Thistle and Roses Collection: A Bundle of Scottish, Irish and English Historical Romance

by Eliza Knight

  With no one to watch her, and needing to let off a little bit of her anger, Max stomped her slippered foot against the wooden planked floor. The sound pounded in the room, echoing. Perhaps she should have done it on the carpet, else now she might have alerted one of the servants to the study.

  There was always something. She was never free to do as she pleased. Not even stomp her own foot. She let out an exasperated growl, trying to make sense of the meeting she’d just had with the handsome stranger.

  Handsome. Yes. He was very handsome. And men that good-looking were dangerous. Womanizers. Thieves of more than just relics, but also women’s virtues and hearts. She’d hoped to scare him away with talk of marriage and her father, and perhaps she should be glad that he’d run—except she wasn’t glad. She was left feeling incomplete and unsatisfied. He’d gotten in the last word, and for some reason, he was a man she thought she could spar with. Indeed, she’d teased him plenty, something she never did with anyone.

  That alone was terrifying. Yes. Good riddance to the thieving swine.

  His threat to return to claim what was his had to be empty. And why in blazes would he think anything in her home was his to begin with?

  Had her father acquired something from the man? And if so, why was he trying to steal them back? A sale was a sale. Or a bet… Her father was forever gambling with other courtiers, whether it be a game of cards or a bet on a sport such as jousting. She turned around to stare at the sword on the mantel. What was so special about it?

  The Gladius fairly sparkled in the dim light. Whoever had owned it—mysterious nobleman or no—had taken care of it. Polished it.

  She walked over to the hearth to stare at the Gladius. Before now, she’d not taken much interest. Not after the odd feeling it gave her. The sword appeared above her father’s hearth years before. One of an endless stream of what he called priceless artifacts graced their various households.

  The dim light from the oil lamp on her father’s desk gave off enough of a glow that it flickered over the Latin words etched into the sword, some legible, others not. Though she’d studied the language with her tutor for years, she wasn’t an expert. And it was no thanks to her father who, whenever he saw her head in a book, pulled her out to have her practice her sewing. She had to be an asset to a man and men liked a wife who could sew.

  Max had an idea that she wouldn’t like a man who cared only about her sewing. She was probably doomed to a miserable marriage. Especially if she had to pick from the dolts her father had invited over this evening. Most of them were elderly widowers who played at advising the queen. Everyone knew Queen Elizabeth held her own counsel. Max admired her for it. She might have been a fearsome woman, a sovereign to fear, but she was also a strong woman. Max wondered if her own mother had been strong or if she’d been weak, as Max’s father kept wishing her to be.

  Max slid her fingers over the words, jumping when a tiny jolt, like that of lightning, shot up her arm.

  “Ouch,” she exclaimed, although it more shocked her than hurt.

  Ignoring the continued tingle in her arm, she studied the words.

  Something… Theodosia…

  Was it the name of the sword? She smirked. Men named everything. Her father even had a name for his lucky pair of gloves—The Protectors. She couldn’t help but wonder if the thieving nobleman had named this sword. “Theodosia,” Max said.

  She could have sworn the Gladius glowed for half a breath.

  If the Gladius was meant to be hers—and it was, the stranger’s claim be damned—then she’d best figure out what these words translated into and what they meant.

  Rubra prunas… Cum tantum somnium vestrum. She couldn’t understand the words. Max squinted at the verses, as if that would make them easier to decipher, but she’d been awful at Latin as a girl and age had not made her any better. She frowned, wishing she could make out what the rest of the scripted words said. There were at least four other lines of illegible writing.

  What a puzzle!

  She licked her lips, suddenly more interested in one of her father’s relics than ever before. Rushing toward his desk, she reached for his quill, ink and parchment to scribble down the words.

  Heart pounding with excited curiosity, she finished writing down the words when the door to the study banged open. Max jumped and whirled to face the baron.

  “Max, what are you doing in here? You disappeared. The feast is about to be served.” Her father scowled, his eyes flicking from the paper back to her. “Put that down. Let us go.”

  So the men had finally stopped patting themselves on the back and the food would be served. There was no arguing with her father. What would be the point? He’d likely take away her ability to choose one of the old dolts in their great hall and then where would she be? Likely more miserable than she would be if she simply agreed to do his bidding here and now. She set the quill and ink back on his desk, but rolled up the parchment. There was no way she’d leave it. Deciphering the words had been the most exciting thing to come her way since… well, since she could remember. A flash of dark brown thieving eyes assaulted her memory. No. He was not exciting, she lied to herself.

  Her father pointed to the parchment, his brow raised disapprovingly. “What are you doing with that?”

  “I found the Latin inscriptions fascinating. I but wanted to study them later,” she answered honestly, giving him a pleading look.

  Her father rolled his eyes. “A lady has no place in studying. You should be looking for a husband.”

  Max held her tongue and slipped the rolled parchment up her sleeve. “Yes, Papa,” she said. “I will.”

  “Now, enough with this silliness. Come to dinner.”

  Max nodded, following her father from the study and wondering if she would see the mysterious nobleman at the long table in the great hall.

  “Wipe him down and see that he’s given a proper amount of oats,” Sebastien told the groom as he dismounted and handed over the reins.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Sebastien gritted his teeth as he walked over the cobbles from his stable to the elegant front stairs of Rayne Hall. The doors were opened before he could touch the iron handles and his butler, Bims, sank into a bow.

  “My lord,” he murmured.

  Sebastien grunted, glancing up the marble staircase, half-expecting to see his mother surge down its expanse to find out if he’d been able to accomplish his mission.

  He breathed out a heavy sigh when he didn’t see her and flicked his gaze at Bims. “How is the countess?”

  Bims, ever stoic, did not appear in the least ruffled at the question. “The lady has been in her room since you left, my lord.”

  “Did she eat?”

  “Her lady’s maid did bring her a tray from the kitchen. From what I understand, she did not, however, eat any of it.”

  Sebastien’s frown intensified. His mother had refused food for the better part of three days. A wild, mad look had come into her eyes, and this morning, when he’d spoken to her, he’d been determined to give her what she wanted—the ring and sword. The return of the de Rayne relics would solve everything and bring his mother back to him.

  This was Lady Maxwell’s fault. If the chit had not interrupted him, his mother might yet eat and regain her senses.

  Bims took hold of Sebastien’s coat and slid it down his arms. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  Stomach rumbling, he was reminded that he’d not stayed for dinner. In fact, as soon as he’d finished threatening Lady Maxwell that the relics would be his, he’d stormed from her father’s home. Even though he was hungry, the thought of food did not sit well.

  “What did Cook make this evening?”

  “I believe an almond soup and capons in a lemon butter sauce, my lord.”

  Sebastien started for the stairs, not overly excited about the fare, but knowing he should eat all the same. “Send up a tray.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Sebastien stilled on the t
hird floor, outside his mother’s chamber. He heard no sounds from within, but that didn’t stop him from pressing his knuckles to the wood and giving two raps. There was no answer, and so he knocked again.

  “Mother?” Sebastien called.

  A rustling sounded behind the closed door and then it was opened by the countess’s maid.

  “My lord, welcome home,” she said with a kind smile.

  Sebastien glanced over her shoulder, finding his mother’s solar empty.

  “Is the countess awake?” he asked.

  “No, my lord, I’m sorry. She’s not been…” Her eyes shifted about nervously. “Feeling well.”

  A dull headache started to pulse at the back of his skull. “Bims said she ate none of her evening meal?”

  “Not even a sip of her soup.” The maid wrung her hands. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but she is overwrought at the loss of the ring.”

  “And my father,” Sebastien added sharply.

  “Yes, of course, but she speaks of nothing more than the ring and that she’s bound to it.” The maid chewed her lip. “I am worried.”

  Sebastien was, too. His mother’s obsession with the piece of jewelry was unsettling.

  “I’ll come speak with her in the morning. If I cannot entice her to eat, then I will call a physician.”

  The lady’s maid gave him a suggestive smile. “Is there anything else I can help you with, my lord?”

  Invitation was clearly written in the woman’s eyes. Not only was he not interested, but he couldn’t even recall her name. There was no doubt he loved bed sport, but he did not dabble with the household help.

  “Another time,” he said with a smile, not wanting to hurt her feelings and have her lash out at his mother in revenge of his dismissal.

  Her face fell slightly, but she nodded with acceptance. “I bid you good night then, my lord, and I’ll have your mother dressed for your visit in the morning.”

  “My thanks.” Sebastien turned on his heel and headed down the corridor toward his own bedchamber.

  Once inside, he headed straight for the buffet table beneath his glass window, which had a view of the road below. He poured a full goblet of claret, drinking it down in one swallow and then refilling to help dull the ache in his head.

  The road below was empty, save for the occasional crowd of noble riders who’d not taken their barges on the Thames returning to their houses for the evening. Their dark shapes were lit by the moon and their guards’ torches passed by en masse.

  How was he to persuade Lady Maxwell to give him what he wanted? The stubborn chit had made it clear she wouldn’t help him and he knew there was no reasoning with her father. The man had stolen the relics, he’d not likely hand them back because the Countess of Bedford was miserable over the loss.

  There might be only one way out of the tangled mess—though her father would be hard to convince, given that he’d recently thieved from the late Earl of Bedford. He’d have to persuade her first.

  Sebastien poured another full glass of claret, hoping to not only dull the ache in his head, but also the growing dread that consumed him.

  There was indeed only one way to get his hands on the relics. Unless he could come up with another plan, Lady Maxwell would have to consent to be his wife.

  Chapter Four

  Lady Maxwell was mesmerized by the opulence of Queen Elizabeth’s Richmond Palace.

  Her Majesty had yet to emerge from her Privy Chamber and the courtiers were not entirely certain that she would. Just two months prior, on the twenty-fifth day of February, she’d had a longtime favorite of hers beheaded. Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex. None had thought she’d go through with it, but time and time again the queen proved her need for power went beyond the love she had in her heart. She also proved her ability to exact vengeance on anyone who tried to undermine her.

  If she didn’t admit that she feared the queen, Max would be a fool.

  On the few occasions that she’d been allowed at court with her father in the past few years since she’d come of age, she’d caught glimpses of the queen, but not actually spoken to her. Now that her father was hoping for a prosperous marriage, he’d decided it was time that she be presented to the Virgin Queen herself.

  The Presence Chamber was crammed with courtiers wishing to be heard by the queen. Normally, Max’s father, Baron Dalston, was relegated to the gallery, begging entrance to the Presence Chamber, but it had been just his luck that he’d acquired a particular antiquity that the queen had long desired and now he’d been admitted entrance.

  In fact, his ability to obtain artifacts the queen sought—and not his place in Parliament— was one of the reasons he’d become more established at court.

  “Most of the noblemen from last evening will be here today.”

  Max nodded, not having seen one of them yet. Glancing around the room, she did recognize a few people she’d met over the years when she’d come to London, but none she was close with.

  “Care to share the name of the possible groom you met last eve?” Her father’s voice was conspiratorial as he glanced around the room.

  The dark, wooden walls were covered in rich tapestries—and there was one that Max found particularly riveting. It looked to be the depiction of St. George on horseback trampling a dragon.

  “Not as yet, Father.” He’d given her a reprieve from having to choose a husband this morning, instead letting her have another week to make her decision after she’d informed him she had her eye on one but wanted a bit more time to make her final decision. She’d been clever enough to play on her father’s ego, informing him that her possible choice also had an interest in antiquities dealing.

  She’d have liked to have a month, a year at best, but there was no arguing with her father when he got like this. For in truth, the only man she was even slightly interested in was not the marrying kind. She could not link herself to a thief. Thieves were untrustworthy and the one thing Max sought in a husband was someone she could trust. She also wanted to be valued by her future mate. Judging from one meeting, she could tell the mysterious man put more stock in earthly possessions than he did in human relations.

  So, in truth, telling her father she had a man in mind had been a not so slight exaggeration.

  Baron Dalston grunted and made a move to rearrange the feathered hat he wore, his gaze fixed on a figure in the corner. Standing in the shadows of the room was a tall man with a pointed gray beard. The way he eyed everyone in the room sent a shiver of dread racing over Max’s spine. One of Queen Elizabeth’s spies. Her castles were crawling with them. Max had even heard a rumor that every pub, inn, tavern and shop were monitored by someone connected with their queen. If that were the case, it would mean the city literally teemed with her spies, like ants on a hill, but Max wasn’t certain she believed that rumor.

  The man with the pointed beard looked like Sir William Cecil, but that man had passed away several years before. Was this his son? Robert Cecil? He had to be.

  Hands crossed at her waist, Max tugged at the fabric at her wrists beneath her starched ruffs, which suddenly felt very constrictive. She wore what her father thought to be her best gown—and what Max felt was the most pretentious gathering of lace and cream-colored velvet that she’d ever seen. Tiny, purple thistles had been embroidered onto the bodice and in delicate patterns along her overskirt in homage to her Scottish descent. Her gathered kirtle of lavender with silver embroidered in diamond shapes peeked out from the front split of her overgown and matched her sleeves.

  Beneath the gobs of material, she wore a French farthingale, providing a domed shape from her cinched waist, exaggerating the curve of her hips and giving her front an even flatter appearance. She could barely breathe in the tight, iron-hinged corset that flattened her waist and pressed her breasts to what felt like nearly her shoulders—which were, of course, accentuated by the low square neckline that seemed to be all the rage with the younger ladies at court.

  Her hair was braided and loo
ped in a crown atop her head with a pearled, French hood nested in her locks.

  A female courtier bumped into her lightly but hard enough that Max swayed on her feet as they passed. She walked arm in arm with another, their gowns just as elaborate as Max’s but more vivid in color.

  “Spring is in the air,” one of them murmured as she glanced over her shoulder at Max, a mocking curve to her rouge-colored lips.

  “Indeed, Lady Brigit, all the pretty birds have come to find their mates.”

  Thank goodness Max had eaten light that morning, else she would have already lost her meal in a most unladylike fashion.

  Max held her head high, refusing to let the women’s words destroy her confidence. They headed toward a door beside the man with the pointy beard and he nodded to them, opening the door slightly to allow them entrance. They must have been the queen’s ladies-in-waiting.

  “Is that the door to the Privy Chamber?” Max asked her father in a low tone, imagining how dazzling that chamber must look if the queen spent most of her time in it.

  As a girl, Max had oft dreamed of coming to court and serving the queen. Her mother had done so when she was a girl, but though her father had tried, Max had never been chosen.

  A tiny thrill of excitement skated over her arms and she scraped her teeth over her lip. Despite what the snobbish courtier women had said, being here at court was about anything but marriage for Max. She wanted to prove her worth to her father. Wanted to see the queen and please her. What would it be like to be approved by the woman with whom so many found it hard to gain favor?