Rob smiled at her favorite brother, who’d always championed her causes. She reached for Smooches in order to feed him a slice of ham, but in the movement, her cloak opened. Her star ruby had darkened redder than pigeon’s blood.
Rob looked at her husband and asked in alarm, “Do ye think we’re in danger?”
Gordon snapped his brows together. “Why do ye ask such a question?”
“My ruby —”
“’Tis merely a stone,” he interrupted. “Besides, yer perfectly safe with me around to protect ye.”
“Pass the wine, lass,” Mungo said.
With her husband on one side and her brother on the other, Rob felt so comfortably safe that she forgot about her devil’s flower and its effect on strangers. She offered Mungo the wine flask but then froze when she saw his gaze riveted on Old Clootie’s mark.
Great Bruce’s ghost, she should have switched Smooches to her left arm and then passed the flask with her right hand. She wasn’t usually this careless. Perhaps exhaustion had impaired her reflexes.
Mungo MacKinnon apparently possessed the presence of mind to keep from shrinking back while her husband sat beside her. He lifted the flask from her hand without actually touching her and then made a protective sign of the cross.
And so it begins, Rob thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
They’d only traveled thirty miles, and already this man had crossed himself. The closer they got to Scotland, the greater the number of people who’d be crossing themselves at the sight of her deformity.
Rob longed to hide her hand inside her cloak, but Smooches prevented her from doing that. Instead, she dropped her gaze to her lap and prayed that the expression of horrified surprise would fade from the blond man’s eyes.
“Why did ye do that?” she heard her husband ask his friend.
“Do what?”
“Ye just blessed yerself,” Gordon told him.
Rob cast a sidelong glance at her brother who appeared ready to pounce on the blond man. Her wonderful brother had always championed her cause and defended her against the ignorance of others. She only hoped there wouldn’t be trouble while the queen’s men were chasing them.
“I — I blessed myself for luck,” Mungo told them. “We’re only thirty miles from London, and the English queen possesses many fast horses. I wouldna want to be caught unaware.”
“We’d better catch a few winks,” Dubh said, wrapping himself in his plaid.
Relieved that the trouble had passed, Rob peered at Gordon, who held his plaid open in an unspoken invitation. With Smooches cradled beneath her cloak, she lay down and cuddled against her husband’s warm body. Too tired to fret about improprieties, Rob closed her eyes and dropped into a deep dreamless sleep . . .
“Wake up, angel.”
Rob felt a hand nudging her shoulder. She opened her eyes, focused on her husband’s face, and groaned as if in pain. Two hours felt suspiciously like two minutes.
“If ye get up, ye’ll sleep in a bed tonight,” he coaxed her.
Rob yawned and stretched, then said, “I want to sleep in a bed now.”
“There are na any beds in these woods,” Gordon told her, forcing her to stand.
“Where’s my dog?” she asked.
“Smooches is ready and anxious to ride.”
Rob spotted the pup and smiled drowsily. Her husband had fastened a clean nappy on him and dressed him in his sweater. After strapping the leather satchel to her chest, Rob wrapped the dog in the Campbell plaid and set him inside.
Riding northwest, they passed through the Cotswold Hills with their wooded glens and serene streams and, as dusk descended upon them, entered the market town of Stratford upon the Avon River. Crossing the Clopton Bridge, Rob peered down at the Avon’s swirling waters. Two swans, one black and one white, swam gracefully below the bridge.
They halted their horses in front of the first inn they saw, appropriately named the Black Swan Inn. Sitting between her husband and her brother inside the inn’s crowded common room, Rob carefully hid her disfigured hand on her lap while she ate. She gave a silent prayer of thanks that Smooches had ensconced himself in her husband’s arms.
With supper ended and a hot bath waiting in each of the two rooms they’d rented for the night, the four Highlanders went upstairs. Dubh and Mungo shared a chamber while Gordon and she took the other. Rob would have preferred sharing the room with her brother, but she knew without asking that her husband would object.
“I think ’twould be wise if we left the nappy on Smooches,” Gordon said, sitting down on the only seat in the room, the edge of the bed. “There’s yer bath, angel.”
In the act of pulling her night shift out of her satchel, Rob snapped her head up in surprise. “My lord, ’twould be improper for me to bathe with ye in the room.”
Gordon flashed her a devastatingly boyish smile and said, “I willna peek at ye.”
After riding for almost twenty-four hours straight, Rob was unable to muster the energy to argue. She gave him a long, measuring look and then shifted her gaze to the steam that rose oh-so-invitingly from the tub. Rob positively yearned to submerge her aching muscles in that water.
Gordon set a towel down on the bottom edge of the bed and turned his back, making an exaggerated show of ignoring her. “I dinna hear splashin’ water,” he said after a long silent moment had passed. “If ye dinna get into that tub right now, I’ll go first.”
Rob stripped hurriedly. She stepped into the tub, only slightly larger than a hip bath, and plopped down in the water. The thought of her husband squeezing his warrior’s body into the tub made her smile.
Too nervous with him in the room to soak for long, Rob quickly lathered and scrubbed and rinsed each part of her aching body. Gradually, she began to feel almost human again.
Dripping water, Rob stood and turned around to reach for the towel on the edge of the bed, but froze in surprised embarrassment at what she saw. With his arms folded across his chest, her husband relaxed on the bed and watched her.
Their gazes met. The unmasked desire in his intense stare made her vulnerable.
Rob yanked the towel up to cover her nakedness and reminded him in an accusing voice, “Ye said ye wouldna peek.”
“I lied,” Gordon admitted, his smile charmingly unrepentant. “But I crossed my fingers so it doesna count as a real fib.”
Rob tried to think of something suitably insulting to hurl at him, but her mind remained humiliatingly blank. She stepped out of the tub, and being careful to keep herself covered, struggled to pull her nightgown over her head.
“Do ye need a hand with that?” Gordon asked.
Rob cast him an unamused look. With her virgin’s frilly, high-necked nightgown in place, she tossed the towel at him and said, “Yer turn, my lord.”
Turning her back on him, Rob sat down on the edge of the bed and lifted Smooches onto her lap. She heard her husband disrobing and then the sound of him stepping into the tub.
“God’s balls, ’tis only fit for dwarfs,” she heard him mutter.
Rob swallowed the bubble of laughter she felt rising in her throat. She glanced over her shoulder to steal a peek at her husband; he sat uncomfortably with his legs bent and his knees high.
That didn’t seem to bother him, though. He sat in that tiny tub and hummed a sprightly tune while he lathered and rinsed himself.
Rob let her gaze wander across the broad expanse of his shoulders and well-muscled back. Great Bruce’s ghost, but the man was the image of every maiden’s dream.
And he belonged to her. That realization brought a smile to her lips and incited her to impure thoughts. Would his buttocks and his thighs be as pleasing as the rest of him? What if he stood up suddenly and turned around? What would she do if she saw that part of him?
“No peekin’,” Gordon called over his shoulder.
Rob snapped her head around, mortified that he knew she was watching him. She heard the sound of his chuckle, the water sloshi
ng, and then the whip of the towel as he dried himself.
“Are ye goin’ to sit there and blush all night, or were ye plannin’ on sleepin’?” Gordon asked.
Rob rounded on him, intending to give him a piece of her mind, and nearly swooned at what she saw. With only the towel covering his privates from his waist to mid thigh, her husband stood there and smiled at her. His chest was as magnificently formed as his back.
“What are ye doin’?” Rob cried when he pulled the bed’s coverlet back.
“I’m goin’ to sleep.”
“Like that?”
“Well, I forgot my nighty,” he said dryly. “Do ye have an extra I could borrow?”
Rob glared at him. “I dinna find yer humor amusin’, my lord. And, if ye think I’m sleepin’ with ye in this bed, then ye’d better think again.”
“Listen, angel. I’m too tired to scale the bulwarks,” Gordon told her.
“What bulwarks?”
“The walls of yer virginal defenses. Are ye sleepin’ or no?”
Rob nodded, her exhaustion overruling her modesty.
She clutched the pup tightly in her arms and lay back on the bed.
“The dog’s sleepin’ with us?”
“Between us,” she corrected him.
Rob knew by the wholly exasperated look on her husband’s face that he intended to put an end to that as soon as they reached Inverary Castle. She snapped her eyes shut when he moved to drop the towel and lay down on the bed. Smooches struggled out of her arms and cuddled into his chest.
“Betrayin’ cur,” Rob muttered, and turned her back on both of them.
Long silent moments passed.
“Angel, have I told ye how cute ye are when yer angry?” Gordon asked, a smile lurking in his voice.
No response.
Gordon shifted the pup in his arms, leaned close, and peered down at her. Fatigue had already claimed his wife in sleep.
He planted a chaste kiss on the side of her cheek and whispered, “Good night, angel. Sweet dreams.”
* * *
Her life became an endless nightmare.
At dawn the following morning, Rob began the most exhausting week of her entire eighteen years. They turned their horses northeast and rode through Coventry, a cathedral city with defensive walls, and Leicestershire with its rolling landscapes, ancient gnarled trees, and stone villages. Physical exhaustion blinded Rob to Leicestershire’s stark beauty.
After riding from dawn to dusk, the four young Highlanders camped in the surrounding woodlands beneath the stars. Rob slept snuggled against her husband, the safest place in the world at that moment. In spite of the fact that his smiling arrogance infuriated her, Rob never doubted that Gordon would protect her with his life.
They rode through Derby and then crossed the wind-swept moors and heaths of Yorkshire while skirting the towns of Leeds, Sheffield, Wakefield, and Ripon. Completely exhausted by then, Rob did whatever she was told without argument or even thinking. She did, however, keep a guarded eye on her star ruby. That magical stone remained darker than pigeon’s blood despite the distance between the queen’s men and herself.
Inspecting the star ruby on the eighth morning of their northward trek, Rob realized that she was hopelessly caught in an untenable position. Danger followed her from England and awaited her in Scotland. Trapped as she was between two evil forces, how could she survive?
“Look,” Dubh called, drawing her attention.
Rob snapped her head up and stared in the direction her brother pointed.
The Cheviot Hills rose in the distance. Making the hills appear spectacularly tall, a fine mist enveloped the low-lying areas around them.
Gordon and Dubh halted their horses at the sight of Scotland, forcing Rob and Mungo to stop with them. Dubh sighed with exaggeration and breathed deeply as if the northern air was somehow purer than England’s.
“What a beautiful sight,” he exclaimed.
“’Tis Scotland,” Mungo said flatly, apparently unimpressed by the sight of their homeland.
“Ye see Scotland but I see paradise,” Gordon remarked.
Staring straight ahead at the beckoning hills, Rob felt the panic beginning to swell within her breast. She had no idea what terrified her most, facing the queen’s men or a multitude of Highlanders making the sign of the cross as she passed by.
“’Tis paradise for some,” Rob said, her voice tinged with bitterness, “but hell-on-earth for others.” Feeling her husband’s gaze, she asked, “Well, are ye plannin’ on passin’ the day admirin’ the sight, or are we goin’ home?”
An eternally disputed tract of land between Scotland and England, the Cheviot’s main road was the pass connecting Redesdale in Northumberland and the valley of Jed. Smoothly rounded and dissected by deep glens, the hills were deserted except for an occasional shepherd’s cottage.
Unexpectedly, two men on horseback appeared in the distance. The riders halted their horses abruptly as if surprised to see them there and then started forward in their direction.
“Be ready for trouble in the event they prove unfriendly,” Gordon warned, gesturing for them to halt.
Galloping at full speed, the riders came closer and closer. And then the color of their plaids became visible. The two gigantic men wore the Earl of Bothwell’s red and green plaid. They reined their horses to an abrupt halt five feet away and studied the four of them in silence for a long, tense moment.
“And what do we have here?” the first man asked, his smile flippantly wary.
“Pilgrims, do ye think?” the second man suggested.
“’Tis the Campbell plaid the man’s wearin’,” the first man replied. “All of Scotland knows there are na any Campbells holy enough to go pilgrimin’.”
“Yer correct aboot that,” Gordon said with a smile. “Could ye possibly belong to Bothwell’s borderers?”
“Who’s askin’?” the first man demanded.
“Gordon Campbell, the Marquess of Inverary, Argyll’s heir.”
“Dubh MacArthur, Dunridge’s heir.”
“Mungo MacKinnon, the Earl of Skye’s heir.”
“Who’s the lad?” the second man asked. “An English hostage?”
Gordon reached over and yanked the cap off Rob’s head, letting her ebony mane cascade down her back to her waist. “My wife, the Marchioness of Inverary.”
“Who happens to be my sister,” Dubh added for good measure. Borderer or no, these men wouldn’t wish for the MacArthur-Campbell clan to hunt them down.
“Well, what can we do for ye?” the first man asked.
“If Bothwell’s in residence at Hermitage, we’d like to enjoy his hospitality for tonight,” Gordon answered. “Sleepin’ with a roof over her head would do my wife a world of good.”
“Aye, we’ve been runnin’ through the heather for over a week,” Mungo added.
“Who’s chasin’ ye?” the second borderer asked.
“Sassenach swine,” Mungo spat, ignoring Gordon’s gesture for silence. With a flick of his hand, he gestured toward Rob and said, “The twit had the temerity to draw her dagger on the English queen’s secretary of state.”
The two borderers shouted with laughter, and then turned warm smiles on her. There was no mistaking the admiration gleaming at her from their eyes.
“Hermitage is aboot ten miles from here,” one said.
“Follow us,” the other added, turning his horse around. “We’ll escort ye there.”
The largest and strongest border fortress, the H-shaped Hermitage Castle stood on the Hermitage Water between two streams and possessed an unusual double tower with central courtyard. Built in the thirteenth century by Walter Comyn, the ownership of Hermitage Castle had passed through several families until it became the property of Francis Hepburn-Stuart, an illegitimate grandson of James V and cousin to King James VI.
Their party of six reached Hermitage Castle as dusk was descending and a light mist giving way to steady rain. They rode through the portcullis
entrance and into the deserted courtyard.
As they dismounted, several stable boys materialized from nowhere and led their horses away. With one burly borderer in the lead and the other behind them, they entered the castle’s main building and walked up the stairs to the great hall.
In sharp contrast to the deserted courtyard, the great hall buzzed in a beehive of activity. Bothwell’s borderers and castle servants filled the hall to overflowing.
The tantalizing aroma of roasting meats and simmering stew wafted across the air and called out to Rob when she stepped inside the chamber. Her stomach answered with an unladylike growl, and Rob hoped that no one heard her hunger’s roar.
“Ye’ll eat soon,” Gordon whispered, leaning close.
Rob blushed and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him. Why couldn’t she keep any secrets from her husband? This northward trek had been one of the most humiliating experiences of her life. This was her punishment for losing her temper and making her presence known to her uncle’s associates.
A tall, well-built man started across the hall toward them; a puzzled but welcoming smile lit his entire expression. Francis Hepburn-Stuart, the Earl of Bothwell, was a handsome man with auburn hair, short beard, and heavenly blue eyes. As he advanced on them, their two escorts disappeared into the crowd of borderers.
“Welcome to my home,” the Earl of Bothwell greeted them.
“I’m Gordon Campbell, and these are family and friend,” Gordon made the introductions. “Dubh MacArthur, Mungo MacKinnon, and my wife, Rob MacArthur Campbell.”
The earl shook the men’s hands and then turned his charm on Rob. “I can see that yer journey’s been long and tirin’,” he said, bowing over her gloved hand. “Would ye care to eat and then retire to a chamber with a hot bath?”
“Aye, my lord,” Rob answered, giving him a grateful smile. “Thank ye.”
“And what’s this creature yer carryin’?” Bothwell asked.
“Smooches, my puppy.”
The earl held his hand out to the pup for him to catch his scent. In answer, Smooches licked the offered hand.
Bothwell smiled and escorted them across the hall to the high table. At a gesture from their lord, two serving women brought whiskey for the men and mulled wine for Rob.
Courting an Angel Page 17