Bedding the Enemy

by Mary Wine

  Keir offered them a nod of his head before turning his back on them. Discontent filled him as he covered the steps that would lead him back to his tower chamber. Every fiber of his being resisted. Rebellion burned in his gut and it was getting hard to remind himself that his actions would fall onto his people’s shoulders should he act on his impulse to fight his way free.

  Damned diplomacy.

  “I have decided on my vote.” Roan Lawley, Baron Heaton, spoke up.

  Brodick turned to stare at the man. He had kept his thoughts to himself throughout the proceedings and had been the one lord who refused to pass a verdict. He was a large, burly man. He wore only a wool suit, cut in the English fashion, but lacking lace and baubles. The finest thing on him was his boots. Brodick admired them for the workmanship. They came up his legs and the top of his pants tucked into them.

  “Innocent. That man is innocent.”

  Bramford sputtered but Roan Lawley turned to glare at him. Bramford snapped his jaw shut instantly, upon which Brodick raised his eyebrow. There was something there. Something a plain wool suit hid.

  “Do you wish to change your ruling on Lord Ronchford?”

  Baron Heaton fingered his chin. “If my silence vexes you gentlemen, so be it, but I have stood before a panel of my peers and it is no light duty in my opinion. I will not cast my vote without firm conviction in my conscience. I still find insufficient evidence to condemn Lord Ronchford. Or to find him innocent.”

  “But enough to set Lord Hurst free?” Bramford asked the question. It annoyed Lord Heaton. He rose and towered over his fellow English lord.

  “The man didn’t come to court expecting a title.”

  “But that does not mean he didn’t marry with an eye on gaining one.”

  Lord Heaton frowned. “I doubt you understand, Lord Bramford, but I do know what it is like to be locked up while my responsibilities go unattended. Lord Hurst is not a man who places his position above his honor. If that were so, he never would have spoken as he just did, without a care for the egos sitting in front of him.”

  Lord Heaton turned his attention to Brodick. “He reminds me of you.”

  Brodick chuckled. For all his English blood, the man was likeable.

  James Stuart smiled—at least, inwardly. His gut had been clenched most of the day while he waited for word from the Tower.

  “McQuade is judged not guilty.”

  Several of his advisers frowned. His temper itched to slap them down, but that was the sort of thing that made for short-lived kings. The world was not as it had been at the time of Henry the Eighth. Elizabeth had known that and left him a mighty nation, thanks to her ability to walk down the center of every hot issue laid before her.

  “But this leaves the matter of murder of a peer unresolved.” His Privy Council was not as happy as he was. James couldn’t blame them. His own life might be the next taken if the masses believed that they might get away with murder.

  “The rack would gain the name of the culprit.”

  James stared at Lord Brampton. “Would ye have me behaving like Henry did? Signing execution orders for innocent men and women? Every man has his limit and the rack was designed to take them to it quickly. I could send anyone of ye to its backbreaking grasp and I believe ye would confess in spite of the fact that none of ye are suspected of the crime.”

  “I would have justice, Your Majesty.”

  “Hear! Hear!”

  Hands appeared on the tabletop once again. That was another sign of the times. None of Henry’s councilors would have dared slap the top of the table in the face of the king’s displeasure.

  A pounding began on the doors, snapping the last of his patience.

  “Who dares interrupt?” James roared his question, finally having an outlet for his temper.

  The last person he expected to see appeared when the doors opened. The queen lowered herself in deference to his tone.

  “Forgive me, my lord husband.”

  She was breathless and flushed, her eyes flickering from the floor to his face and back again as she waited for him to receive her. Anne was a most suitable queen in that way, always preserving the image that she considered him her master.

  “Rise, Anne. What brings ye here?”

  “The Marquis of Wyse has arrived.” She stood up, clearly agitated. Her face was flushed and her normally perfectly folded hands were plucking at her pearls.

  “Demetrius? What dragged him out of his tower?”

  Anne lifted one hand and made the sign of the cross over herself.

  “He has word of Raelin McKorey.”

  James stood so quickly his guards had to dive out of his path. “Fetch McQuade and Ronchford. I want to see their faces when we hear what fate has befallen that girl.”

  “No, I don’t want time to dress.” Keir was in a foul temper. He scowled at the royal guard and the way they turned up their noses at his clothing.

  “I’m a Scotsman, nae an ambassador. I’ll wear me kilt.”

  Helena sighed. She didn’t argue, but carried her husband’s doublet to him. He jerked his attention off the royal guard who waited to stare at what she held. Frustration flickered in his eyes.

  “Well, I suppose I shouldnae show up in just me shirt.”

  He stuck one arm into a sleeve and then the other. Helping him into it, Helena moved in front of him to begin working the buttons.

  “Leave us.”

  The guards didn’t need any more urging; they withdrew, leaving the chamber. Keir cupped her chin, his fingers wrapping around her jaw easily. She clamped down on her emotions before raising her eyelashes to allow him to lock stares with her.

  “I suppose every honeymoon must end.”

  He smiled at her words. “Och now, dinnae be so quick, lass. I think we can still collect a fair number of bottles of honey mead from our friends.”

  “I don’t much care for it.”

  He stroked the side of her face. “That leaves more for me.”

  “I will enjoy watching you drink it.”

  She had to rise onto her toes to finish the last few buttons. Her fingers lingered on his warm skin before carefully completing her task. Her emotions surged, too much of a tangled mess to understand. Fear and relief that the moment was finally at hand battled against her poise.

  “I do believe I shall miss having you completely to myself, husband.”

  “I’ll have to do me best to see that ye dinnae go lonely in spite of all the duties life will expect of us once we make it home.”

  Helena broke the contact between their eyes, turning to pick up her gloves. Hope—it was a magical thing. She heard it edging her husband’s voice and the deep tone beckoned to her. His arms came around her, enclosing her in an embrace that was too tender to remain calm in. A soft whimper escaped her lips.

  “Sweet lass. Never wonder if I regretted coming to London. I don’t. I found ye here and ye taught me what love is. That is worth every struggle that has landed in me path. I swear it.”

  He pressed a soft kiss against her temple, his arms tightening one final time before opening.

  “But let us get on to the palace and see what Jamie has to say.”

  There was no hint of wavering in his voice. It was eager, and when she turned to look at him, she saw the man who had boldly appeared in her path in spite of being told to leave her alone.

  Confidence was exactly what Keir was full of.

  “I am ready, husband.”

  Whatever came, she was ready. He was correct—this was no life, but it had been a time that she would always treasure, for it gave her time to become lovers with him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The king didn’t plan on them slipping out of his grasp. Keir and Helena walked to the outer courtyard to find a full forty men waiting to escort them to the palace. They were still mounted, telling them that time was short. Two carriages waited in their ranks, the drivers still seated with the reins in their gloved hands. These were royal guards, not the yeom
en who had charge of the Tower.

  “I told you to unhand me!” Lord Ronchford’s voice rose in the early evening. His tone was haughty and the yeomen pulling him along didn’t look pleased with their duty. Only after they delivered him to the ranks of the royal guard did they look pleased. Ronchford drew himself up with an arrogant sniff. His gaze landed on them. He sneered at her.

  Keir bristled beside her. Helena raised one gloved hand and gently laid it on his arm behind her.

  “He isn’t worth it.”

  “I disagree, wife. The man needs a good thrashing and I am more than in the mood to give it to him.”

  “There will be none of that.” The captain of the guard stepped forward. “The king is impatient.”

  Keir tilted his head but shot Ronchford a look that sent the other man back a pace. “Well then, we’ll nae keep Jamie waiting.”

  Another guard pulled open the door of one carriage. Keir raised an eyebrow at the captain.

  “Your pardon, Lord Hurst, but for the moment I cannot allow you the freedom of being mounted.”

  Keir grumbled something in Gaelic but followed Helena up into the carriage. He had to sit on the very end of the seat and curl his back and neck. His knees rested against the opposite seat. Constructed to maintain warmth, the inside of the carriage was quite small. For a man of Keir’s size it was very confining. Helena pressed up against the side of it to make as much room for him as possible, but he continued muttering.

  “I believe I shall have to learn Gaelic,” Helena said.

  He straightened and cracked his head on the top of the carriage. She didn’t need to understand the language to grasp the meaning of the next word he spoke; his tone was clear enough.

  “I hate carriages.”

  But Ronchford didn’t. Helena watched through the open door as he climbed into the second carriage and propped his boots on the opposite seat without a care for the mud clinging to his heels. Instead he tugged on his lace cuffs to make sure they were sitting exactly the way he liked.

  How like Edmund.

  How very much like court. The door shut and the horses began pulling them almost in the same moment. She wore only her hunting dress and was perfectly content. A bit of finery would be nice from time to time, but she held no desire to follow fashion too closely. Nor did she want to see her husband sporting lace and silk slops.

  She heard the iron gate open and peeked out the window to see it rising and clearing the drawbridge. A smile lifted her lips even while her gut twisted with apprehension.

  “Dinnae fret, lass.” Keir captured her hands, which she hadn’t realized were twisting in her skirts. He lifted one to his lips and kissed it before gently massaging her fingers until they relaxed.

  “I cannae stand the sight of ye when ye fret.”

  Helena fluttered her eyelashes. “Everything shall be well; I am very sure of that.”

  He frowned at her. “And I cannae stomach those false courtly manners. Have a bit of pity on me and spare me.”

  She allowed her expression to reflect her true feelings. The sounds of the city street drifted in and she realized that she had missed them. The inner tower had been so quiet, so secluded, that time almost ceased to pass. It felt like their magical sphere had shattered and the pieces were raining down around them, allowing them to see the harsh face of reality. It was so strange how the Tower had become a haven from which she was sad to depart.

  But there was anticipation burning in her belly, too, a flame that gained strength as the carriage made its way toward the palace. They pulled right up to the main stairs and the door was opened again. Keir gratefully left the carriage, shaking his shoulders. The royal guard flanked them with pikes held straight up, but there was no missing the keen attention those men gave to where Keir moved. When he walked, they countered by keeping just out of his reach.

  It was not something they did to Ronchford. He alighted from his carriage and stormed up the stairs without a care. His face was flushed with temper and the guard remained very close to him, obviously not fearing his ability to lay them low.

  The great hall was hushed. Helena heard the whispers rise in volume when they entered. Every set of eyes turned to look at them. Many raised fans to mask their mouths, as if that canceled their gossiping. She walked quickly, trying to keep up with her husband. Keir set a determined pace, intent on reaching wherever the royal guards were taking them. They increased their strides, the sounds of boot heels echoing in the quiet hall.

  James Stuart sat on his throne, and Anne was seated on the raised dais as well. The queen sat straight up and her hand held a rare folded fan that she tapped against her loose gown. The guard closed the doors behind them. Helena scanned the other men in the room. All of the King’s Privy Council was present and they were along the sides of the room near the dais, watching Keir and Ronchford. She had never seen so many facing down the receiving chamber. James normally sat on the dais and whoever was in his presence remained facing him.

  Alarik McKorey was also in the room. His face was stern but rage flickered in his eyes. She could feel the man’s impatience. He stared at the only other men in the room. There were three of them behind her. Lowering herself, she took the moment to look at them closer. They were dressed rather plainly but their clothing was made of the finest wool, not the coarser sort that was often used by the middle class. Yet it was not dyed any fashionable color. Nor was it black, such as the Puritans chose to wear in order to avoid committing the sin of vanity. Instead they wore a rather pleasant shade of green that was complemented with gray edging.

  “We are at an unforeseen crossroads, my lords.” James spoke slowly, shifting his attention between Keir and Ronchford. “Neither of you were found guilty.”

  “I should hope not,” Ronchford scoffed.

  The king stared at him for a long moment until a slap of the fan against his queen’s skirts broke his lapse.

  “It seems new information has surfaced to help us discover the truth of this grave matter.”

  James flicked his hands and a servant moved forward. It was difficult to tell what the boy carried until it was closer. The fabric was mangled and filthy, bearing rents and dark smears of dirt so that it was almost impossible to tell that it had once been the golden silk that Queen Anne’s maids of honor wore.

  “The most interesting part is that the piece of silk found in Edmund Knyvett’s hand fits up with it almost perfectly.”

  Another servant brought the piece forward. He laid it against the soiled dress and the ragged edges met. The hem was stained with Edmund’s blood, which was now dark.

  “McQuade has two murders to answer for now.” Ronchford raised his voice and pointed a damning finger at Keir.

  “That’s interesting.” One of the men behind them spoke. He moved forward on powerful steps. He was a large man and he kept one hand on the pommel of his sword. Unlike most of the men in court, he didn’t stand poised on one leg with the other placed in a pose of unconcerned relaxation. This man stood like Keir and Alarik, his body weight even and his attention keen. He had dark hair but eyes were as green as spring meadows.

  “Interesting in that Raelin tells a story that is different. She says the assassin named Edmund as the man who paid him to wound him and you as the man who paid for his death.”

  “Preposterous! Where is the lying wench? I would like to see her say such a thing to my face!”

  “Edmund paid his own assassin?” Helena covered her mouth with a hand. Horror flooded her, but she suddenly realized what the man had said. “Raelin is alive?”

  He nodded. “Aye, and some place removed from all this evil.”

  “More likely she is hiding for fear of not being able to utter such lies in the presence of her betters!” Ronchford had turned red. “Who would believe that Edmund would pay an assassin to attack him? It is ludicrous!”

  But something her brother would do….

  Helena shook her head, her eyes closing in horror. Edmund and his schemes. It s
ickened her, but she knew it to be the truth. She lifted her eyelids to find the king’s eyes on her. Every Privy councilor watched her and there was no concealing her emotions.

  “He told me not to consummate my marriage, that he would not allow me to be wed to someone he did not deem noble enough.” She shook her head. “Edmund swore that it was not settled.”

  Greed must have driven him insane. There was no other reason.

  “He promised you to me!” Ronchford’s voice was shrill and his eyes glowed with rage. He lunged toward her, his hands grasping for her neck. “Mine! Do you hear? Mine! The Earldom was to be mine! Your creamy body was to be mine!”

  Keir swung his entire arm out and flung Ronchford onto his back with the blow. The guards swarmed over the fallen lord but he fought them with unnatural strength. He suddenly laughed, an insane sound that bounced off the walls of the chamber.

  “It will be mine! Do you hear? The king will set me free and I will claim what I paid for. You shall see! You will be my wife and warm my bed….” He babbled on while the guards carried him from the room.

  “Remain, McKorey!”

  “Yer Majesty!” Alarik McKorey turned in a swirl of kilt and rage. The man shook with his desire for blood. His hands curled into fists with white knuckles.

  “The man is insane. Ye cannae challenge him in such a state. I cannae even have his head removed.”

  “What of my sister?” Alarik looked at the torn rag of her dress. “How fares my sister?

  “Your sister is recovering on my estate.”

  Alarik stepped toward the Englishmen. “And who are ye?” He tempered his tone, trying not to growl at the man who had given his sister shelter.

  “This is Demetrius Wysefield, the Marquess of Wyse.” The king supplied the information. “And we are in yer debt, my lord.”

  “Good. Then I expect to be allowed to return to my lands.” The marquess was bold. He shot a hard look at his monarch along with his words. James began rubbing his chin.