Highland Barbarian (Highlander Series)

by Langan, Ruth Ryan

  Meredith was surprised at the queen’s outburst. Was the young monarch always so outspoken? Was she not aware that even in the presence of her friends her words would not be kept secret? A queen, more than any other, must guard her thoughts carefully.

  “Go on with your story,” the queen commanded.

  “Did you love Desmond MacKenzie?” Mary Fleming interrupted.

  “What nonsense, Flem,” the queen interjected. “What woman has ever been allowed to marry a man for love?”

  Stunned by the queen’s comment, Meredith openly studied the young monarch. It was common knowledge that Mary Stuart had been betrothed to Prince Edward of England when both had been mere children. But his death had released her from that bondage. The rumors had been that she was fairly happy with the young, fragile dauphin, whom she had married at the age of fifteen. But his mother, Catherine de’ Medici, had been more than happy to be rid of the headstrong Queen of Scotland upon his untimely death.

  “Well? Did you love him?”

  Meredith studied the toe of her kid slipper. “We were friends when we were children.”

  “Were you eager to wed him?” Mary Seton asked.

  “Or bed him?” Mary Fleming added.

  Meredith’s face flooded with color.

  It was the queen who came to her rescue. “This lass has not been exposed to such bold discourse. Hold your tongues and allow her to tell the story.”

  “I—was reluctant to wed Desmond. I do not think I would have ever loved him the way a woman wants to love a man. But I knew that the union would assure my people the protection of the MacKenzie armies. I would do anything for my people.”

  “Spoken like a true Scot.” The queen smiled warmly at Meredith. Despite her earlier insult, the queen admired the girl’s spirit.

  “So you were willing to wed him though you did not love him. Was he as handsome as Brice Campbell?”

  Meredith felt her cheeks growing warmer by the minute. “He was fair of face and hair. Not much more than a lad.”

  “Brice Campbell,” the queen said with a smile of appreciation, “is no lad. He is all man.” Seeing Meredith’s embarrassed flush she said with an impatient sigh, “Pray go on with your tale.”

  When Meredith described the murder of her husband at the altar, and the deception by his brother, Gareth MacKenzie, the women gasped.

  “Did Gareth not realize that he was placing your life in danger by defying Brice Campbell’s orders?”

  “I had not thought about it,” Meredith said. “It all happened so quickly. When Gareth fired the arrow I saw this giant glide through the air and take hold of me. And then I was in his arms and soaring over the heads of the people in the cathedral.”

  “How exciting.”

  “How terrifying.”

  “How romantic.”

  “Did you cry?”

  “Nay.” Meredith lifted her chin, nearly overwhelmed by these outspoken women. “I would not give Brice Campbell the pleasure of seeing me cry.”

  “Oh, how wonderful.” Queen Mary clapped her hands and urged the others to silence. “That would infuriate a man like Brice. Now you must tell us everything that happened to you since your momentous meeting with Brice Campbell.”

  “Aye. Momentous.” Meredith described her abduction, the tedious journey to the Highlands, and her attempt to kill Brice in his bed. During the entire narrative the queen’s eyes glittered with a feverish light, as though she were living each incident in her mind.

  “Brice Campbell is the strongest man I have ever met,” the queen said with a trace of awe. “It is known throughout Scotland that there are few men who can best him in a fight or a duel. I have heard many a man declare that he would wish to have Brice on his side in a battle. And yet you dared to attack him.”

  “In his own bed,” Mary Fleming said with a knowing wink.

  “I was desperate to return to my own people, Majesty. In my place, would you not have done the same?”

  The queen nodded her head. “How did you get into his room while he slept?”

  Meredith looked away, too ashamed to meet the queen’s eyes. “I was being held prisoner in his room.”

  The queen turned toward her friend, Mary Fleming, who was watching in silence. “What say you, Flem?”

  “Pray, continue with the tale,” Mary Fleming said without much enthusiasm. She seemed distracted. While Meredith proceeded to struggle through the story of her abduction, Fleming studied the queen and then allowed her gaze to scan the young woman seated beside her.

  Suddenly she blurted, “What a remarkable similarity.”

  “What are you babbling about, Flem?” The queen arched one brow in a regal manner.

  “You and Meredith MacAlpin bear a strong resemblance. You could be sisters.”

  Meredith felt herself flushing as the others began to study her with great interest.

  The queen stood and walked a few paces, then turned and watched the others. “Do you think so?”

  “Why, of course,” Beaton said. “Look at the hair.”

  The three women caught at strands of Meredith’s hair, lifting it and examining it in the sunlight.

  “It is the same color as Your Majesty’s. If we were to plait Meredith’s, or brush Your Majesty’s loose, they would be the same,” Seton said.

  Queen Mary was obviously intrigued by this unexpected turn of events.

  “And both are small of stature, delicate in appearance.” Fleming caught Meredith by the hand and led her to the center of the room while the others circled about her.

  While the others laughed, the queen stood apart. On her face was a look of intense concentration. Suddenly she took a step closer. “The gown you are wearing. Is it your wedding gown?”

  Meredith nodded. There was an inflection in the queen’s tone, of guarded excitement, that puzzled her.

  “Have you no others?”

  “I had no time to choose a wardrobe, Majesty. You will recall that I was abducted at the altar.”

  “So Brice and the others have seen you only in this?” Meredith waited, knowing that the queen was leading to something.

  “Fleming and Beaton. Help me out of my clothes.”

  The women stared at the queen without moving.

  “And Seton and Livingstone, you will help Meredith off with her gown. Oh, what a fine joke we shall play,” the queen said, twirling about like a little girl.

  “I do not understand.”

  “It is the sort of game we could have enjoyed in France,” Mary said, her face animated. “We will change clothes and see who discovers our little deception first.”

  When Meredith began to shake her head the queen said, “How many people really look at others? If they expect you to be in the clothes you have been wearing since your arrival, they will expect that the woman at the table wearing a white gown is you. And since I arrived in this hunting outfit, they will believe that the woman wearing it is the queen.”

  When Meredith continued to shake her head the queen motioned to the others. “Hurry. Brice promised us an hour. It will soon be time to sup with the others.”

  In a daze Meredith stood helplessly as the women, caught up in the queen’s plan, removed her gown and kid slippers and replaced them with the queen’s jeweled burgundy velvet hunting outfit and high kid boots. While Mary Seton laced the boots, Mary Livingstone brushed Meredith’s hair and dressed it in the identical fashion to the queen’s.

  Meanwhile the queen was dressed in Meredith’s white gown and kid slippers. Her plaited hair was brushed loose, falling in crimped waves to her waist.

  When both women were ready, they walked to a looking glass, where they stood side by side and examined their appearance.

  “Something is wrong,” Mary Fleming said softly.

  “It is the eyes. Anyone seeing Meredith’s green eyes would know that she was not the queen.”

  “A veil,” the queen muttered.

  “Of course.” Fleming removed her veiled hunting toque and
placed it upon Meredith’s head.

  The dark weblike netting veiled her eyes and most of her upper face.

  “Perfect.” The queen studied the girl beside her, then stared at her own reflection. “Do you not feel regal in my garb, Meredith?”

  It took the young woman a moment to respond. “Aye. It is a strange feeling to know that my queen is wearing my clothes and that I am wearing hers.”

  At a knock on the door they turned. Cara entered and curtsied before Meredith. “My lord Campbell announces that a banquet has been prepared for Your Majesty.”

  Meredith was so stunned by the servant’s reaction that she gave a little gasp and stepped back in surprise. The women around her giggled. Beside her the queen, dressed in the wilted wedding gown, was nearly doubled over with spasms of laughter. The poor girl, confused by the unexpected response to her announcement, bowed her way from the room, keeping her gaze lowered.

  “You see,” cried the queen. “She never even looked up at you. She saw the gown, the auburn tresses, and believed that she was in the presence of the queen. Come,” she called to Meredith and the others. “We will enjoy Brice’s feast and see who discovers our little joke first. Seton,” she said suddenly. “I am betting a gold sovereign that our deception will not be discovered until after the first course of our banquet.”

  “Aye, Majesty,” Mary Seton said softly. “I will take your bet.”

  “Majesty,” Mary Fleming said discreetly. “If you are to be believable, you must stand back and allow Meredith to lead the way. And you must assume the mannerisms of a hostage and set aside your usual strong will.”

  “Dear Flem. How clever of you.” The queen stifled a laugh and stepped aside, allowing Meredith to take the lead.

  ~ ~ ~

  Brice frowned, deep in thought, as he changed into clothes more appropriate for entertaining the queen. He had planned on returning to the Borders this day to search for Gareth MacKenzie. Once he rid the land of that villain, he would be free to return Meredith to her people. The sooner that was accomplished the better. She was proving to be a stronger distraction than he had anticipated.

  It was odd how his plans were constantly being changed by the whims of others.

  At a summons from a servant he strode from the room.

  The women were already assembled in the great hall along with Brice’s men and the men from the queen’s hunting party.

  When Brice entered, Mary Fleming nudged Meredith. “Your Majesty will want to lead us to the banquet tables.

  Perhaps our host will be gracious enough to accompany you.”

  Brice offered his arm to his monarch and felt the small hand on his sleeve. As they led the merry group to the table he murmured, “Did you find Meredith’s tale entertaining?”

  “Very,” the voice beside him whispered.

  “I hope you and the others did not shock her overmuch.”

  “And why would you say that?”

  He placed a hand over hers and squeezed. “Do not play the queenly role with your old friend. I know you and the other Maries better than anyone else could possibly know you. You say and do the most shocking things just to see the reaction of others.”

  When the woman beside him remained silent he studied her bowed head and was puzzled. From their earliest days together he had never known the queen to be at a loss for words, especially when being taken to task for something.

  He brought his lips close to her ear and whispered, “Just what have you and the others done this time?”

  “Done?” With her head lowered she murmured, “I fear I do not understand.”

  The queen was behaving in a most strange manner. Brice knew her well enough to know that it meant she was up to one of her tricks.

  “Come,” he urged, pausing while the others caught up. “Tell me, for I shall surely discover your game soon enough.”

  “There is no game. I am merely overcome with hunger.”

  Brice, giving up for the moment, gave her a smile. “Then you shall enjoy a feast fit for royalty.”

  At the head of the table he held her chair, then seated himself at her right hand. As always the four Maries flocked around their monarch, interspersed with the men from their hunting party. At the far end of the table Brice noted that Meredith was seated between Angus Gordon and Jamie MacDonald, and though she kept her face averted, there was a smile on her lips. Odd. Until now, she had done nothing but scowl at him.

  Crystal goblets were filled and Brice lifted his, exclaiming, “To Mary, Queen of Scots.”

  “To Mary,” repeated the entire company before lifting the goblets to their lips.

  At the head of the table, the object of their toast nodded her head slightly and drank.

  In the silence that followed, the young woman at the far end of the table spoke. “When you leave, will you take me with you—Majesty?”

  Everyone gasped at the boldness of the hostage’s words. Angus placed a hand on her arm as if to warn her, but she shook it off as though no one had ever before dared to touch her in such a way.

  Beside him, Brice saw the queen’s head nod slightly. He felt a rush of seething anger at Meredith’s crude attempt to escape from Kinloch House with the queen’s blessing. When the others left he would deal with her harshly. For now, he would keep a tight rein on his temper and deal with her more diplomatically.

  “It is not proper to address the queen unless she first invites it.”

  “May I speak, Majesty?” came the bold reply from the far end of the table.

  Again Angus tried to stifle her outburst. Ignoring him, she opened her mouth to speak.

  “Nay. We will eat.” Brice held up a hand to silence her. At his signal, the servants began circulating among the guests, offering from trays of steaming deer, rabbit, goose, pheasant and partridge. There were breads still warm from the oven, as well as steamed puddings.

  From the far end of the table, the woman in the white gown called, “Such fine food, my lord.”

  Brice’s eyes narrowed. Was it Meredith’s intention to dominate the conversation? Perhaps she hoped to continue to call attention to herself in order to invite the queen’s protection.

  “There are those who say the Highlanders live like royalty while many in the Lowlands starve.” All eyes turned toward the woman in the white gown who sat beside Angus. With a wide, innocent smile she added, “Is that not true, Majesty?”

  Brice heard a slight choking sound from the woman beside him. “Aye” came the voice. Then, with just a trace of French accent, she added, “’Tis said that many covet the holdings of the Highland lords. What say you—Meredith?”

  Brice turned to study the woman in the burgundy velvet gown. Though the gown and hair were that of the queen, the voice, though similar, was not hers. He and Mary had been friends for too long. He had heard her when angry, happy, ill and well. He would know her voice anywhere.

  He strained to study the face beneath the veil. Why would the queen wear a hat and veil to a banquet? A hint of a smile began at the corner of his lips. To hide behind? His smile grew.

  “Do you remember that time when you and I and the dauphin went riding in Paris?” he asked.

  Beside him the woman went very still.

  “Surely you have not forgotten, Majesty. We had a race. I believe the bet was one hundred gold sovereigns.”

  Still the woman beside him remained silent.

  “Unfortunately for you, I won by several meters,” Brice said with a trace of triumph.

  From the end of the table came the thunderous response. “How dare you, Brice Campbell! I won that race. And the bet was five hundred gold sovereigns. By the time you caught up with me I had turned my mount over to a groom and had retired to my rooms. You threatened to have your horse drawn and quartered for stumbling and losing the race.

  Around the table there was stunned silence.

  Brice threw back his head and roared with laughter. “And how does my captive, Meredith MacAlpin, know of such things?”
<
br />   At the foot of the table the queen stood, shocking those guests who had not yet caught on to the joke.

  “You knew all along, did you?”

  “Nay, Majesty.” Brice wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Not until I heard the poor imitation of your French accent beside me.”

  “Ah. Then it was Meredith who gave it away.”

  “It was the boldness of the one who pretended to be my captive. You have a very—regal presence, Madame. A trait that does not allow you to blend in with a crowd. How much did you have riding on this little prank?”

  “A mere gold sovereign.” The queen gave him a wide smile. “It is worth losing this bet to Flem just to put you in your place, Brice Campbell.” She looked around at the others. “Let no one at this table think that any Highland lord can best his queen in a race. Shall I challenge you again, Brice?”

  “Perhaps another time, Majesty.”

  While the others chimed in the laughter at the queen’s prank, Brice turned toward Meredith. In a voice the others could not hear he whispered, “Well done. For a few moments you managed to fool me, little wildcat.”

  Beside him Meredith merely smiled. Why in the world should Brice’s words please her? He was, after all, still the same barbarian who had captured her and held her against her will in the Highlands.

  Or was he?

  Meredith thought about the loyalty of his people, so unexpected in one of his reputation. And the library of books and ledgers. Did that not indicate an educated man? And what of his friendship with royalty?

  So many questions. And yet, long after the queen left, she would be forced to remain here and perhaps learn the answers.

  She glanced at the far end of the table where the queen was accepting the congratulations of those who admired her latest trick. Had not the queen herself brought up the question of what would be done with her? Perhaps she could yet persuade the queen to take her with her. At least then she would be free of Brice Campbell. After all, was that not what she truly wanted?

  At the far end of the table, Jamie MacDonald remained rooted to his chair. He was sitting beside the queen. And he had just been privileged to witness one of her renowned pranks. Could life be any more wonderful than this?