Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts Book 5)

by Cynthia Wright

  In the courtyard below, radiant light continued to pour from the tall windows of the great hall, and the strains of music rose through the night air. Thank God the festivities continued! Perhaps her father was still inside, talking to the king. Tears stung her eyes. She hoped he would stay there and, for once, forget about her.

  Just then, a flash of gold caught her eye from the shadowed courtyard. Leaning forward, Nora made out the back of a tall man, lean yet powerful, his fair hair agleam in the starlight. Her gaze touched the man’s snow-white shirt and the dark plaid belted at his waist. Her breath caught. Could it be Lennox MacLeod?

  Nora leaned closer to the bright candle flame at the same instant the man turned and stared directly up at her window. Indeed, it was Lennox, and he seemed to gaze into her heart, piercing the distance and the darkness.

  Hot shame flooded Nora’s body. At that moment, she couldn’t even face herself, let alone meet this splendid Highlander’s kind green eyes. As she turned away, clutching the candlestick, Nora prayed he hadn’t really seen her after all.

  More desperate than ever to wash away Sir Raymond Slater’s seed, she stumbled to the chest, where a jug of water, a cake of lavender-scented soap, a soft cloth, and a basin were arranged. Sobs rose in her throat. She hated feeling this way—soiled, as if she’d committed a terrible sin, and she told herself it was not her fault. But was that true? Perhaps her memory was fuzzy, and she hadn’t meant to do anything wrong, but it had happened all the same! Her mind went round and round, trying to piece together the events of the evening, but every memory led her down a dark, confusing alley.

  With shaking fingers, Nora removed her underskirt. When she saw the blood smeared over the linen of her petticoat, she thought she might be sick. Oh dear God. Just as she poured water in the basin and braced one foot on a stool to wash the most intimate parts of her body, a hesitant tapping came at the door.

  “Lass? Are ye unwell?”

  Father! Nora’s heart leaped with panic as she yanked down her petticoat. “I am fine,” she managed to reply in a low, even voice, praying he would not open the door and see her standing by the washstand. “I had just fallen asleep.”

  “Oh!” he sounded surprised. “I did not mean to wake ye, but I feared ye might be ill.”

  “Not a bit,” Nora replied, forcing a light tone. “I merely wanted to be fresh for our morning’s labors.”

  “Ah, ye make me proud, abed while all the other ladies of the court indulge in rich food, spirits, and dance.”

  “Good night then, Father.”

  “I wish ye peaceful sleep, lass. Ye are quite right: there is much to discuss on the morrow. I had a long conversation with His Majesty tonight, and when we rise, I will tell ye all that he said and all the golden opportunities that lie in store for us here at Stirling Castle.”

  When her father had gone, Nora gave in to the urge to weep, leaning against the cold wall. For years, she had been building private dreams and plans for a future that was out of reach to other women. A future that would require her to put her commitment to art above any other human need, including romance, love, or even a family of her own.

  As Nora began to wash, she was swept by a wave of terrible foreboding, a realization that no amount of soap and water could undo the events of this night. The moments when Raymond Slater had lain atop her might well have reduced all her shining dreams to ashes.

  Chapter 6

  Lennox rose at first light, hoping to ride away from Stirling Castle before any distractions could appear. The night before, he had gathered his few possessions and rolled them into a blanket, and now he emerged into the courtyard, the bundle tucked under his arm. Perhaps, on his way to the stables, he might stop in the great castle kitchens and ask for some food to carry him to Falkland. Over years of traveling, Lennox had learned that female cooks were generally quite eager to feed him, especially if he paused to smile and jest with them.

  It promised to be a fine day. Soft dawn sunlight streamed into the inner close, which was surprisingly busy. Servants hurried to and fro, busy with the tasks of the new day, while the masons and carvers were climbing the scaffolding that surrounded the stone façade of the new palace.

  The kitchen and stables were in the outer close, and Lennox tried to blend in as he started off in that direction. He was eager to be on the other side of the high castle walls, to inhale the sweet spring air and discover what views lay in store when he wound his way down the mighty volcanic crag that served as a pedestal for Stirling Castle.

  However, after only a few steps, he heard a familiar voice call his name.

  “Lennox, mon frère!”

  With a wry smile, he stopped to greet Christophe, who was now master mason at Stirling. “I am very impressed by the scale of your project,” Lennox said after shaking his brother-in-law’s hand.

  “Ah, you know it’s largely the king’s doing, not mine. His Majesty has elaborate plans for his new palace.” He gestured toward the work a group of masons were doing nearby. “At Falkland Palace, we carved a few roundels into the stone outer walls—likenesses of royal favorites. But here at Stirling, there are plans to cover one entire ceiling with at least forty-five medallions carved of oak, and each one must be painted in detail by a true artist.” St. Briac arched an ironic brow. “Are you seeking employment, by chance?”

  Lennox blinked, taken aback. “Have ye not heard from Fiona that I am embarking on a quest of sorts, to discover the identity of my true father?”

  “Oui, I heard. Magnus may have his faults,” the Frenchman replied quietly, “but he did raise you, and he loves you.”

  Lennox’s heart contracted as he absorbed Christophe’s plain words. “Da kept the truth from me all my life, even though he and Grandfather well knew that I did not fit in with the rest of clan MacLeod.” With that, he reached into the pouch under his belt and found the miniature that resembled him so closely. Withdrawing it, he cupped it in his big palm and watched for Christophe’s reaction. “Surely ye can see why I must find this man. It is as if I am missing a great piece of myself.”

  Christophe cocked his head slightly and sighed. “I do understand.”

  Just then, Bayard came lumbering toward them. His arms were spread wide to carry one of the large, carved medallions toward a doorway to the new palace. Grant followed a few steps behind, carrying a toolbox with two wooden mallets and an assortment of chisels.

  Bayard smiled broadly as he paused to show them the circular oak carving of a noblewoman holding a tiny greyhound. “I’ve been laboring over this for a fortnight. Eh bien, what do you think?”

  Lennox knew an urge to offer suggestions about the paint colors they might choose, but stopped himself. Instead, as the two Frenchmen conferred, Lennox turned to Grant. “I seem to recall that ye were learning to carve on Skye, when Bayard and Christophe built the tower house for my brother Ciaran. Are ye now an apprentice to your stepfather?”

  Grant nodded proudly. “Bayard is giving me my own set of tools, one by one, as long as I take proper care of them. I enjoy carving. I think it will be a fine trade for me, but I must confess that when I encountered Sir Raymond Slater this morning, I nearly asked if I could come along and join his crew. Wouldn’t that be a fine life, sailing off to explore the world?”

  Lennox paused. “Is Slater leaving Stirling?”

  “Aye, or he will be away soon enough. Perhaps an hour ago, I came upon the captain and his men eating breakfast. His groom said they were off to St. Andrews to board Sir Raymond Slater’s grand ship, Hercules, for a voyage to Spain.”

  Lennox took a deep breath, relieved. No matter how many times he had told himself to put Nora Brodie out of his mind, he’d continued to think of her…and the candle in the window. The woman’s form he’d glimpsed there, briefly, had been indistinct at best, but somehow Lennox felt it was Nora. Was something amiss? Perhaps not, but he was glad all the same that Slater was leaving Stirling Castle.

  Smiling, he reached out to ruffle Grant’s dark
hair. “Don’t let your mother hear ye speak of sailing off to Spain,” he chided gently. “I’m quite certain she wouldn’t approve.”

  Before the boy could reply, Bayard gave him a nudge. “Back to work now, lad.”

  “I must be on my way as well,” Lennox said, nodding to the trio and offering a wave as he started off again toward the kitchens.

  He had walked only a short distance when he spied a familiar figure hurrying out of the chapel, a cloak wrapped tightly around her slim body, her bright locks nearly obscured by a gable-hooded headdress. But what struck him most was the way the lass bowed her head, as if shielding herself from the world.

  “Nora?” he called uncertainly.

  When she glanced up for an instant, Lennox saw how pale she was. Her wide eyes reminded him of a doe surprised by a hunter.

  “Oh, good day,” she said in a strained voice. “I cannot tarry, sir. My father awaits my return.”

  With careful movements, he came closer. “I have something for ye.” As she watched him, Lennox reached into the same pouch where he kept the miniature. “Actually, I am only returning it.”

  Nora blinked when he held out the low blue heel from her shoe. “How—?”

  “It was lying on the courtyard cobblestones when ye took your leave yesterday. I remembered the blue toes of your slippers, peeking out from under your skirts, and I was certain it must belong to you.” He tried to hold her gaze, smiling. “I hoped to return it last night, but when I had a moment to do so, ye had already gone.”

  When she reached out to accept the small offering, Lennox let his fingers gently graze her palm. “You are going away?” she asked, glancing at his bundle.

  “Aye. I’m bound for Falkland Palace, to see my aunt.”

  “I wish you a safe journey.”

  As she started to turn away, Lennox put a hand on her arm. “I will return, Nora. I still hope to visit your workroom, to speak to you about your weaving and learn more about the unicorn tapestries.” Then he dared to touch her pale cheek with his forefinger. Softly, he asked, “I sense that ye are troubled. Can I help?”

  Nora lifted her chin and summoned a smile. “Worry not, sir. I am not myself this morning, but I shall recover. Do you never have days when your spirits flag?”

  Slowly, Lennox nodded. “I do indeed have such days. More than anyone knows.” He fought an urge to offer more comfort, even to gather her into his arms, but instead simply returned her smile. “I hope that whatever burden ye carry will soon lighten.”

  With that, Lennox stepped away from Nora Brodie and started down the cobbled pathway leading to the kitchen. When he glanced back and lifted a hand in farewell, he expected the lass to have gone on her way.

  However, Nora stood rooted to the spot, looking wistful, even lost, as she watched him go.

  * * *

  When Lennox approached the stables, eating the last of the warm oatcake the cooks had given him, he saw a gathering of men. Holding the reins of their horses, they shuffled their feet impatiently.

  “When is the captain coming?” complained one, craning his head to look toward a small group of storage buildings behind the kitchen.

  “When he is good and ready!” replied another.

  “Perhaps you mean good and finished,” said a third, guffawing.

  They were Slater’s men, Lennox realized, as a chill crept over him. Something was not right. A rustling sound, followed by a muffled female protest, reached his ears. Lennox started off toward the voice.

  “Don’t go that way, sir,” called Slater’s young groom. Winking, he added, “Ye might disturb the captain before he’s finished swiving.”

  Lennox dropped the food he had been eating and walked toward a narrow space between the buildings. Turning into the passageway, he saw onions spilling across the ground beside an overturned basket.

  Just out of sight, an anguished voice implored, “I beg ye cease, sir! I am newly married. I love my husband!”

  Fury rose up in Lennox as he rounded the corner. There, a plump, red-cheeked young woman was pinned against the wall of rubble stone, her white cap askew, her skirts and apron pushed up to her waist. In front of her, Sir Raymond Slater was grabbing between her legs, as if he had every right to invade the most intimate part of her body.

  With his other hand, the Englishman pulled at her bodice, exposing one of her breasts. The kitchen maid began to weep as Slater warned, “Quiet! Someone will hear, and then all the castle will know you are a trollop, wandering about alone, inviting the attentions of lusty men like me.”

  Her eyes were squeezed tightly closed. “Please, sir.”

  “That’s better,” he approved, pretending to misunderstand her meaning. “All women want me. You should be thanking me.”

  The Englishman was fumbling to untie his codpiece when Lennox came up softly behind him and pushed the point of his sharpened dirk into his back. “Unhand the lass and turn around.”

  Clearly shocked, Slater obeyed, hands raised as he swiveled to face him. To Lennox’s disgust, the man’s red, semi-erect penis was exposed. Their eyes met, Slater’s flashing with defiance while Lennox could only stare in contempt.

  “My good fellow, perhaps you misunderstand this situation,” the Englishman said with what was doubtless meant to be a roguish, man-to-man grin. “Surely you can see I wasn’t harming the wench. Quite the opposite! You know how it is, they always pretend to protest, but in truth the chit wants it more than I do.”

  Lennox would not reply to Slater’s repellant comments. To the cowering servant, he said kindly, “Mistress, straighten your skirts, pick up your basket, and go back to the kitchen. Ye may rest easy; no one will hear a word of this.”

  Her hands shook as she rearranged her clothing and hastened off through a door at the back of the building. Lennox looked around to see Slater’s men clustered together at the end of the passageway. Wide-eyed, they watched their worldly captain’s humiliation at the hands of a Highlander.

  “Go on, then.” Lennox nudged Sir Raymond Slater with the tip of his dirk. “Ride away from here. Get out of Scotland and do not return.”

  Shoving his flaccid member back into the striped, padded codpiece, Slater glared at Lennox. “Pray that our paths do not cross again, or I will have my revenge.”

  Lennox gave a cold laugh and sheathed his dirk. “Ye are the one who should be saying that prayer. If I catch ye mistreating another lass, I’ll have your head on a pike.” Arching both brows, he added, “Ye are a loathsome excuse for a man.”

  His heart pounded with anger and revulsion as he watched Sir Raymond Slater saunter off to join his men, laughing as if it had all been a bit of twisted mischief.

  * * *

  Lennox rode all day to reach Falkland, stopping only to rest and water Chaucer, his chestnut stallion.

  Although the roads were more passable than the rough tracks of the Highlands, most people still trudged along by foot, for few owned a proper horse, and only the royal family dared attempt to travel the rutted lanes by coach. The green countryside was lush and liberally dotted with sheep, and though the villages Lennox passed through were charming, he felt none of it could compare to the windy, untamed beauty of Skye. In those moments, he ached for home. He had to remind himself that his mother was born and raised near Falkland, and his real father, dressed as he was in the small portrait, could not have been a Highlander. Perhaps, as the truth of his heritage revealed itself, he would come to see himself in a different light.

  Dusk was deepening into night as Lennox came into the burgh of Falkland. Torches were lit outside the palace. He was bone tired as he drew in on Chaucer’s reins and spoke to the guard who emerged from the gatehouse.

  “My name is Lennox MacLeod, of the Isle of Skye,” he said in a forceful tone. “I am the grandson of the chief of Clan MacLeod, and I have come a great distance to see my aunt, Lady Tess Lindsay, who attends the Queen.”

  The man went off and conferred with someone else inside the guardroom before disappearin
g into the inner courtyard. Lennox rubbed his weary eyes and spoke quietly to Chaucer. “Soon,” he whispered, “we will both rest.”

  A few minutes later, the guard returned and admitted him, and a groom took his horse. A serving maid led him into the old wing of the palace, where he was given a small chamber on the second floor.

  “Lady Tess asks that you wait upon her tomorrow,” the servant said before she left him. “Someone from the kitchen will bring food to you.”

  Lennox smiled his thanks, but when he was alone, he began to pace, his earlier fatigue replaced by impatience. After coming so far to speak to his aunt, how could he wait another day?

  He paused at a small window overlooking the courtyard. Candles glowed at one end of an adjoining wing, and the sound of female laughter drifted out on the spring breeze. Lennox needed but an instant to decide on his course of action. He changed into a fresh shirt, rewrapped his belted plaid, combed his wild golden hair with long fingers, and started off to find his aunt.

  The queen, he knew, would soon deliver a child, so doubtless her meals would be confined to a small group of her ladies. Lennox made his way down the torchlit turnpike staircase that connected the two ranges of the palace and emerged into the courtyard, following the light and the voices. When he reached the outer door to the room, which he guessed must be a hall designated for the queen’s private use, a menacing guard appeared. Torchlight flickered over the man’s meaty face as he looked Lennox up and down.

  “The queen is dining with her ladies, and no one is allowed inside,” the man announced gruffly, one hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  Lennox attempted a winning smile in the style of his brother-in-law, Christophe. “Quite understandable, but my aunt is a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty, and she has invited me to join them.” He paused, sensing that it hadn’t been quite enough. “I’ve ridden since dawn from Stirling Castle. I have brought word from His Majesty, the King.”