Courting an Angel

by Grasso, Patricia;

  “’Tis an excellent feelin’ in this time of our mournin’ to have my friends offer me comfort,” King James was saying.

  What a lying hypocrite, Rob thought, losing her appetite. She’d always assumed that the king would be nobler than any other person in the realm. Apparently, she’d been mistaken. Noble or not, a king was subject to the same human frailties as the basest commoner in his realm.

  “Yer brother-in-law is the renowned Earl of Basildon,” King James said, looking down the table at Henry as supper came to an end. “Tell me aboot Elizabeth’s ‘Midas.’”

  “Lady Rob is his blood niece and passed more than a year in his household,” Henry replied. “She can probably tell you more than I ever could, although I will gladly share anything of interest that I can.”

  When the royal gaze shifted to her, Rob squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. She cleared her throat and said, “Sire, I would be honored to answer any questions ye have concernin’ my uncle.”

  “I want to know aboot his business ventures,” the king said baldly.

  Business ventures? She knew nothing about her uncle’s businesses. Apparently, James wanted inside information in order to fatten his own coffers. At a loss for words, Rob sent her husband a silent plea for help.

  “Yer Majesty, my wife knows less than nothin’ aboot business,” Gordon said with a smile, giving the king an arch look. “Why, I canna recall even seein’ her read a book, which is as it should be. Women were meant for breedin’ and child rearin’.” At the king’s look of disappointment, he added, “However, while I was a guest at Basildon’s, we closeted ourselves in his study each night and discussed business. I’ve made several successful investments for clan Campbell.” He dropped his voice, “I would be honored to share that information with ye, Yer Majesty, but hesitate to do so in such a crowd as this.”

  King James nodded with satisfaction. “Well, Gordy, I’m glad yer father had the foresight to marry ye off to the Earl of Basildon’s niece. How aboot a game of chess while we discuss the advice Basildon gave ye?”

  “With pleasure, Sire.”

  King James and Gordon rose from the table and sat in the chairs near the hearth. Between them on a table rested a chess set, and the two began to play. Henry Talbot and Roger Debrett stood near them to watch as well as to discourage any would-be eavesdroppers looking to fatten their own purses.

  Feeling conspicuously out of place among these strangers who knew each other, Rob carefully hid her left hand within the folds of her gown and wandered across the chamber to stare out a window. Night shrouded Edinburgh Castle in the distance, yet she felt the presence of its horrifying scaffold with every fiber other being.

  How long would Gordon’s chess game take? Rob wondered, desperate to escape the chamber and the king’s presence. She knew without looking at her star ruby that insidious danger lurked within the palace’s darkened corners and awaited the predestined moment when he would step forward to claim his due.

  “Good evenin’, Lady Rob.”

  Turning toward the voice, Rob pasted an insincere smile onto her face and greeted the woman, “Good evenin, Lady Kerr.”

  “And where are yer gloves this evenin’?” Lavinia asked with a sarcastic smirk. “I thought we’d never see ye without them since they’re the latest rage at the Tudor court.”

  “My pregnancy makes me unwell this evenin’,” Rob said, fearing the redhead would notice her devil’s flower. “Please go away and leave me alone.”

  “I’ll leave after we’ve cleared the air between us.”

  “Can it wait until the mornin’?”

  Lavinia stood her ground. “No.”

  “What is it ye wish to say to me?” Rob asked, irritated not only with the woman but her own husband whose past had brought her to this uncomfortable moment.

  “How does it feel to know ye’ve separated two people who truly love each other?” Lavinia asked, her voice low so that no one else could hear.

  “Dinna talk in riddles,” Rob snapped. “Speak straight if ye’ve somethin’ to say.”

  “Ye realize Gordy and I were lovers?”

  Rob stiffened and gave her a curt nod. “I had an inklin’ that somethin’ illicit had passed between ye, but yer the interloper since he’d already married me.”

  “Gordy only married ye to suit his father,” Lavinia informed her, giving her a feline smile. “As a matter of fact, Gordy and I were abed when the message to fetch ye arrived from Argyll.”

  Rob flushed with appalled anger, and rage simmered in her blood. How many other women in this room were waiting to have this same conversation with her? Damn Gordon Campbell and his unbridled lust!

  “Go away. Lady Kerr,” Rob managed to choke out, her stomach churning with her angry humiliation and her pain.

  Encouraged by the obviously anguished expression on Rob’s face, Lavinia went in for the kill. “Gordy planned on ridin’ to Dunridge Castle and then droppin’ ye off at Inverary. He was in a hurry to get back to my arms. Yer waywardness ruined our plans.”

  Pushed beyond endurance, Rob reached down and, in one swift motion, flicked the bottom edge of her gown up to draw her last resort. She pointed the deadly little dagger in the general vicinity of the other woman’s flawlessly beautiful face and threatened, “Go away, ye adulterous jade, or I’ll give ye so many scars no man will want to look at ye much less bed ye.”

  “She’s goin’ to kill me,” Lavinia screamed, leaping back several paces.

  In the next instant, everyone rushed across the room and surrounded them. Pushing his way through the small crowd of shocked spectators, Gordon demanded, “God’s balls, what are ye doin’? Ye brought a dagger into the king’s presence? Are ye daft?”

  Speechless at being blamed for this confrontation, Rob could only stare at her husband. Why was he shouting at her? She glanced toward Lavinia, whom Mungo MacKinnon had protectively encircled within his arms. King James, dribbling a river of saliva, stood beside them.

  “Yer blamin’ me?” Rob asked her husband.

  Gordon held out his hand and ordered, “Give me the blade.”

  “The plague and the devil take ye,” Rob cursed Lavinia as she passed her dagger to her husband.

  “Get these bickerin’ bitches out of my sight,” King James ordered.

  Needing no second invitation to leave, Gordon grabbed Rob’s wrist in a bruising grip and yanked her out of the chamber. Silence reigned as he pulled her through the maze of dimly lit corridors.

  When they finally reached their own chamber, Gordon exclaimed, “I canna believe ye drew a dagger in the king’s presence.”

  “Are ye worried for yer whore’s life?” Rob shouted, exploding with outraged humiliation. “I ken ye had affairs, but I dinna relish havin’ yer lightskirts accost me.”

  She plopped down on the edge of the bed and placed a hand against her belly as if that could calm its churning. Watching her husband pace the chamber, Rob felt defeated and hot tears brimmed in her eyes. “I willna contest a divorce, Gordy. Ye can even use Old Clootie’s mark as the reason. I just want to be away from here. Attendin’ this court is makin’ me sick.”

  “Aboot what are ye talkin’?” Gordon asked, stopping his pacing to fix his piercing gaze on her.

  “I dinna want a husband on yer terms,” she answered, lifting her chin a notch.

  “Ye really must be daft,” Gordon countered. “Do ye think I’d ever let ye rule our marriage?”

  “I’ll have a husband who’s faithful or none at all,” Rob said, squaring her shoulders proudly and looking him straight in the eye. “Besides, ye’ll be happier if ye wed the woman ye love.”

  Some unrecognizable emotion flickered in his piercing gray gaze, and his expression softened on her. Gordon sat beside her on the edge of the bed and put his arm around her, drawing her close.

  “I never loved Lavinia Kerr,” he told her. “I took what she offered and nothin’ more.”

  His admission left her depleted of energy. “I dinna li
ke attendin’ the court,” Rob said, her misery obvious. “I want to leave.”

  Gently, Gordon brushed his lips against her temple. “Tomorrow mornin’, angel,” he promised. “After ye apologize to the king, I’ll ask his permission to leave. If he wants me to stay in Edinburgh, we’ll move into Campbell Mansion. Will that suit ye?”

  Rob nodded, and secure in his embrace, rested her head against his chest. Though outwardly calmed, Rob’s thoughts were troubled. Her husband insisted he never loved Lavinia Kerr, and she believed him. Yet, he refused to profess any love for her.

  Rob sighed raggedly. Perhaps some day he would develop a fondness for her. Until then, she needed to concentrate on the babe she carried. Danger surrounded her, and any danger to herself placed her unborn child at risk. Great Bruce’s ghost, she’d kill the man or the woman who jeopardized her baby.

  Chapter 18

  “Brava, Livy. Ye performed most excellently this evenin’.” Mungo MacKinnon smiled with satisfaction as he watched his cousin pacing angrily back and forth in front of the hearth in her chamber.

  “Humph,” Lavinia snorted delicately, throwing him an irritated glare. “I canna believe that Highland mouse had the audacity to draw her dagger on me.”

  “I’d say Gordy was more than a little surprised too,” Mungo replied, pleased that the opening act of his scheme for revenge against the MacArthurs had gone so well. “’Twas even better than I’d planned. Not only did the stupid twit draw her dagger in front of the king but she also cursed ye in the presence of witnesses.”

  “So what will ye do now?” Lavinia asked, flicking him a sidelong glance as she passed him in her pacing.

  “In the mornin’ I’ll whisper in the king’s ear aboot her devil’s flower and then accuse her of practicin’ witchcraft.” Mungo reached out and grasped her forearm, saying, “Cousin, yer pacin’ is makin’ me dizzy.” He gently forced her to sit in the chair and ordered, “Stay put, and I’ll fetch ye a glass of wine.”

  When she nodded in agreement, Mungo crossed the chamber to the table. Ah, yes, he thought with an inward smile of supreme satisfaction. Events were progressing rather nicely. Perhaps his luck was about to take a turn for the better.

  Mungo glanced over his shoulder to be certain his cousin wasn’t watching and then pulled a glass vial from inside his doublet. He stared at its contents for one brief moment. The apothecary had insisted that this amount of calcinated, fresh tree bark would reduce a person to a retching state within a few minutes. Though the illness wouldn’t be fatal, the nausea and the stomachache would last two or three days.

  Without remorse, Mungo emptied the powdery tree bark into a goblet and poured the wine. After filling a second goblet, he carried them back across the chamber and then passed Lavinia the goblet of tainted wine.

  “I salute yer fine actin’ ability,” Mungo said, raising his goblet and drinking.

  “I wasna play actin’,” Lavinia told him, and sipped her wine. “Despisin’ that mouse comes easily.”

  “I ken what ye mean,” Mungo replied, sitting down in the other chair and stretching his legs out.

  For the next half hour, the two cousins drank their wine and spoke of inconsequential matters. Mungo kept a sharp eye on his cousin and her slowly paling complexion while he awaited the illness’ onslaught.

  Suddenly, Lavinia placed a hand against her belly as if she felt uncomfortable. “Cousin, I dinna feel verra well,” she said. “Would ye call my tirin’ woman for me?”

  Struggling against a smile, Mungo shot to his feet. “Of course, I will. I’ll also fetch the king’s physician.”

  As he passed her, Lavinia grabbed his hand and looked up at him with an anxious expression. “Ye dinna think she really is a witch?” she asked.

  “I dinna know,” Mungo answered with a shrug. “But I’m positive the king’s physician can make ye feel better.”

  On the opposite side of the palace, down the winding maze of corridors from Lavinia’s chamber, Gordon sat in the chair in front of the hearth in his own chamber. Rob, dressed in her night shift and robe, cuddled in his lap and rested her head against his shoulder. She’d dropped into an exhausted sleep as they’d been speaking about their baby’s impending arrival only a few months from then, and Gordon was reluctant to awaken her just to put her to bed.

  Gordon glanced down at her sweet expression. His wife was indeed an angel, no matter that she possessed the foolish habit of drawing her dagger at precisely the wrong moment. A Highland angel with an imp’s temperament. That’s exactly what she was. Despite the long years of personal sorrow, Rob had an enormous heart and more love to give than any ten women put together.

  Without a doubt, Gordon knew that no other woman in God’s universe would have accepted Duncan and Gavin unconditionally as she had. He knew she’d been profoundly disappointed when he failed to profess his love for her. And he knew that he must tell her he loved her, even if she tried to manipulate him because of his tender regard for her.

  His wife accepted his bastards, professed her love for him, and nurtured his heir inside her body. He owed her those three words she longed to hear . . . I love you.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! came a pounding on the door.

  Rob awakened in an instant and, though drowsy, peered up at him through emerald eyes that mirrored her alarm. Gordon shrugged and shook his head.

  Again sounded the insistent pounding on their chamber door.

  “Open up, Inverary,” a voice ordered. “By order of His Majesty, King James, I charge ye to open this door.”

  “Give me a minute,” Gordon called as Rob rose from his lap.

  “Am I to be arrested for drawin’ my dagger in the king’s presence?” she asked, worriedly rubbing a finger back and forth across her devil’s flower.

  Gordon planted a kiss on her forehead and asked, “Would I let Jamie do that to ye?”

  Rob gave him a wobbly smile and shook her head.

  Gordon crossed the chamber, unbolted the door, and opened it a crack. Five men of the king’s personal guard stood there.

  “What do ye want?” Gordon demanded.

  “Ye and yer wife will accompany us to the audience chamber,” the man in charge answered.

  Gordon glanced in his wife’s direction and then shifted his gaze back to the man. “My wife is already dressed for sleepin’,” he told him. “Will ye wait while she changes into a gown?”

  “No.” The man stood his ground. “She’s to accompany us now.”

  “I’ll fetch her,” Gordon said with a curt nod. When he turned around, he regretted ever leaving Argyll.

  “Dinna fret,” Gordon said, noting her pale face and wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. “At times James is given to dramatics. ’Tis a trait he inherited from his mother. Do ye trust me to protect ye and handle him?”

  Rob nodded once, but was unable to speak.

  Putting his arm around her protectively, Gordon guided his wife toward the door. He felt the tremors of fear that shook her body and cursed himself for insisting she accompany him to Edinburgh. If he’d only known then what dangers awaited them at Holyrood. Ah, well, there was nothing to be done now. Even a blind man saw keenly through hindsight.

  Gordon felt the first inkling of true apprehension when they walked into the audience chamber. With the exception of Lavinia Kerr, everyone who’d attended supper that evening was there, and Mungo MacKinnon stood near the king.

  Gordon flicked a questioning glance at the Earl of Bothwell who almost imperceptibly shook his head in obvious disgust. Next his gaze slid to the English emissaries, Talbot and Debrett, who also appeared none too happy.

  Though he felt the stirrings of unease in the pit of his stomach, Gordon forced himself to give his wife an encouraging squeeze. Together, they stepped forward toward the dais, but the king’s voice stopped them.

  “Stay where ye are,” King James ordered, gesturing with his hand.

  Gordon halted instantly. Noting the river of dribble emanating from the king
’s mouth, he asked with a smile, “Yer Majesty, may I be heard?”

  “No,” came the king’s bitterly cold reply. “MacKinnon, step forward and repeat yer accusation.”

  Mungo MacKinnon walked forward until he stood only inches from Gordon and Rob, who shrank back from him. For the first time, Gordon recognized the unmasked hatred in his friend’s gaze when he looked at Rob.

  “Gordy, I’m verra sorry aboot this,” Mungo said, flicking him an apologetic look. “Yer wife’s curse has sickened Livy. Even now, the king’s own physician is tendin’ her.”

  “Dinna be ridiculous,” Gordon snapped, unable to credit what he was hearing. He shifted his gaze to the king to make an argument in his wife’s defense.

  In that instant, Mungo snaked his hand out and grabbed Rob’s left wrist. She screamed and struggled to free herself.

  “Rob MacArthur is a witch who wears Old Clootie’s mark,” Mungo shouted, holding her hand up for all to see.

  Everyone in the chamber except Bothwell and the two English emissaries shrank back from the unholy sight. As if fear were contagious, each man and woman made a protective sign of the cross to ward the evil eye off.

  “God’s balls, I’ll kill ye,” Gordon growled, lunging for Mungo. He tackled the blond man to the floor, and enraged beyond reason, he grabbed his throat and began squeezing the life’s breath from his body.

  “Cease!” King James shouted, spitting saliva. “Stop, I say!” His royal command fell on deaf ears.

  In the end, saving Mungo MacKinnon required the strength of three men. Lords Bothwell, Talbot, and Debrett pulled a struggling Gordon off the other man.

  “Ye canna help yer lassie if he tosses ye in the Tolbooth for murder,” Bothwell whispered into his ear.

  Gordon stilled instantly at the earl’s warning. He’d settle with MacKinnon at a later date. After all, revenge tasted best when served cold.

  “MacKinnon, do ye actually believe Gordy’s wife is a witch?” King James asked.

  “Aye, I do.” His answer came out in a breathless rasp.

  “I dinna believe that the English queen’s Midas would harbor a witch in his household for more than a year,” the Earl of Bothwell spoke up, drawing his royal cousin’s attention.