hundred letters.

  A quick perusal indicated more than one hand. The pile consisted of Mary’s replies as well as Marten’s letters. The old paper smelled musty. He marveled that Henry and Mary had treasured each other’s missives for more than twenty years, despite difficult circumstances. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Mary had given up her freedom to live with the man she loved.

  That gave him pause.

  Sarah’s cramped apartment wasn’t a prison, but it was far from an ideal place for a married couple to live and raise children. Did he love Sarah enough to stay in Birmingham so she could keep the shop? There was a lot to see and do in the bustling town, sufficient history to keep him interested for years.

  But it wasn’t Scotland. And he’d miss his family.

  Sarah had no kin in Birmingham.

  There was only Giles.

  Frustrated that his thoughts seemed to be going round in circles and getting nowhere, he moved to the table, smoothed out the first letter and started to read.

  Dining At The Swan

  Giles was a quick study and Sarah felt they’d accomplished a lot in an afternoon. But he was a boy, still a child really. As dusk drew in, she began to feel the need for adult conversation.

  She came close to whimpering with relief when Munro met them at the foot of the stairs with the remains of the cider and the last of the leftovers. �
�There’s only enough for ye, Giles,” he declared, “so I’m inviting Mrs. North to accompany me to The Swan for supper.”

  Giles grinned, eagerly filling his arms with the victuals. “Good idea, specially since she’s still wearing her best clothes and looks beautiful.”

  It seemed Giles had had enough of her company too.

  Munro chuckled as the boy hastened to the workroom. “That laddie will break a few hearts someday.”

  She took off her apron while he ran upstairs to retrieve his cloak and her shawl. She couldn’t recall Reginald ever assisting her to don a garment.

  Wiggling his eyebrows, he made a big show of producing his key to unlock the door. He ushered her outside, then locked up behind them. “Ye see, I’m very trustworthy.”

  They walked down the street arm in arm, again a new experience. She began to feel quite coquettish walking with a tall, handsome and finely-dressed man.

  They drew the eye of several passers-by.

  “’Tis a great pleasure to accompany a beautiful woman,” Munro told her.

  “There’ll be talk,” she replied, reverting back to her usual insecurities. “People will think my behavior scandalous so soon after Reginald’s death.”

  “Do ye care?” he asked.

  In truth, she didn’t. “Upon reflection, my husband was well known in this neighborhood. Most people avoided him. The shop only thrived because he rarely showed his face there. He spent more time in various inns and I doubt he’ll be missed.”

  He kissed her hand. “I would give anything to erase the memory of those years.”

  She shrugged as they entered the Swan. “In the event, he’s gone and I’m the apothecary.”

  “It means a lot to ye,” he said, returning the landlord’s wave.

  They located the last empty table in the otherwise crowded dining room. She sat in the chair Munro held out for her, nervous that what she was about to say would hurt him. “Yes. We need to discuss the shop.”

  * * *

  Munro took off his hat as he sat and perched it on his lap, glad to have something to occupy his hands. He was suddenly reminded of Sarah clutching the portmanteau in Gloucester. How long ago that seemed. He forced his racing heart to calm. “Tell me yer thoughts.”

  She shrugged the shawl onto the back of her chair. “Be patient with me,” she said, which did nothing to allay his fears.

  He put the hat on the table and divested himself of his own cloak. “Ye’ve faced a lot of upheavals recently,” he replied, leaning forward. “’Tis to be expected ye’re hesitant about another big change.”

  To his surprise, Luke came to wait on their table. The lad’s eyelids drooped and he failed to stifle a yawn. He’d likely been at work since dawn. It was a sharp reminder of what might become of Giles if they left him behind with no security. “I’m glad to see ye,” he said. “What’s the fare this night?”

  “Cornish pasties,” Luke replied. “And beef broth.”

  “No broth for me,” Sarah said.

  “Bring three pasties, if ye please. And two ales.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “I suppose you’ve forgotten my mother’s reference to eating pasties in Chepstow? I nigh on swooned.”

  Munro chuckled. “Right. I forgot. But all that’s behind us now. Ye ken what yer father did doesna matter to me?”

  “It will always matter to me, but I admit I have a different view of his actions now. I’d still prefer my parentage not be generally known. Even after so many years, the mention of Henry Marten’s name tends to cause strong reactions, some positive, but mostly not.”

  Munro nodded. “Long ago events are often viewed differently in hindsight. My mother’s heroism is the stuff o’ legend in the Highlands, yet few in England know of it, or even in the Lowlands. And as I said, she’s not a great lover of Charles.

  “My father was a Parliamentary soldier who single-handedly secured the surrender of the Earl of Glenheath’s rebel army. The earl was my mother’s uncle. I’m named for him.” He chuckled. “By the way, I mean single-handedly in the true sense. A badger bit off his index finger.”

  “Oh no,” Sarah replied. “That must have been painful.”

  “Aye, but a blacksmith’s skills saved him from an agonizing death from gangrene.”

  “A blacksmith?”

  “’Tis a long story,” he replied, moving his hat when Luke arrived with the food. “Anyway he was promoted to colonel and worked with General Abbott to bring about an end to the republic. They worked in secret to facilitate Charles’ eventual return from exile.”

  Her eyes widened. “The infamous Abbott. Another former champion of Parliament. Things are never just black and white, are they?”

  “Nay. And I doubt either of my parents would describe themselves as ardent royalists now.”

  Sarah picked up her pasty. “On the other hand, no one wants to see the return of a republic.”

  Just as Munro was about to bite into his food, Luke piped up, “Wilt thou be taking the Shrewsbury coach come Thursday, Mr. Pendray, sir?”

  The room was crowded and he hadn’t noticed the boy lingering near their table, listening. The question took him unawares. “We’ll see,” he replied, fishing in his pocket for a penny. Luke hurried away with a big grin on his face.

  Looking askance, Sarah swallowed, then dabbed her pretty mouth with a napkin. “Shrewsbury? I’ll warrant that’s where you were going all along, not Birmingham.”

  Munro held up his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged. My Welsh father went to the Shrewsbury School and I had a notion to visit it and then go on to North Wales before returning to Scotland.”

  She fluttered her eyelashes. “And what made you decide to come to Birmingham instead?”

  “Minx,” he replied. “Ye ken very well. My brother and sister thought the detour was a lunatic idea, and I had my own doots, but now I am certain Fate set me on the path to our meeting.”

  “You think we were destined to meet?”

  A hint of doubt in her voice sent gooseflesh marching up his spine. “Aye. Ye dinna agree?”

  * * *

  Sarah had long since lost all hope love even existed in the world—until she met Munro. But old habits and a lifetime of disappointments were hard to shake. “Yes, I do,” she replied. “But I also thought it was my destiny to be a successful and well-respected apothecary.”

  Munro polished off the rest of his food and chewed for a while before replying. “Make no mistake, Sarah, I intend to whittle down yer resistance until ye consent to come to Scotland and be my wife.” He winked. “Ye ken ’tis what ye want, but I accept it might take a while for ye to see the right of it.”

  She pouted, feigning offense.

  “And I appreciate ye dinna want to lose yer apothecary skills,” he continued. “We can look into ways to make use of them in Kilmer.”

  Deep in her heart she longed to tell him she’d leave for Scotland on the morrow if he insisted. But fear held her fast, as well as a perverse reluctance to give up the independence she’d sought for years. “And what about Giles? I can’t go off unless I’m sure he’s settled.”

  Munro finished his ale. “I anticipated that. We’ll think of something.”

  Thinking was almost impossible with Munro so close. His masculinity chased away everything except the memory of bodily pleasures and the anticipation of more to come. “Perhaps you should take the Shrewsbury coach,” she blurted out, immediately regretting the impulse.

  He frowned, clearly taken aback. “Ye want me to leave? Without ye?”

  “Just to fulfill your original pilgrimage, then come back. It will give me a chance to make inquiries, for the shop, and for Giles. I can’t think when I’m near you.”

  “I ken the feeling,” he teased, eyeing her leftovers.

  She pushed her plate to his side of the table. “I think you should return to the inn after walking me home. The coach leaves early. People will gossip if you stay over every night, and Giles will eventually let something
slip.”

  Goodbye

  Sarah’s obvious wish to put distance between them punched Munro in the gut. He’d already fantasized at length about another night of intimate cuddling and touching—getting to know each other’s bodies.

  However, he’d promised to be patient. He had to give her time.

  To do what? Decide she doesna love ye?

  Grinding his teeth, he lifted the shawl onto her shoulders when she rose from the table, itching to knead his fingers into her slender nape.

  The color had drained from her face. It struck him the impending separation would be as hard for her as it was for him. “I do want to see the Shrewsbury School,” he lied. “And visit Wales, the land of my forebears,” he added lamely.

  He paid for the meal on the way out, assuring the landlord he’d be taking the coach on the morrow.

  “Right-ho,” came the reply. “Still just the one seat?”

  Munro glanced at Sarah, hoping against hope, but she averted her eyes and walked away into the foyer. “Aye, just the one.”

  “Nine o’the clock. Luke’ll fetch down thy luggage.”

  “I’ll be back shortly, after I escort Mrs. North home,” he replied pointedly, mindful of Sarah’s concerns.

  “Thy laundry’ll be here. Haven’t seen much of thee lately.”

  He nodded his thanks. At least he’d be venturing abroad with clean shirts. It was of little comfort.

  Sarah refused to meet his gaze when he reached the foyer. He linked arms with her, determined to relish every step of the short walk to her home.

  * * *

  Sarah had a thousand reasons for wanting to put some distance between her and Munro while she came to terms with all that had happened, but couldn’t organize her thoughts about a single one as they walked in silence.