by Paula Quinn
“He likely would have done just that.”
The king set his gaze on Connor and held it there, the lines of his strong features taut with anger. “Captain, they come to take my crown.”
“They will fail, Sire.”
“Yes, they will, for I will blot them out, beginning with Parliament.”
Mairi noted Connor’s seemingly sudden permanent creases deepen. If the king was speaking of Protestants in general, why should that cause him to frown? She would ask him about it later, when they were alone. Which wasn’t about to be anytime soon.
She could do nothing but nod her head when King James announced to Connor that he wanted to share a word with him in private.
She watched them walk together along the wall until they reached the entrance and disappeared from her sight. With nothing else to do, she headed back to her kin’s table. She looked around for Graham or Claire and found them chatting with the Duke of Edinburgh and his wife.
She sat and reached for her cup when someone gained the seat beside her.
Och, no, it was Henry. She hadn’t seen him since the afternoon when he saw her kissing Connor. Poor Henry had stayed away, likely in his room, his heart broken because of her.
“These last few days have been difficult for me, Mairi.”
“I know, Henry, and I should have told ye sooner that—”
“I risked my life for you when I tried to stop him from carrying you off.”
Damnation, she felt terrible. “Nae,” she lied to comfort him. “I am certain Captain Grant would never harm you.”
“Wouldn’t he?” His wig rose over his forehead when he arched his brow at her. “He has despised me since the day he returned. He waits for an opportunity to strike me. I can see it in his eyes.”
Hell, she couldn’t argue that. Connor was ridiculously expressive.
“I understand how his fairness of face may have enchanted you, made you react without thinking, but I could offer you so much more than he.” He reached for her hand and rubbed the pad of his thumb over her knuckles.
Mairi pulled away gently and set her hand in her lap under the table. “My lord, let me put this to you as tenderly as possible. I am in love with Captain Grant. I have been since my sixth summer. Likely ’twas earlier than that, but that is when I first told him.” Dear Lord, it felt good to finally tell him the truth. “Fergive me, I beg ye, if I made ye believe that my heart could be yers or anyone else’s. It canna’ be.”
“Apologies,” he said softly, and sat back in his chair. “I meant no offense.” Other than looking mildly ill, he took it better than she had expected. She was grateful for that.
Her brother’s sudden landing in the chair opposite Henry’s nearly startled the earl’s son into her lap.
“Good Lord, Colin.” She glared at him while he studied Henry’s reaction and the paleness of his face. “I do hope ye learn how to place yerself properly into a chair while ye are here. And mayhap quit appearing without a sound, startling others out of their skin,” she added when he did not look repentant at all.
“We haven’t been formally introduced,” Oxford said when Colin swung around in his seat and contemplated him with a narrowed gaze. “I am Henry de Vere, son of the Earl of Oxford.”
“Aye, my sister has told me of ye.”
“All good things I hope.”
“If they had not been good,” Colin told him, pushing back his hood and lifting a discarded cup of wine to his nose, “ye would not be sitting there smiling.” He guzzled what was left in the cup, swiped his hand across his mouth, then stared at Henry some more.
Mairi’s lips ached to curl at her brother’s less than subtle approach at forcing Henry to say something. She had told him yesterday—or was it day before—about Henry’s ploy to take her from Connor’s bedside by giving her information on the Cameronians. She didn’t know what he knew and she told her brother that it pricked her like an irksome nettle. If anyone knew how to strip a man of his secrets, it was Colin. Most times, if not for him, the militia never would have known who to fight.
“I met your brother Tristan at this very table a few weeks ago.”
“Ye have my deepest sympathy fer that,” Colin said blandly.
“I will take it.”
“Tristan pushed Lord Oxford’s chair out from under him when he bent to sit,” Mairi explained, and was rewarded with an irrepressible smile.
“My good Lord Oxford,” Colin said, leaning back in his chair, his smile shining brightly now, though his eyes remained as sharp as twin blades. “Tell me about yerself.”
Henry patted his long wig and cut a very brief glance to the dance floor and beyond, to the exit. “What would you like to know?”
“Yer family was loyal to Charles, nae?”
“As we are to his brother.”
“Of course.” Colin nodded. “ ’Twas yer uncle who retained the Royal Horse Guard to protect our late king.”
“The Oxford Blues,” Henry said with a measure of pride straightening his shoulders.
“Aye, the Blues. They are Parliamentarians, are they not? They fight who Parliament tells them to fight.”
“That’s correct,” Oxford agreed. “And the new Parliament will no doubt support James, since it is he who is handpicking most of them.”
“True enough,” Colin said, smiling at him and then turning to Mairi. “Clever, is he not?”
“Aye,” Mairi agreed, but she wasn’t certain which man Colin spoke of, the king or Henry.
Chapter Thirty-four
Connor walked back and forth between pairs of over a hundred men, his boots crushing the soft earth beneath them. The rains from the night before had ended and the sun had returned to blaze down upon his troupe. The men looked weary and they had only been at it for an hour. He raked his gaze over George and Geoffrey, then passed them to the next two, expecting their best. They were out of form from going weeks without practicing, and with things as they were, Connor intended to drill them until they dropped for as long as he remained here.
It would also distract his thoughts away from killing Henry de Vere. The bastard had gone to the king with complaints against him involving Mairi and last night, on his private walk with James, Connor had been forced to listen to each of them. The list was quite long, too. Beginning with his forcibly keeping Oxford away from her, to carting her, as well as his sister Elizabeth, over his shoulder like sacks of flour. The king wasn’t certain he believed Oxford’s claims since he hadn’t himself seen Connor hauling any women about. Thanks, Connor was sure, to Queen Mary, the king seemed quite pleased that his captain courted the chief MacGregor of Skye’s daughter. But James had made it clear that Oxford was interested in courting Mairi, as well.
What Connor wouldn’t give to simply beat Henry de Vere senseless.
His gaze settled on the small area reserved for the king and his party—more precisely, on Mairi. Standing between the queen and his mother, she watched the training with the same glint in her eye that some of his men possessed. He wanted to take her home, away from the dangers she would surely get herself into here at Whitehall, away from men who sought to take her from him and tempt him to kill them. He wanted her in his bed, in his arms, away from the proprieties of court, where he could make love to her and tell her he loved her until she grew sick of hearing it. Hell, he had barely had the chance to kiss her since they left his manor house.
When she turned to him, seeming to feel his eyes on her, he smiled and then scowled and looked away. He didn’t want her here, distracting him with the gloss of her curls dripping down her milky cleavage.
He eyed the other half of his company waiting outside the wall for their turn to practice. The two hundred men would practice in shifts, as the size of the tiltyard would allow—or if one on the field fell to his knees and was removed to make room for someone better prepared to meet his opponent.
“Hammond, watch yer swing!” he shouted to a soldier on the other side of the lists, then poked his blade into
the man closest to him. The soldier whirled around in time to block another blow to his shoulder. Connor patted his back, then shoved him into his opponent’s advance.
He found Colin among the men and was glad the lad was joining in their training. Colin might someday lead them. Connor paid close attention to his movements, looking for a flaw but finding none. He scanned the men to his left and watched his father bring Andrew Seymour and his twin brother, Alex, to their knees. Hell, if James had Graham Grant fighting among his men, victory would be swift and bloody.
He made his way across the dirt to where his father readied for his next opponent. Connor rolled his wrist, making his sword dance as he reached him. The longtime commander of the clan MacGregor of Skye smiled at him. Here was what Connor missed, a blow that drove the air from his lungs, an arm more deadly than any plague England had to offer. This was how a Highland warrior fought. One man with the strength and skill of ten. He blocked a stinging blow with the far end of his claymore and repositioned to defend himself against the next swing. His father showed him no mercy. Connor would have been insulted if he did. Still, he had to quit defending and start swinging. He brought a chopping blow down over Graham’s head, then sprang out of the way of a deadly slice across the torso.
“Ye’ve grown soft, son.” His father flashed a dimple, much like his own at him.
“Do ye think so?” Connor tossed him a challenging grin and arced his blade in a wide circle before him, then up again, hard against Graham’s sword. He stepped to the side, avoiding the glint of metal close to his face and clashed his weapon into the other. After a series of parries and lethal jabs, he began advancing. Finally, he drove his father back with short, heavy blows, left, right, to the knees, the neck. He hadn’t been sitting around England doing nothing all this time.
When the session was over, he sent the first group off to rest and called the second inside. He looked toward Mairi while the shift changed, then called to his lieutenant and yanked off his gloves. “Take this one. Work them hard, Drummond, especially Colin.”
He was about to leave the enclosure when the point of a blade poked his belly. He looked up into Oxford’s misshapen face, slapped the blade away, and freed his own. Ah, here is what he’d been waiting for. If the fool wanted to have a go at him here in the lists, Connor would not deny him.
“Let’s do this,” he growled, and tipped his blade to Oxford’s as the lists filled with men around them.
The fool swung quickly. Connor clipped the blow away with ease. He returned the favor with a ravaging strike that nearly sent his opponent’s sword flying. Oxford’s arm shook and he looked about to be ill all over Connor’s boots. He lowered his sword and took a step closer.
“Do to me what you will, Captain Grant, but I will have her. She will be mine and I will mount her on my pedestal. I will win, and then I will fu—”
His words came to a cracking halt as Connor’s hilt, gripped tightly in his fist crushed the bone beneath it. He went down on one knee clutching his face in both hands.
“Ye will not have her,” Connor said, standing over him, mindless of the blood seeping through Oxford’s fingers. “And if ye go near her again, I will put an end to ye once and fer all.”
Connor didn’t wait around to hear Oxford’s gurgled reply, but stepped out of the lists and into Mairi’s arms.
“I’m afraid there’s going to be trouble later,” he told her, and pulled her away from the yard. “Come on.”
“Why is there going to be trouble? What happened?”
It occurred to Connor that Mairi, packed within the crowd of his resting men, couldn’t see whom he’d hit.
Good. She’d likely be angry if she knew. He smiled, leading her toward the palace. “I’ll see to it later. Right now, I’m hungry.” He was hungry for her. He wasn’t about to spend another day not being able to touch her, kiss her.
He pulled her up the stairs with her smiling behind him once she realized they had passed the kitchens.
“Where are ye taking me?”
He looked over his shoulder at her and offered her a suggestive quirk of his mouth. “Somewhere we can be alone.”
He had to tug her along when she paused, hesitant against his wicked smile. They passed the Banqueting Hall, but Connor didn’t stop there. He hurried them along the long, painted halls and galleries, until they came to his room.
Turning to pull her against him, he pushed the door open with his back. “No one will disturb us in here.”
Her eyes opened wide. “But ’tis the middle of the day! People will hear!”
“Then ye had best not make too much noise.”
He leaned down to kiss her as they entered the sunlit room, closing the door behind him. He pushed open her mouth with his tongue and slid it over hers. She tasted of anticipation and excitement and fear. It drove him mad with desire.
“Wait.” She broke away, scattering her long tresses around her face and reminding him of a mare that refused to be broken. “What happened in the lists?” she demanded breathlessly, her eyes shining with the thrill she took in challenging him. “Tell me, or I will spend the rest of the day with Lord Oxford.”
“Nae, ye won’t.”
“And why won’t I?” She fisted her hands on her hips and tilted her chin up at him. His muscles twitched with the need to take her until she cried out her surrender.
“Because I think I just knocked out a few of his teeth in the lists.”
He smiled slowly when she took a step away from him, shaking her head. “Ye brute. Why?”
“It matters not. Now quit thinking about him.” He moved quickly and caught her up in his arms. She fought against him for a moment, but then her kisses grew as urgent as his own. They clawed at each other’s clothes, he yanking up her skirts, and she frantically untying the laces of his breeches. When they were both free, he whirled her around and flattened her chest against the door.
Ah, God, he was harder than steel. His cock pained him as he took it in his hand and guided it slowly into her from behind.
She cried out and he dipped his mouth to her ear. “Fergive me, my love, ye drive me wild with the need to be inside ye.”
He felt her drench him and plunged deeper, pushing her hard up along the door. She groaned like some wild hellcat and pushed back until he had to withdraw and give his cock a hard slap to stop himself from expelling too quickly. He intended to enjoy this thoroughly, and watch her enjoy it too.
Pulling her skirts high over her hips, he watched her take him to the hilt and then retreat to the sensitive rim beneath his head. He cupped her round, succulent buttocks and slowed her undulations, guiding her over every swollen, aching inch of him. Then he gave her a short little smack and thrust deep into her, driving her feet off the floor. He pressed his body to hers, crushing her to the door. He scooped a handful of her hair away from her nape and kissed her there.
“I love ye, Mairi. I never want to be parted from ye again.” He bit her earlobe softly and then scored his teeth down the back of her neck. When she writhed against him, smiling in ecstasy against the cool wood, he curled his arm around her front and found her hard little bud with his fingers. She dripped around his shaft, her sheath tight and engorged as he stroked her. Her legs spread open wider as pleasure overtook her. He thrust into her faster, deeper, burying his face in her hair as he spurt his seed into her over and over again. She came in his hand, hot, soaking, spent.
“Ye excite me, woman,” he told her, turning her in his arms.
“Ye have nae heart, ye beast.” She rasped, throwing her head back against the door.
“That’s because I gave it to ye.”
She coiled her arms around his neck and smiled against his mouth when he bent forward to her. “So, ye want me to stay with ye, d’ye?”
“Aye, ferever.” He kissed her lips, so close, so soft and fine. He wanted nothing more in his life than to be her husband, her bairns’ father. Perhaps he would take up farming. He smiled. The future was spread ou
t before him in glorious array, with any path he chose, open to him. To them. “I’m taking ye home.”
“Home?” She stared up at him, her glorious blue eyes wide and glimmering with hope. “To Scotland?”
“To the Highlands, where we belong.”
She looked deep into his eyes, as if seeing what he saw, and smiled with him. He wanted to build their home with his own hands, high in the mountains where mist saturated her hair like a gossamer veil, and the crisp heather-scented air colored her cheeks.
“We shall leave England and the next war to the merciless men who claim to fight in God’s name.”
“Ye mean the Protestants.”
“Nae, love.” He stepped away from her and laced up his breeches before moving to a small table beside his unused bed. He poured a cup of water and handed it to her. “I mean the Catholics if James succeeds in keeping William from the throne.”
When she opened her mouth to protest, he stopped her. “No one wants a Catholic king, Mare. James is in fer a long religious battle. One he will never surrender to. He is fair, but ’tis only a matter of time before he realizes what must be done to quiet those who don’t support him. I fear he already knows what he will do. Ye heard him last night when he vowed to blot out his enemies, beginning with Parliament. His brother tried to do it during the field executions. I fear ’twill happen again and this time I will not take part in it.”
She left the door and went to him. “What is so terrible about wanting to keep what we believe alive?”
“Nothing, but then the same can be said fer those who believe differently. The men we killed during the executions were not warriors, Mairi. They were farmers, forced to fight the king’s elite in order to protect their way of thinking. I served a Protestant king. I learned as much about his religion as my own until I no longer knew which was the right one. Nor did I care. I am tired of fighting either one. Let God decide. I want to go home and if the Protestants win the war and they try to force new laws on the people of the mountains, then I will lead an army of my Highland brothers against them.”