“Yer verra far from Argyll,” Bothwell remarked.
“Aye, we’ve been visitin’ in England,” Gordon answered. “Dubh and Rob’s uncle is the Earl of Basildon.”
“The English queen’s Midas?” Bothwell asked.
“Aye, and the lass is Elizabeth’s nemesis,” Mungo piped up.
“What d’ye mean?”
“He means my sister had the audacity to draw her dagger on Walsingham,” Dubh told him. “’Tis the reason we took to the heather.”
The Earl of Bothwell burst out laughing and nodded with approval at her. “Ah, here’s supper,” he said.
Several servants set loaves of bread, creamy butter, and bowls of hearty mutton stew on the table in front of them. Next came goblets of ale for the men and a refill of the mulled wine for the lady.
Shifting Smooches in her lap, Rob forced herself to remove her leather riding gloves. Wearing them at the supper table would be rude though that was precisely what she wished to do.
Rob fed the pup a few chunks of mutton from her bowl and then lifted the spoon to eat. “My compliments to Cook,” she said after tasting it. “’Tis delicious.”
Gordon leaned close and whispered against her ear, “Campbell soup tastes even better, angel.”
Rob rolled her eyes heavenward. “If I listened to ye, my lord, everythin’ Campbell would be considered divine.”
“And that would be the gospel truth.”
“The gospel accordin’ to Argyll?”
“Is there any other?”
Rob shifted Smooches to her right arm and reached out with her left hand to pick the last few mutton chunks out of the bowl for his supper. As one of the serving girls refilled the men’s goblets and started to turn away, Rob lifted her gaze from the pup and caught the girl making a protective sign of the cross.
Surprised, Rob froze for a fraction of an instant and then hid her left hand in her lap. Great Bruce’s ghost, how could she have forgotten to hide her deformity? Had she become so comfortable with the man beside her that she’d forgotten about the frightened reaction Old Clootie’s mark elicited in people?
Glancing sidelong at her husband, Rob felt a wave of relief surge through her body. Gordon hadn’t noticed the girl’s action. She slid her gaze to the Earl of Bothwell. He was watching her intently. Was that pity she saw mirrored in his eyes?
“Would ye care for yer bath, my lady?” the earl asked kindly. “’Tis waitin’ for ye in yer chamber.”
“Thank ye, my lord. I’d like that,” Rob answered, her cheeks pinkening because he’d witnessed her shame.
The earl gestured at two women. When she saw them approaching the table, Rob recognized the fear couched in their eyes. She’d seen that expression thousands of times in the Highlands.
“I’ll take care of Smooches,” Gordon said, lifting the pup out of her arms.
Rob flicked him a grateful smile and then stood. Without another word, she followed the two women out of the hall.
“A braw lassie,” the Earl of Bothwell said when she’d disappeared from sight. “Too bad she’s marked.”
Confused by his words, Gordon turned a questioning look on him. As far as he was concerned, his wife was pure perfection. Well, perhaps a mite headstrong at times, but that was a problem Gordon could easily solve.
“Dinna misunderstand,” the earl added. “I dinna hold with superstitions. As ye know, I’m called the Wizard Earl behind my back, and my royal cousin fears me. But, life can be harsh for a tarnished angel like yer wife.”
“There’s nothin’ tarnished aboot my sister,” Dubh insisted. “The flaw lies with the beholder, not the bearer of that mark.”
“What are ye talkin’ aboot?” Gordon demanded, rounding on his brother-in-law.
“That flower stain on the back other left hand frightens the misinformed,” Bothwell told him.
“Old Clootie touched her for sure,” Mungo piped up. “She’s the devil’s handmaiden.”
Both Gordon and Dubh reached for MacKinnon at the same moment. Gordon moved faster, though. He grabbed his friend by the throat and threatened, “I’ll kill ye if ye dinna take that back.”
“The man canna recant while yer chokin’ him,” the Earl of Bothwell said, and then placed a hand on Gordon’s shoulder. “Peace, Campbell. He canna help bein’ ignorant.”
With a warning growl, Gordon released his friend.
“I — I amna ignorant,” Mungo gasped, slowly regaining his breath.
“Superstition is ignorance.” The Earl of Bothwell turned to Gordon and advised, “Dinna present yer wife at court, man. Jamie believes in demons and witches. Yer lass will get hurt.”
“’Tis merely a birthin’ blemish,” Gordon said, shaking his head at such foolishness. “And a pretty flower at that.”
His wife’s enemies were his enemies. He’d kill the man who tried to hurt her.
* * *
“Wake up, angel.”
At the sound of the familiar husky voice whispering in her ear, Rob swam up slowly from the deep depths of sleep. Was she dreaming? Or had she actually heard her husband uttering the three words she’d begun to hate?
“I said, wake up.”
That voice was no dream. Rob opened her eyes and saw her husband still dressed for riding.
“Are ye comin’ to bed?” she asked.
“’Tis mornin’,” he told her.
“Where did ye sleep?”
“Beside ye.”
“Why dinna we rest here for a day or two?” she suggested, her voice a drowsy plea.
“Here’s food on this tray,” Gordon said, scooping Smooches into his arms. “Meet me in the courtyard, and dinna keep us waitin’.” At that, he left the chamber.
Rob wondered if her husband was beginning to enjoy tormenting her, but she did as she was told. After washing her face and dressing hurriedly, Rob grabbed a piece of brown bread and a chunk of cheese and then headed for the door. She had no doubt that if she lingered within the chamber, her husband would return to shove the food down her throat and to dress her himself.
Dawn’s orange streaks were brightening the eastern horizon when Rob stepped into the courtyard. Her husband and her brother spoke together in hushed voices. Near them, three horses stood saddled and waiting.
“Is MacKinnon stayin’ at Hermitage?” Rob asked.
“No, I’m stayin’ behind,” Dubh answered.
“But why?”
“Yer safe from the queen’s men now, and I’ve a mind to go raidin’ the borders with Bothwell,” he told her. “‘Twill be my own private revenge for Mary’s murder.”
“I wish I could go raidin’ with ye.” Rob looked at him through eyes that mirrored her worry. “Ye’ll be careful, won’t ye?”
“Of course.” Dubh gathered her into his arms and gave her a hearty squeeze. “I couldna allow Ross or Jamie to inherit Dunridge. Those good-for-nothin’ brothers of ours would pauper the family within a year.”
Rob forced herself to smile. She felt sad at the thought of leaving her favorite brother behind, but understood his motives. Part of her sadness was pure selfishness. Though she knew her husband would protect her with his life, Rob had felt along the journey from London that Dubh was protecting her from Gordon. Now, from the borders to the Highlands, she would be forced to rely solely on Gordon. How absurd that one moment of foolishness, making her presence known to Elizabeth’s ministers, could have such far-reaching consequences on the rest of her life.
Drawing their attention, Mungo MacKinnon hurried into the courtyard at that moment. Instead of looking rested, the man sported horribly bloodshot eyes and a pale-greenish complexion.
“Are ye hurtin’, Mungo?” Gordon asked in an overly loud voice.
The blond man grimaced. “I’ll never drink and dice with another borderer as long as I live.”
Gordon grinned and slapped his back so hard the force of it nearly toppled the other man over. He turned to Rob and asked, “Are ye ready, angel?”
Rob
threw herself into her brother’s arms a final time and kissed his cheek. Then she stepped back a pace and nodded at her husband. Gordon set Smooches into her satchel and helped her mount.
“Dinna fear for her safety,” Gordon told Dubh, reaching to shake his hand. “I’ll be guardin’ her with my life.”
Gordon, Rob, and Mungo left Hermitage Castle and rode northwest. At Selkirk, Mungo took leave of them and headed northeast toward Edinburgh.
Feeling strangely relieved at his departure, Rob watched her husband’s friend ride away. As she turned back to Gordon, she happened to glance down at her star ruby. Its color was fading into serenity. Puzzled, she looked at MacKinnon’s retreating back and then her magical stone. Could there possibly be any connection between her husband’s friend and the stone’s color? Could the stone possibly be reflecting MacKinnon’s negative feelings for her?
“Is aught wrong?” Gordon asked. “Or are ye back to checkin’ yer titties again?”
Rob forced the fret from her expression. With a mischievous smile, she answered, “I want to be certain ye havena lifted them off my chest.”
“Ah, lass. I told ye before and I’ll tell ye again —” Gordon began.
“Ye dinna need to steal what ye already own,” Rob finished for him.
Gordon grinned at her. “Yer a quick learner, angel. I believe I’ll keep ye around.”
“Unless I outwit ye by slippin’ through yer fingers.”
“Outwit me?” he echoed. “’Twill never happen, lass.”
“Dinna bet the family fortune, my lord.” She flicked him an unconsciously flirtatious smile and teased, “Everyone knows that MacArthurs are smarter than Campbells.”
Gordon burst out laughing. “Yer incorrigible. But, I guess we’ve got the next forty years to put that theory to the test.”
Continuing northwest, Gordon and Rob passed through Lanark and Stirling, the jewel that clasped the Highlands with the rest of the world. Leaving Stirling behind, they rode into the Highlands of Scotland.
Like an unwelcome guest, winter lingered longer in those higher altitudes. A heavy blanket of snow muffled the sounds of the wilderness, its meadows remaining empty of animals. Only pawprints revealed the existence of life.
The howling voice of February’s winds swirled around the brooding mountains, echoed through the hauntingly deserted glens, and tippled across once-serene lochs. Winter, the loneliest time of the year, was a season of solitude when people sought refuge from the elements within their humble dwellings and passed the hours weaving fantastic tales of yore.
The day had been a Highland rarity of blue skies and glistening snow. Wood smoke wafted across the crystalline air and grew stronger, urging them onward toward their final destination.
Reaching the crest of a modest incline, Gordon halted his horse and pointed toward the glen below. “’Tis there,” he said.
Rob reined her horse to a stop beside him and stared in the direction he pointed. Pale yellow light of evening silhouetted the four-story high structure. From her vantage point, Rob saw that the castle stood on a promontory over Loch Fyne. The surrounding mountains and the loch combined to make Inverary Castle impregnable. Nearby, on the eastern and the western sides of the structure, lay two frozen streams apparently descended from the mountains.
“Welcome to Inverary Castle,” Gordon said, smiling at her. “Welcome home, wife.”
Rob flicked him a sidelong glance and then gazed at the castle below. “I willna say I’m glad to be here,” she replied. “Inverary appears more like a castle of gloom than the Highland’s wealthiest stronghold.”
Gordon chuckled. “’Tis forbiddin’, I’ll give ye that. The fact is we lovin’ly call it Castle Gloom. ’Twas built to be the ugliest castle in Scotland in order to discourage any foolhardy intruders.”
“In that case, my lord, the Campbells have done an excellent job of it,” Rob teased. “Inverary appears as if the devil himself cast his cloak over it.”
“Thank ye for the high praise,” Gordon replied.
“Where’s Dunridge Castle from here?” she asked.
“Ye must go up into those mountains behind Inverary,” Gordon told her. “Climb up the valley of Glen Aray, and then walk through the forest until ye arrive at the moors. When ye reach the crest of the moors, ye can see Loch Awe with its jewel, Dunridge Castle, and behind it rises Ben Cruachan.”
Gordon nudged his horse forward toward home and called over his shoulder, “Are ye comin’, angel?”
“Aye,” Rob called, and reluctantly nudged her own horse forward to follow him down the incline. “Do ye think they’ll be surprised to see us?”
“I doubt it,” Gordon said without looking back at her. “My father knows whenever anyone steps one foot into Argyll. No man catches a Campbell by surprise.”
Perhaps, but I’m a woman, Rob thought. The Campbells cannot see Old Clootie’s mark from wherever they’re standing. I’ll bet my family’s fortune that the sight of my devil’s flower will catch every last Campbell off guard.
Rob lifted her chin a notch, squared her shoulders proudly, and gazed at her new home. Castle Gloom. Today was the first day of the rest of her miserable life, and she’d better make the best of it. Perhaps she could wear those fingerless gloves and permanently keep her shame hidden . . . ?
Chapter 9
“Welcome to Inverary Castle.” Magnus Campbell, the Duke of Argyll, smiled at Rob as he walked around the desk in his private study to greet her. “Come, lass, and warm yerself in front of the hearth. Let me take yer cloak and gloves.”
With chestnut-brown hair, piercing gray eyes, and a charming smile that eased her apprehension, the fifty-year-old Duke of Argyll was still an exceedingly handsome man. The resemblance between his son and him was uncanny, and made her feel as if she were looking at a vision of her husband as an older man.
Still dressed in the boy’s clothing borrowed from Henry Talbot, Rob felt positively ragged but let the duke divest her of cloak and gloves. She returned his smile shyly, followed him across the study to a chair in front of the hearth, and sat down. Lifting Smooches out of his satchel, she kept the pup imprisoned on her lap.
The duke handed his son a dram of whiskey and then offered her a goblet of mulled wine with a cinnamon stick. The unexpected sight of that cinnamon stick reminded Rob of the day in her uncle’s study when she’d served her two suitors white heather wine and cockle bread.
Rob struggled against the bubble of laughter rising in her throat and managed to hold it down. She wondered what her husband was thinking at that moment, but refrained from looking in his direction lest the sight of him make her laugh. She didn’t think he’d wish to tell his father about that particular day, and she couldn’t very well laugh without explaining why. Her father-in-law would think she was a blinking idiot.
“Here’s to yer safe arrival,” Magnus said, lifting his glass of whiskey into the air in a toast. “May today be the first day of many happy years for my only son and his lovely wife.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Gordon said, raising his own glass to his lips.
Though uncomfortable with his sentiment, Rob managed a smile for her father-in-law’s gallantry. She did, however, refrain from joining in their toast.
“Lass, ye have the look of yer mother,” the duke remarked. “Ye canna imagine how ecstatic I am that yer parents and I will share grandchildren.”
In the act of sipping her wine, Rob choked on his words. A hard slap between her shoulder blades helped her catch her breath.
“Thank ye,” Rob said, gazing through tear-blurred eyes at her husband. “The wine went down the wrong pipe.” Fully composed again, she turned her attention on her father-in-law and said, “I’m verra sorry, Yer Grace, but my parents and ye may not be sharin’ any grandchildren.”
“Rob.” Her husband’s voice held a warning note.
“Are ye barren?” Duke Magnus asked baldly.
Rob crimsoned with hot embarrassment. In spite of the pup sitt
ing on her lap, she reached around his little body and began to rub her birthmark furiously.
“No, Yer Grace. I — I may be permanently returnin’ to England this summer,” she tried to explain.
Her statement confused him. The duke slid his gaze to his son and silently demanded an explanation.
“Dinna fret aboot this nonsense,” Gordon told his father. He rounded on Rob who was about to argue with him, and added, “We’ll discuss this later.”
“Yer Grace, may I have a box of sand in my chamber?” Rob asked abruptly, switching to a more mundane subject than the possibility of her leaving Inverary Castle.
“Sand?” Duke Magnus echoed, thoroughly baffled by her request. He’d met myriad silly women in his time, including his own wife and Rob’s mother, but the Mac-Arthur chit seemed to outshine the lot of them.
“My young cousins trained Smooches to use a sandbox at night,” Rob said, reading the confusion couched in his eyes.
The duke’s expression cleared. “I’m certain we can find a box for yer pet.” He flicked a glance at his son and added, “Duncan and Gavin will love playin’ with Smooches.”
“Duncan and Gavin?” Rob inquired, thinking the two must be the duke’s own pets.
“A couple of Inverary’s children to whom my father is partial,” Gordon answered.
The duke coughed and cleared his throat, drawing her attention. Rob caught the pointed look his grace leveled on her husband but had no idea what it meant.
“Ye’ve suffered a long and tirin’ journey,” Duke Magnus said, turning his most solicitously charming smile on her. “I’m certain ye’d love a hot bath and a hearty meal to take the edge off yer hunger.”
Without waiting for her to reply, the duke crossed the study to the door and called for service. Almost instantly, two women hurried into the room. One appeared to be about Rob’s age and the other several years older than the duke.
Setting Smooches down on the floor, Rob stood to greet them. Out of habit, she discreetly covered her birthmark with her right hand.
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