by Amy Jarecki
“The rose is your protection.”
Rolling her eyes, Alice couldn’t help but snort. “A thorny bud that looks as if it will wilt afore it blooms?”
“Calm yourself and cease your worry.” Gran grasped her shoulders. “Before you leave him, you must repeat these words whether he wakes or not: It is a wise man who can harness the power of the rose. Brawn and bravery may come and go but only wisdom can reverse the curse.”
“Curse?” Alice examined the bud more closely. It wasn’t red. Closed, it looked almost blue—violet, perhaps, like no rosebud she’d ever seen. “Are you casting a charm? One that will send a blight over the heir and his kin?”
“Not exactly.” Gran snipped the stem, her lips pursed as if she’d already divulged more about the cryptic rose than she cared to. “I’m testing the waters is all.”
“Are you not feeling well?” Alice asked, quite certain Gran might be growing a tad senile. “I think you might need a tonic.”
Ignoring her remark, the dear woman examined the stem. “Good, there are plenty of thorns.”
“If you ask me there’s nothing but thorns to that rosebush. We’d be better off planting some avens in its place or at least something useful.”
“Oh, no. Not after all these years. I will see justice. I swear it.”
Her grandmother grew more cryptic by the moment. She was pleased with the thorns on some worthless, spindly rosebush? “Just testing the waters?” Afraid to touch the bloom, Alice eyed it, and whispered, “Is there poison in the thorns?”
“Of sorts, but it ought not kill him. Now do as I say and ask no more questions.”
Chapter Two
Alice waited in the old cellars at least an hour after the men’s quiet banter faded and surrendered to nighttime sounds of crickets and frogs. Of leaves whispering in the breeze, and the rhythmic cadence of the surf in the distance. To add to the concert, the chilly air resounded with light, masculine snores. She moved up the stairs only far enough to part the vines and peer across to the men, wrapped in their plaids. A crackling fire illuminated their forms, two on their sides sleeping with their backs to the flame. But one of the three lay only paces away, slumbering on his back as if the fire had made him overwarm. He was a large man, but not as rotund as the largest.
She instantly recognized the man on his back as Quinn Campbell. He had a full head of chestnut hair with blue moonlight dancing through the thick waves. An imposing Highlander, his plaid did nothing to hide the brawn beneath. Sword and musket at his side, doubtless he had a dirk hidden in close reach. Perhaps the blade was secure in his hand under the woolen folds?
To keep the rosebud alive, Gran had wrapped the stem in linen soaked in a tincture of willow bark, secured it with a bit of oiled leather and tied the lot with a thong.
Not daring to stand to her full height, she crept to the man’s side and kneeled. His eyes were closed, his lips half parted and in slumber he looked as gentle as a lamb. But she knew better. This man was a monster.
The rose trembled in her fingers. “I’m nay supposed to wake ye, but I’ll have ye ken you’re trespassing on Lamont lands. No matter who holds the deed, this very ground will always be stained with the blood spilled by your grandfather—the blood of my kin.”
Emboldened by her words, Alice set the rose atop Quinn Campbell’s chest and repeated the words Gran had insisted she say, “It is a wise man who can harness the power of the rose. Brawn and bravery may come and go but only wisdom can reverse the curse.”
“Who are you?” His Lordship asked, his voice but a whisper no louder than the breeze.
Alice’s heart flew to her throat as she crouched and eased away, her gaze darting to his face. Blessed be the saints, he hadn’t opened his eyes.
Growing emboldened, she moistened her lips. “I’m a selkie, come to tell ye to leave this place and never return.”
“But these are my lands,” he said as clear as day, though he made not a twitch.
Alice slunk toward the shadows. “Lands stolen by disgrace and tyranny will never be yours.”
As the young lord’s eyes blinked open, Alice slipped away as quietly as she’d come.
Quinn jolted upright.
What the blazes?
He shoved the hair away from his face, trying to recall the damned dream. At least he’d thought he’d had the most vivid dream of his life until he noticed a flower had dropped to his lap as he’d sat up. He grasped the stem and a vicious thorn stabbed his finger.
“Ow.”
Quinn wiped the blood on his plaid, then gingerly pinched the part of the stem wrapped in leather and held it toward the moonlight. Unbelievable. He’d expected a bloom of unearthly magnificence, but he held nothing but a sickly-looking rosebud.
But the bonny lass had brought it. He knew it in his bones. She’d come to him. The same woman he’d seen in the forest had spoken to him in hushed, sultry tones.
In a blink, he realized she’d fled yet again.
No!
Casting aside his blanket, Quinn raced up to the crumbling wall-walk. Where was she? Why had she come? And just when he’d began to stir, she’d run. Why?
He needed to talk to the lass, ask her name. Look into her eyes. He must find out more about the beauty. Where was she from? Why was she alone? Did she need assistance, sustenance?
Damnation!
Why was he so drawn to her? He’d seen only long, silken tresses, a blue gown, and indescribable radiance. He’d stolen only a glimpse, but she was the bonniest creature to walk the Highlands. He was certain of it right down to his toes.
Something flickered in the distance. Blonde hair?
Was it she?
Quinn raced down the steps, stooping to pick up his sword and belt as he dashed past his pallet. He sprinted toward the flicker he’d seen. Branches slapped his face. The thorns of gorse scraped his legs while he leapt over logs and boulders.
Never slowing, he searched the shadows, his eyes wide, missing nothing.
Where are you?
His lungs burned, but Quinn refused to slow his pace until he reached a sandy beach, the Firth of Clyde stretching before him. Gasping for air, he stopped with his hands on his knees, the surf gently sliding over his leather boots with a rush of seafoam.
But the blood rushing in his veins was anything but gentle. It pounded through his heart and in his head, thrumming while he walked the length of the shore. “I do not believe in selkies!” he bellowed, his words swallowed by the breaking waves. “I do not believe in fairies, either!”
Quinn kicked the sand with a roar. He picked up a rock and threw it out to sea. “Arrggh!”
Another thorn pricked his finger. Again, he studied the bud in the moonlight. As if by magic, he saw the woman in his mind’s eye. Yes, her hair had attracted him at first, but her face was ethereal like an angel. Her skin had a pearlescent luminescence oddly without blemish. Her lips were pink and her eyes dark like Highland blaeberries. And beneath her blue kirtle, her body was lean, but not too thin. Aye—a small waist supported by rounded hips.
With his next inhale, he vowed to find her.
He would see the woman again. He felt it in his bones. There was a reason she’d come to him. What had she said? Something about honor, kin, and blood spilled. Of her soft-spoken words, there was one passage that struck a chord—something about harnessing the power of the rose—not through force, but through wisdom. And something about a curse.
What curse?
Quinn rubbed the back of his neck and stared out to sea. Next time he’d not allow the fair maiden to slip through his grasp so easily.
But how? They were off to the Isle of Bute on the morrow. If he tarried, he’d miss the gathering and his chance to defend his title. Curse it, he might have to wait until he returned to the mainland, but make no bones about it, Quinn vowed to find her.
Chapter Three
After crossing the Clyde, a laborer on the pier caught the ferry’s rope as the sailors furled the sails. The flat-bottomed boat roc
ked erratically with the lapping of the surf. Quinn gripped his horse’s bridle while stroking his neck to keep the beast calm. “Easy laddie. We’ll step ashore in no time.”
MacGregor’s old nag seemed unperturbed as she stood with her head lowered. Glenn hadn’t even bothered to hold the mare’s reins. “I can smell the roasting pork from here.”
“All I can smell is seaweed and dead fish,” said Eachan.
Though Quinn didn’t care for naysayers, this time he had to agree with his brother. By the stench and number of fishing vessels they’d seen on the crossing, the herring trade was thriving on the Isle of Bute as it should be on the peninsula of Dunoon. With much of Scotland still suffering from the aftermath of Cromwell’s war, it was good to see the bustling seaside village of Rothesay and the moated castle posing a picturesque backdrop.
“Have a look, lads.” Quinn pointed. “The Campbell pennant is flying from the tower.”
“Will you be competing in the games this year, m’lord?” asked the ship’s master.
“Bloody oath. I’ve a title to defend.”
Grinning, MacGregor ran his fingers through his horse’s mane. “Ye mean, a title to lose.”
Though Glenn was a commendable adversary, Quinn couldn’t let his friend’s comment slip by without a rebuttal. “Always nipping at my heels, are you not?”
“Someone needs to keep your ego from growing too large.”
“Oh aye, so you’ve appointed yourself keeper of my conscience, have you?”
“After last year, someone needed to.”
“You’re full of shite.”
“And you’re full of…” MacGregor slapped his hand through the air. “Och, never ye mind. Whatever the source of that foul stench, you’re full of it.”
Quinn laughed. The three of them might poke fun, but the bond between the men was as solid as granite. He’d known MacGregor since they were both in swaddling. Glenn was as much a brother to him as Eachan—possibly more so.
A sailor slid the gangway across to the pier and Quinn thanked the crew, giving each a coin before he and his companions led their horses to dry land. Once ashore, they followed the more pleasant scent of rich food wafting from High Street until they found the merchant tents displaying their market-day wares.
“Saddles made to order here,” beckoned a vendor. “I have everything a horseman needs, stirrup leathers, blankets, and bridles.”
Quinn gave the man a nod and kept going, his friends at his flanks. Though he hadn’t told them about his brush with the woman last eve, his gaze never stopped scanning the grounds for the lass. It wasn’t likely she’d made the crossing for the fête, but not impossible. Nonetheless, once the games were over, he intended to pay a visit to Toward on his own and find the woman.
“I’m heading for the food tent,” Eachan said, riding ahead. “Whatever they’re cooking is making my mouth water.”
MacGregor’s horse stepped up the pace as well. “Agreed. I’ve been starved since we left Inveraray.”
“You’re always hungry.” Intending to follow, Quinn slapped his reins. But when an elderly woman using a cane hobbled into his path, he quickly pulled his horse to a stop. “Whoa.”
For an instant, she looked startled, but her eyes quickly shifted to the rosebud he’d pinned at his shoulder with his clan brooch. “The flower has begun to open,” she said as if she had given him the bud herself.
Quinn immediately dismounted. “You know of this rose?”
“I do. ’Tis a damask rose. One that only blooms when it has mind to do so.”
Reins in hand, he glanced in the direction of the food tent. “You make no sense at all. Flowers don’t bloom whenever they feel the need.”
“I think I’m being perfectly reasonable, m’lord. In fact, all flowers only bloom for a reason. Though the damask rose is the rarest and most elusive.”
Quinn moved closer, his mind calculating. “And the woman who brought it last eve. Where might I find her?”
Thumping her cane on the ground, she snorted. “Ah, a young man chasing a bonny lass. Some things never change.”
“Do you know her?”
“Perhaps. Come with me, m’lord.” She hobbled toward an open tent, bearing a sign that read, “Asketh thy Seer”.
The woman seemed far shrewder than by first glance. It hadn’t escaped Quinn’s notice when she’d called him lord. She knew who he was, which he hadn’t expected. Certainly, he was the heir to the Argyll title, but he hadn’t been to Rothesay since he was a lad. True, he had come to the games to uphold the title he’d earned last year, but those events had been in Dalmally on Loch Awe.
“Who are you?” he asked, following the woman into the tent. “Can you divine the future?”
“Hmm. This is a fête and what would a gathering be without an old woman foretelling things that may come?” She sat in a rickety old chair beside a table, then gestured to a half-barrel on the other side. “Sit. Do not make me crane my neck.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Quinn sat on the barrel, so low, his knees came up to his chin. “Do ye ken who gave me the bud?”
“I have an idea.”
He shifted, sitting taller. “Do not be cryptic with me.”
The woman rapped his knee with her blasted cane. “And do not be domineering with me, young whelp or that rose tucked in your brooch will never bloom.”
Quinn rubbed his knee. “Why should I give a rat’s arse if it blooms or nay?”
“I beg your pardon, m’lord, but I am no wench who enjoys coarse language.”
“Forgive me.” He gestured to the flower. “Please enlighten me as to why I should concern myself with the welfare of this thorny rose.”
“Have the thorns pierced your skin?”
“More than once.”
“Good.”
“I think not—they gave me welts.” Quinn rubbed his sore fingers together. “Why is this bloom so important?”
“Your father is arrogant and self-serving. In my experience the acorn never falls far from the tree.”
“My father?” He shook his head and stared at the shrew. “Madam, your banter is making me dizzy. If you think so ill of the earl, then why are we having this discussion?”
“Because you are not beyond saving. Yet.”
“I’ve had enough.” Quinn pushed to his feet. “You speak in riddles and by the sign on the tent, I reckon ye are a witch. I’d watch myself if I were you.”
“Spoken like a true Campbell.”
“Bloody oath, woman. You have the most maddening way of raising my ire.”
As he started away, she caught his wrist with the hook of her cane. “He who dares grasp the thorn will become the instrument of peace, but he who shuns it will only serve to increase the hatred between clans.”
He looked her from head to toe. What was she about? Was she deliberately trying to unnerve him? And why was she mumbling all this rubbish about peace and hatred? Unless she was… “You’re a Lamont,” he growled.
With a gap-toothed grin, she leaned in. “Och aye, and do ye ken what happened in May four and twenty years past?”
Jesu, everyone knew of the Dunoon Massacre. It had posed a black mark on the Campbell name for two generations. Quinn’s grandfather massacred nearly the entire Lamont clan, including the chieftain. Only a few had escaped and those who did were thought to have fled to the Lowlands.
The way the woman stared at him with ice in her eyes did not seem of this world. He narrowed his gaze as he backed out the tent’s flap. “Are you a spirit come to haunt me?”
“I am an old woman who has lived a life of misery and sorrow.” She flicked her cane toward Quinn’s horse. “I have shown you to the path of your salvation. Whether or not you choose to take it is up to you. Are you a merciful man, or are you a tyrant?”
“I am a Campbell,” he growled, reaching for his mount’s reins.
“Perhaps you are, but I’ll not hold such malfeasance against you—not this day. You, sir, hold the p
ower to change your destiny.” She grasped his wrist and squeezed. “If you’re nay too bull-headed to see the opportunity when ’tis laid out before you.”
He shook his arm free and mounted. But as he rode away, the woman’s words needled like a swarm of bees attacking every inch of Quinn’s flesh.
Nearly time for the opening ceremony, Alice hastened through the maze of tents, clutching tight her basket of herbs. Never in her life had she seen so many people gathered in one place. It was like an ant hill with humanity everywhere. Though this was an annual gathering, it was the first time she and Gran had attended—primarily because it was sponsored by the Earl of Argyll. Oddly, Alice’s grandmother had insisted they come because this year it was but a short ferry ride across the Clyde. All Highland clans were welcome, or so said the posting on the church door.
Truth be told, Gran had decided it was time for Alice to be introduced to society, as it were. A handful of families lived in Toward, but no lads her age. Gran had insisted that at four and twenty, Alice was on the verge of spinsterhood which was not acceptable for the Lamont heir and it was high time for Alice to marry.
Marriage.
Good heavens, the thought of finding a spouse made perspiration spring across her skin. Who would want to marry Alice anyway? She might be the sole heir to the chieftainship, but she had naught but a plaid and brooch to show for it.
As she rounded the corner and started into the tent, she stopped dead in her tracks, the basket in her arms nearly tumbling to the ground. Merciful fairies, Lord Quinn was sitting beside Gran having a wee chat.
Backing as fast as she could, Alice bumped into a Highlander, some the contents of her basket spilling.
“Watch yourself,” growled the man.
She hardly acknowledged him as she skirted around to the side of the tent, her ears pricked, listening to Gran’s banter, not certain if their conversation was friendly or not.
“…Are you a merciful man or are you a tyrant?” Gran’s parting words sounded more like a challenge before His Lordship briskly marched out of the tent.