by Lecia Cornwall, Sabrina York, Anna Harrington, May McGoldrick
Elizabeth needed a different approach. “Macpherson and I have never met. He simply wants to see me and appraise me as he would any property he was about to acquire.”
“You could do the same,” the queen suggested. “Perhaps you’ll find out he’s more than just the wild and uncouth Highlander you imagine.”
Too late. Elizabeth didn’t want to find anything positive about the man or this union. The mere thought of being shipped off to Benmore Castle to live among people she didn’t know made her shudder. The idea of marriage no longer held any romance. She wanted to keep the life she had now. She wanted to go to France with her father.
Clare stopped sewing and laid her work in her lap. Even before Clare opened her mouth, Elizabeth realized she might have to kill her.
“The word already circulating around the castle is that he’s quite handsome,” Clare offered.
“And he’s a pirate,” the queen added with barely concealed enthusiasm. “That alone speaks of a life of adventure and excitement. A real man. And I understand he’s wealthy.”
“Then he’ll have no trouble choosing a suitable wife,” Elizabeth responded, looking from one to the other. “He can find a woman of beauty and charm. Someone with a gentle temperament. An eighteen-year-old who would be submissive to his every whim . . . when he’s not out robbing defenseless merchant ships. Anyone, so long as I am not that woman.”
She couldn’t care less what he wanted. She didn’t want to know what kind of wife he sought. She wished he’d just go away.
“Come now,” Margaret said gently. “If you feel that way, meet with him and tell him just that. Tell him you release him of his responsibility.”
She couldn’t. She’d never openly defy her father. Never bring dishonor to the family name. The Highlander would have to back away from the marriage.
Elizabeth wrung her hands and started pacing the room, unable to understand the panic clutching at her when she thought of actually meeting with the man and making such a request. Would he agree? Could she convince him? What would happen if he refused?
He had to be an arrogant blackguard. She’d heard the rumors. Alexander Macpherson was, by all reports, handsome and even charming. He’d been in Stirling only two days, and already there’d been talk of the man’s great height, the intense blue eyes, the smile that made a lass forget her own name. He was accustomed to having his own way with women. He took what he wanted, and he wanted this marriage. Why else would he come here now? He would never agree.
“I can’t,” she cried out with a plaintive look at the queen. “If only for my father’s honor, I can’t be the one who breaks this contract. But I don’t want to go through with this wedding.”
She paced the chamber, feeling as trapped as the deer in the tapestry. Each time she passed a window, she stopped and looked out at the workers, the walls, and the mist-enshrouded mountains beyond. The rain had been falling for two days, from the moment Macpherson arrived. Queen Margaret and Clare had their heads together, and they were whispering steadily.
“Elizabeth,” the queen said finally. “Let’s be clear on this. You want the Highlander to back out of this contract.”
“That’s it, Your Highness.”
“But you understand that it’s crucial for both of you to emerge from this with your honor intact,” the queen continued. “Whatever happens, you don’t want to start any rumors that might tarnish your reputation or his.”
The situation was impossible. She forced herself to take a full breath. Tarnishing her reputation was not an answer. Her father’s honor mattered. She felt helpless about what to do. Clare and the queen quietly exchanged a few more words.
Clare was the one who spoke up. “Perhaps we can play to the Highlander’s personal sense of honor.”
A last shred of hope. Perhaps he had a sense of honor. Would he listen to her plea? She doubted it. She couldn’t risk it.
“What if Macpherson believed your affections already lay with another man?” the queen suggested. “Nothing scandalous. But what if he thought you’re in love?”
“But I’m not. How could I conjure such a person out of thin air? And how would I make him believe such a thing?”
“We’ll change places,” Clare said.
It was impossible. Clare Seton was the queen’s lady-in-waiting and betrothed to Sir Robert Johnstone, a wealthy Lowlander. People knew her. Her family was well-connected at court.
“You’re certain that Macpherson has never laid eyes on you?” the queen asked.
“Never,” Elizabeth replied. She hadn’t gone anywhere in public since the day he’d arrived in Stirling. Desperate, she looked on in anticipation as the two women exchanged a conspiratorial look.
“This afternoon, I’m to meet with Sir Robert,” Clare told her, “at Cambuskenneth Abbey.”
Elizabeth knew her friend was to be married at summer’s end. It was a love match, to be sure, and hardly the same situation as she was facing. She waited, not liking where this conversation was going.
“I think the plan is brilliant, Clare,” Queen Margaret said, picking up the thread. She turned back to Elizabeth. “You will go and meet the Highlander where he’s staying, introducing yourself as Clare Seton. While you’re there, you will weave tales of anguish. You’ll tell him that ‘Elizabeth’ has stolen your betrothed.”
“That won’t do,” Elizabeth cried, understanding the game they were trying to arrange.
“Time is pressing, and Clare’s plan is what we have.”
The queen paused and glared at her, making sure Elizabeth was paying attention. “You will accompany the laird down to the abbey. Hearing your tale of woe, he’ll deny that romance because she belongs to him. You will tell him his eyes will prove her words true. That Elizabeth is in anguish over the upcoming wedding. She is meeting with her paramour this very hour at the abbey across the river.”
“No!”
“Hush.” The queen tsked her to silence. “At the abbey, Clare—pretending to be you—will be waiting with Sir Robert. When the Highlander sees ‘Elizabeth’ with the man she loves, he will be overcome and release her—er, you—from the engagement.”
“But none of that is true.”
The queen rolled her eyes. “Help us here. Help us rescue you.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. This had to be the most ridiculous plan she’d ever heard. It would never work.
“When they reach the abbey,” Queen Margaret said to Clare, “I expect you to be putting on a tragic show of love and loss.”
“I can do that,” Clare said.
“But I can’t,” Elizabeth blurted out. “This is far too complicated.”
“Why? What can go wrong?” the queen asked.
A thousand things, she thought. “Macpherson is a warrior. This is certain to bruise his honor, and we don’t know how he’ll respond. What if he decides to approach them? Engage Sir Robert in a fight? What do I do if—?”
“I’ll make sure my own guards will be there to keep anything from getting out of hand,” Margaret told her. “That is not a worry. But for this plan to work, you must do your part. Before he even sees them, you must convince Macpherson to take pity on ‘Elizabeth Hay’ and back away from this marriage. You’ll need to do the lion’s share of the work at the tavern and along the way.”
So she must pretend to be someone else. Lie about a non-existent liaison. Fool this man with a ruse he might see through in a moment.
This was a hopeless plan. Elizabeth was in real trouble.
Chapter Three
Two days he’d been stuck here, and Macpherson was getting damned tired of the place. The inn where he was staying, just down the hill from the castle, was a ramshackle affair, but it was the best one in the borough, boasting fairly clean rooms, an actual bed, a reasonably honest innkeeper, and the best ale for twenty miles. He needed to be in Stirling, but the Highlander had no interest in staying with anyone who kept houses here. So he’d let the entire inn.
As Alexander sat at a
long table in the empty taproom finishing his letter, one of the shutters of a window looking out onto the street banged loudly. The wind coming in from the southwest was rising. If he were at sea, he’d be taking in sail and preparing for a squall.
He looked over the letter. He was no lawyer, and certainly no poet, but it would have to do. Corking the ink horn, he gestured for his squire David to return the writing implements to the innkeeper, who’d just carried in a fresh cask of ale from the cellars. The day had been uncomfortably warm with hard rain occasionally blowing through. Alexander thought for the fiftieth time how he wished he were breathing the fresh salt air from the deck of his ship or the clean mountain air from the ramparts of Benmore Castle.
He couldn’t wait to leave the Court. The very air here suffocated him. The sycophants, panderers, fops, the cowards pretending to be warriors, the games, the women dressing to lure their friends’ husbands, the painted smiles, the fluttering eyes. This was the place where virtue went to die. Summoned numerous times by the king to Falkland Palace, he was well schooled in the poisoned atmosphere of the court. Stirling Castle was no different. And his intended was comfortably embedded in this festering climate. No wonder she couldn’t allow herself to give notice to his requests.
The wiry young squire returned and stood waiting a few paces off while the Highlander read over the letter one more time and then folded it.
“Take this to the White Tower,” Alexander ordered. “I want it hand-delivered to Mistress Hay.”
“You know, m’lord,” David said cautiously, “I shan’t have any more luck getting this message to the lady than I did before.”
Alexander glared at the young man. “You need to impress on the queen’s guard that this is important. The blasted wedding is only seven days off. The letter must get to her now. Tell him, or whoever you talk to, that the content of this is vitally important to . . . to my intended. Now get your skinny arse up that hill to the castle.”
“Aye, m’lord,” David said, rightly sensing danger in his master’s tone.
Taking up the letter, he bolted for the open door, nearly running down a shape that moved into his path from the street.
“Beg pardon, m’lady.”
Alexander looked up in surprise at the woman coming into the taproom. The hood of her light cloak had tipped back, revealing golden blond hair bound in thick braid that disappeared down her back. Her dress of deep green was belted with a sash of black velvet that matched the color of the cloak. This was not the baker’s daughter, come to deliver the bread for supper.
She did not look right or left, but went directly to the innkeeper, who seemed as surprised as the Highlander.
“Don’t know what I can do for you, mistress,” the man said. “But the inn is closed for the next sennight.”
“Closed?” she repeated, perplexed. “But I was told that the Macpherson laird is staying here.”
“Aye.” The innkeeper nodded toward Alexander. “There’s the very man himself.”
The blond head swung around, noticing him for the first time. “Oh!”
Above her high cheekbones, large alert eyes fixed on him. Wide, full lips pressed together as she studied him. The lass was young, pleasing to look at, but from the set of her shoulders and the hands clasped tightly together, he decided she was a woman on a mission. She started toward him.
Alexander stood. “What can I do for you, mistress?”
She didn’t see a bench protruding from beneath a table until it was too late. Alexander dove toward her as the woman’s arms flew out to arrest her fall, and he caught her just before she hit the stone floor. As he lifted her back onto her feet, he realized he was holding her in his arms a bit longer than he should. And he wasn’t complaining.
Pressed against his chest, she was all curves beneath the cloak and layers of clothing. Alexander’s head filled with the most tantalizing scent he’d ever smelled on a woman. A combination of roses and . . . something else. Citrus flowers. Sweet memories of sailing in the Mediterranean flooded back to him.
With her feet once again on the floor, she tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go. They were wedged between two tables. Her attempt at sliding past him resulted in his chin brushing across the top of her head. The softness of the golden hair startled him.
By the time Alexander was able to look into her face, the woman’s earlier appearance of determination was gone. Her face was flushed, and she was making a great production of rubbing a bruised knee even as she straightened her dress and cloak.
“Perhaps we should start again,” he said, not trying to hide his amusement. “As I said, I’m Alexander Macpherson. What can I do for you, mistress?”
Her gaze was slow to rise to his face, but when it did he was caught by the color of her eyes. They were blue, but not the azure shade of a clear Scottish sky. They were dark blue, like the sea off the coast of Morocco.
“My name is . . .” She paused and cleared her throat. “I am Clare Seton.”
The name meant nothing to him, so he waited for her to say more.
“I serve as a companion to the queen. One of her ladies-in-waiting.”
Finally. The lass must have been sent by Elizabeth Hay. His haughty intended was at least acknowledging that he’d arrived in Stirling.
“I’ve come on behalf of your future bride,” she continued.
His curiosity was aroused by the appearance of this young woman. Why would Elizabeth refuse even to accept a message carried by his squire but now send this lass? Either something was amiss, or here was yet another reminder of how unversed he was in courtly ways. In either case, now might be a good time to keep his nose in the wind.
“And what of it?” Alexander leaned back against the trestle table and crossed his arms.
“If you’d be kind enough to take a walk with me, everything will become clear.”
Remaining where he was, he looked at her steadily and saw her squirm under the scrutiny.
“Only down to the river. Well, actually . . . to Cambuskenneth Abbey,” she stammered. “It’s not too far. Not a mile down the hill.”
“Why?”
She looked away before saying in a lowered voice, “To meet with Elizabeth.”
Alexander let her words float in the air for a moment before replying. “Why not meet me at the castle? Or come here herself?”
“It wasn’t possible. She had some business to attend to.” The young woman was twisting her hands before her. “She was certain you wouldn’t mind joining her at the abbey.”
He didn’t mind, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Indeed, he was impatient to get this business over and done with. He’d walk from here to Edinburgh, if he needed to. His ship was waiting at anchor off Blackness in the firth, and he was ready to be on it.
Besides, he mused, it would be best to do the deed in person, rather than leave her to read it in that letter he’d sent off.
But he didn’t like being ignored, and something in him—the devil probably—was enjoying seeing this Clare Seton squirm a wee bit. He only wished it were Elizabeth Hay herself. Still, he wondered what they’d told this one to expect from him.
“Actually, I do mind,” he said flatly, turning away from her.
“But . . . but is it really asking too much to meet with your intended before the wedding?” the young woman stammered.
“Exactly what I’ve been thinking for the last two days,” he replied, pouring himself a bowl of ale. “Is it beneath her to see my squire? She repeatedly sent him away without even a word.”
“I am sure she meant no disrespect.”
“And I mean no disrespect now. But if she wants to see me, she can come to me.” He picked up his ale, dismissing her.
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“Am I?” he said sharply. “You have my answer. Be on your way.”
No sound of rustling skirts. No steps retreating toward the door. Only the creaking of the inn’s sign outside, swinging in the gusts of wind. Perhaps sh
e wasn’t so frightened, after all. He drank down the bowl, pretending she wasn’t there.
“Please reconsider it,” she asked in a soft voice.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, surprised by the note of dejection in her tone. Her head was held high, but she was strangling two fingers with the leather tie from her cloak.
“Even if you don’t care to meet with her, I need to go to the abbey, and I assumed you would accompany me. I didn’t bring an escort.” She unwound the tie from her fingers, seeing she’d drawn his attention to it. “I would truly appreciate it if you . . . if you’d come with me.”
Alexander looked into her eyes for a long moment. She was lying. She’d come here for some other reason. He was the master of a dozen ships. He was laird of Benmore Castle. He’d learned early on the need for being able to see through a man . . . or woman. He could recognize when a person was lying. And that was exactly what she was doing. But why?
His gaze moved downward, taking in the pulse jumping wildly on the smooth column of her neck. He was becoming intrigued with this Clare Seton and whatever her game was.
“I can understand if you don’t care to meet her. But I know Elizabeth quite well. Perhaps you’d be interested in asking some questions about the woman you intend to marry.”
Alexander tossed the bowl on the table.
“Very well, mistress, since you need an escort. And frankly, I’m getting tired of sitting here waiting.” He gestured toward the door. “Lead the way.”
Chapter Four
Queen Margaret would love him. Clare Seton might reconsider her nuptials. Every lady-in-waiting in the White Tower might drool over him. But not I, Elizabeth thought.
Well, perhaps a little.
She was twenty-three years old and she’d been navigating the courts of the world since she was a girl, but this afternoon—for the first time in her life—she was finding that she was not immune to men. At least not to this Highlander.
But why now? Why did he need to be so handsome? Intensely blue eyes, the lines of his face and jaw so perfectly carved, his nearly black hair tied neatly in the back and falling past his shoulders. How different he was from the genteel courtiers who wore the latest German fashions and fluttered about the women, attempting to woo one or the other with sweets and poems no doubt written by some Italian. Nay, this Highlander would have no time for any of that. With shoulders as wide as any draught horse, he was so tall he needed to duck to go out the inn door. A bit rough in manner perhaps, but Alexander Macpherson was beyond handsome and he was all man. And Elizabeth didn’t miss the way others took notice as they walked past.