Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts Book 5)

by Cynthia Wright

  “I fear there is more,” interjected the page. “Soon after His Majesty left for St. Andrews, Prince Arthur’s wet nurse noticed that the new babe is very warm. Feverish. He has been sleeping so long, everyone is worried. The queen is beside herself.”

  “Both little princes are ill, in different castles?” Tess exclaimed in disbelief. “How can this be?”

  “Allow me to escort you.” Lennox took her arm as they started down the path. “Perhaps there is something I can do to help.”

  It was the young page who responded, his face chalk-white against his crimson bonnet. “Oui, m’sieur, there is something. You may pray for our two tiny princes.”

  Chapter 9

  Late afternoon was softening into evening when Lennox stabled Chaucer at Stirling Castle and walked through the arched entrance to the inner close. His eyes stung with fatigue, he was ravenous, and he needed to wash, but first he must find Fiona. As a caring friend to the queen, his sister would be anxious to speak to him about the princes.

  Lennox’s heart constricted with pain whenever he thought of the terrible tragedy that had befallen Queen Mary and King James. It was unthinkable, to lose two babes on the same day, but it seemed royal folk were not protected from grief and loss. Nay, sometimes it seemed they had more than their share.

  In the courtyard, the masons, carvers, and glasswrights were putting away their tools. There was no sign of Christophe, but Lennox caught sight of Grant and waved to him.

  “Ye are back,” the lad exclaimed, rushing to his side.

  “Aye.” He put a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “I fear I cannot linger, lad. I’m here to get the rest of my things and bid my family farewell, for at dawn I depart for Duart Castle on the Isle of Mull.”

  Grant’s eyes were wide. “Duart Castle! Ach, I’ve heard it’s a wondrous place.”

  “Will ye tell me where I might find my sister?” As he spoke, Lennox looked over the top of Grant’s head, scanning the crowd for Fi’s familiar face.

  “She went to visit Nora in the tapestry workroom, to see the new loom now in use.” He grinned.

  This news made Lennox’s breath catch for an instant. Nora. He’d been trying not to think of her and wishing he had the ability to banish her from his dreams as well. Soon he’d be far away from Stirling Castle, which was just as well. Nora Brodie’s aspirations were much grander than simple romance, and it would be folly for Lennox to bring a lass into his life when he didn’t even know who he really was.

  Still, he was leaving on the morrow. What harm could come of seeing her one more time? A pleasurable frisson of anticipation crept over him and he sent himself a stern reminder: Only look. Smile, perhaps, but nothing more!

  “Grant, will ye take this up to my chamber for me?” Lennox proffered the bundle of his possessions. “I will find Fi, then we’ll all dine together later, one last time. I want to hear what’s been happening in your life this past month.” Raising his eyebrows, he added, “I swear, ye are taller than when I left.”

  * * *

  Fiona leaned forward and placed the back of her cool hand against Nora’s brow. “My dear, are you unwell? How pale you are.”

  They were standing together at the great loom, and Nora had been doing her best to talk about the Prodigal Son tapestry that her father had designed. It was impossible to concentrate, though, and Fiona’s words made her stomach knot.

  “Perhaps I am spending too much time indoors,” Nora said, offering a wan smile. “There has been so much work to do.”

  Work, yes, but none of it at the loom, unless her father brought her there later in the day, when the men had gone. The problem was that weaving such a treasure required very good light, so by the time Nora sat down at the loom, it was impossible to see each fine detail.

  Not that it mattered. Nearly a fortnight had passed without the onset of her monthly courses, and with each day that passed, she slept and ate less. The thought of food made her ill. Her father thought her sad, touchy mood was due to her disappointment at being passed over as a weaver, when in fact Nora was terrified at the prospect of telling him that she was with child.

  Lying awake in the middle of the night, the words would go round and round in her mind, but no matter how many ways she planned the speech, it was wrong. No explanation could be sufficient. She was ruined! Her father would stare at her, his own expression reflecting shock and disappointment and shame. He would declare that she had thrown away everything they had ever worked for. Had all her vows to pursue an artistic life, without a husband or children or any other encumbrance, been nothing but fabrications?

  The soup Nora had eaten at midday seemed to curdle in her stomach. There was absolutely no way forward, yet how long could she hide her condition? Where could she go? Back to Flanders, to her mother?

  Even if a plan were possible, she had no means to carry it out.

  “Look at you, my dear,” Fiona whispered. “You are clammy with perspiration. Is it a fever?”

  Just then, Nora heard someone entering the outer rooms. She waited for her father to call out to her, but the footsteps came closer. When Nora turned away from the loom, she was surprised to behold Lennox MacLeod, so handsome, his wide shoulders filling the doorway. Was she imagining the golden light surrounding him?

  “Dear brother!” exclaimed Fiona, beaming at the sight of him. “How good it is to see you. Did you rescue any maidens in distress while you were away?” Glancing toward Nora, she added lightly, “It is his specialty, you know.”

  “Fi,” he warned in a low voice, even as he crossed the room to embrace her. Turning then, he spoke kind words of greeting to Nora.

  She managed to smile without blushing. “May I offer you a cup of wine? We have our own, from Flanders.”

  “Thank you, but no. I will not stay,” he replied. He looked toward his sister. “I am travel-stained and hungry, but before I go to my chamber I wanted to speak to you about Queen Mary.”

  “Only last evening we received word about the baby princes,” Fiona replied in softly anguished tones. “Oh, Lennox, how could this have happened?”

  He stood beside the big loom, and Nora saw the genuine sadness in his green eyes. “Only God knows, I fear. First, word came to Falkland Palace that Prince James was gravely ill in St. Andrews, and immediately the king rode to his little son’s bedside. Barely an hour later, the newborn Prince Arthur became feverish. By the next nightfall, both babes were dead, though of course those of us in Falkland did not learn of Prince James’s passing until later.”

  “Our poor queen,” Nora murmured.

  “My heart aches for her,” agreed Fiona. “I cannot imagine her pain. How could such a thing happen to both princes, in different castles? Is it not chilling?”

  “Aye,” Lennox replied grimly. “It is hard not to suspect foul play, though there is no proof.”

  “Who would do such a terrible thing? It’s beyond imagining!” Fiona exclaimed.

  Lennox lifted a strong shoulder up in a half-shrug and sadly shook his head. “There are many noblemen who stand to gain power if the heirs to the throne are removed. Some within the royal court whisper of poison.” He reached out to touch his sister’s arm. “The queen is a strong woman. This tragedy will not break her. Frankly, it is King James who I worry about. He looks truly haunted.”

  Fiona nodded slowly. “His Majesty has always been prone to melancholy.”

  “I was fortunate to share a brief interlude with Queen Mary, shortly before her sons fell ill,” Lennox said pensively, looking first at his sister then at Nora. His gaze held rare depths for a man, she thought. “Walking back to the palace one afternoon, I came upon the queen, sitting in the gallery with her newborn son. I had my chalks and paper, so I asked if I might sketch them. To my surprise, she agreed. I rather quickly made a likeness of them together, with a small sketch of Prince Arthur’s face in one corner. The queen was very taken with the drawing and asked if she might keep it, as a memento of the afternoon when she broke the rules, holdin
g her swaddled babe and sitting outside in the sunshine with him.”

  Nora’s heart ached as she listened and imagined Queen Mary looking at the sketch now that Prince Arthur was dead. “It is doubtless her only lasting keepsake of her newborn son,” she whispered.

  “Aye. Thank God I happened upon them.”

  Fiona went closer to Lennox and rested her head on his broad chest. “You are a good man, even though your urge to save those in need can sometimes get you in trouble. I’m very proud to call you my brother.” She paused to lean back and give him what seemed to be a particularly meaningful look. “How good it is to have you back with us at Stirling.”

  Nora felt this, too. The very presence of this man brought her a much-needed sense of calm and safety, as if he could somehow shield her from harm.

  “That’s another thing I came to tell you, Fi,” Lennox said tentatively. “I cannot stay. I will be leaving Stirling at first light, bound for Duart Castle on the Isle of Mull. I’ll explain it all when we dine tonight, but know that I must go, hoping to find there the answers I seek.”

  Nora watched them exchange glances, sighing to herself. How lovely it must be to have a real family—loved ones who would rally round in times of trouble and support one another. Then Lennox’s words sank in. The Isle of Mull! She was surprised at her own deep reaction to the news that he would be leaving again so soon.

  “But you will come back?” Nora asked impulsively.

  Lennox gave her a rueful smile. “I had been looking forward to spending more time here in this workroom, learning more about your art. But unfortunately I cannot stay, and I do not know when or if I will return to Stirling.”

  * * *

  Midnight was at hand when Lennox undressed in a beam of moonlight and got into bed. His small room was referred to as a closet, and the bed was too short for his long frame, with a straw-filled tick set upon loosely-strung ropes. It would have been tempting to spread his blanket on the rush-strewn floor and lie there if it were not too much trouble. He was simply too weary.

  The evening had been filled with family conversation, as Lennox told Fiona, Christophe, and Grant about his time at Falkland Palace and his conversation with Aunt Tess. He’d hoped Fi might have an inkling what their mother had been doing at Duart Castle, but she was as surprised as he was.

  Lying now in the darkness, Lennox let his thoughts drift back to Nora Brodie. He’d been visited by erotic dreams of her during his weeks at Falkland Palace, yet when he saw her today, the aura about her had been so unsettling that he felt discomfited by those memories. As he had dined with his family tonight, Lennox had casually mentioned Nora to Fiona, wondering if the lovely tapisier might be grieving a loss or dealing with a crisis of some sort. Fi assured him that she had asked Nora the same question, but the girl had denied any problem. At that point, Grant had glanced up, alert, but after Lennox changed the subject to his impending journey west, the lad returned to his trencher of roasted peacock with wine sauce.

  Fi’s words came back to him yet again: My dear brother, you barely know the lass. All your life, you have rescued those in need…but is it your place to intervene with Nora Brodie?

  Nay, he had more than enough problems of his own, without shouldering Nora’s as well, even if she wanted him to, which she clearly did not. Lennox sighed and closed his eyes. Dawn would be here soon, and he needed sleep so that he might focus on his quest.

  No sooner had he drifted off, than a tapping came at his door. Immediately wide awake, Lennox bolted upright and reached for his sword, propped at the side of the bed. Was he going to open the portal completely naked except for his weapon? It seemed he had no choice, for he could see, in his exhaustion, he had forgotten to bar the door.

  However, as Lennox swung his legs over the side of the bed, a soft voice spoke.

  “Lennox MacLeod? Is this your chamber?”

  “Nora!” he said hoarsely, shocked. Moving back against the pillow, he drew the sheet over the lower half of his body. “Come in.”

  The door swung slowly open, and Nora’s face came into view, pale and uncertain in the moonlight. She was wearing an emerald-green cloak, the hood pushed back to frame her mass of long curls.

  “I cannot rise to offer greeting without revealing more than ye want to see,” he explained with a note of irony. “Close the door and come over here. What the devil has brought ye to my chamber in such an unexpected manner?”

  Nora did as he bade, seeming almost to float as she approached. Indeed, Lennox thought as he watched her emerge from the shadows, she could have been a spirit with her luminous skin and haunted blue eyes. However, as she sat down on the edge of his bed, he perceived that her mood was hardly ephemeral.

  “I have come to ask for your help.” There was a tremor in her voice. “You must help me!”

  Taken aback, Lennox reached for her hands and found them cold and damp. “By the saints, what is it?”

  “Promise. I beg of you!”

  “Nora Brodie, I will assist if I can, but first ye must tell me what is wrong.”

  “I cannot confide all, not yet, but you must believe that my circumstances are desperate.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and Lennox almost imagined he could hear her heartbeat in the silence between them. “Please, take me with you when you leave Stirling Castle.”

  Lennox could not believe his ears. “Are ye in jest? I cannot do such a thing. Ye would be ruined and your father would see me hanged. Or worse.”

  “What if I told you I have been thinking of you? That I have…feelings for you and cannot bear to think of you leaving forever?”

  Now Nora came closer, sitting near so her soft hip touched his hard flank, and he inhaled her fresh scent, like linen and sunshine. Their eyes met. She reached up and touched the muscled planes of his chest.

  “Lass, I think ye have gone mad,” he managed to whisper.

  In the next moment, Nora had slipped a hand to the back of Lennox’s neck. “If you will not take me away, then grant me one kiss.”

  A groan seemed to rise up from the core of him as her sweet lips lightly brushed his. All the times she had visited him in dreams suddenly were real, and arousal coursed through him like a wildfire. “Nora.” Had he spoken?

  Her mouth opened under his, and he tasted her, so sweet, his tongue lightly touching hers. Gently, then with building intensity. Her cloak had come open, and Lennox realized that she wore only her shift beneath it. It was open halfway in front, affording him a glimpse of the inviting curve of one breast. His cock, already stiff with need, throbbed. For an instant, he imagined drawing her down with him on the bed and opening her shift. Finding her breasts. He already knew what her nipple would feel like in his warm mouth, for they’d been naked together in his dreams.

  Yet another part of Lennox sensed something was wrong. His strong inner voice was telling him to stop. Tasting salt in her kiss, he drew back. Could it be that she was weeping?

  “Nora!”

  “Don’t you want me?” she whispered.

  “By God, I want ye far too much, but this is not right. I cannot lie with a woman like you in such a way, and I know damned well ye don’t want that either. Not truly. Did you think, if ye gave your body to me, that would persuade me to take ye away?” He heard the ragged emotion in his own voice.

  “Isn’t that the way of it with men?” Nora covered her face and turned away from him, clearly ashamed. “It seemed my simple plea was not enough, and I have nothing else to offer.”

  Lennox leaned forward and firmly closed the front of her cloak. “Ye misjudge me, lass. I am not like those other men. Tell me plainly why ye must leave Stirling, so I may make a reasoned decision.”

  “Why can you not trust me when I say it is a matter of true urgency?”

  Just as he tried to get a clearer view of her face, a cloud covered the moon, and the chamber grew even darker. “What does this mean? Are ye in danger?”

  Nora stared at him. As their eyes met for a long moment, he seemed
to see into her soul. “If I stay,” came her soft reply, “I truly do not know what would become of me.” She swallowed. “I am filled with fear. I have no choice but to leave, quickly.”

  “What of your da? Can he not protect you?”

  “It is Father who may well threaten me,” Nora whispered urgently. “Please believe me when I say that I simply cannot speak of this matter. Do not ask me to say more.”

  He drew a deep, scorching breath. “Aye, then. I will do it.”

  For some reason, he expected her to react as other women had when he he’d granted a heartfelt plea, exclaiming in joy and coming into his arms. But Nora Brodie’s response was merely a solemn nod.

  “I have prayed you would agree,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Just before dawn, I will come to your door. Listen for my one soft tap.”

  “I am truly grateful.” Her chin trembled for only an instant before she rose and started toward the door.

  This is mad, Lennox thought again, remembering William Brodie. “Nora, what about your da? Do ye intend to leave his care without a word? He will believe I’ve kidnapped his fair daughter and raise a hue and cry!”

  “Nay. I have already written a letter. I will leave it behind, so he understands I have gone by choice.” The faintest of smiles touched her mouth. “In it, I have reminded him that I am two-and-twenty years of age. A woman grown. And this is Scotland, where I am free to live my life as I choose.”

  * * *

  Back in her own bed, Nora lay awake for the next few hours. Everything was in readiness. She had packed only a few essentials into a satchel, yet in a weak moment, Nora had slipped out to the workroom and taken a few finger-shaped wooden bobbins of her favorite yarns, dyed in bright hues by mixing herbs like weld, madder, and woad. She also rolled up and stowed two smaller tapestries. One choice was purely sentimental: the first little tapestry she’d woven as a child. It portrayed her pet rabbit, one ear up and one down, the weaving neater, tighter, cleaner on the top than the bottom. Nora had never forgotten the strange thrill she’d felt as she became increasingly capable of weaving at a small loom without her father’s assistance. It was a passion that only grew stronger through the years as her skills sharpened.