Highlander's Heart

by Amanda Forester

  A page tapped his shoulder, and Campbell turned to receive his message.

  “Another party approaches, Laird. ’Tis Lord Stewart the steward.”

  Oh. My. Hell.

  Campbell gripped the table to keep from a telling emotional outburst. When would this nightmare end? “Are ye sure?” he finally managed.

  “Aye, sir. ’Tis the Steward o’ Scotland and no mistake.”

  “Here? Now?” asked Douglas. He eyed Campbell suspiciously. “Ye dinna tell me ye expected Stewart.”

  “’Tis no’ expected. Though he is always welcome,” Campbell hastened to add.

  “How cozy we shall all be,” said Douglas, his voice cold.

  “Aye, well, Innis Chonnel is always happy to welcome visitors.” Campbell tried for forced cheerfulness and fell well short of the mark. “If ye will excuse me, I will invite them in for supper.” He left the great hall, the eyes of Douglas burning into his back. What on Earth would bring Stewart here? Douglas, that had to be it. He would not be surprised if Stewart had his own spies on that powerful laird. He must have learned of his journey to Innis Chonnel and decided to come himself.

  Campbell’s fears were confirmed when he met Stewart in the outer gate. He had arrived with his own long line of conveniences and his granddaughter in tow. The Steward of Scotland would not sit back and let Campbell be wed to a Douglas without a fight.

  “Greetings, my lord.” Campbell bowed to Stewart.

  “Greetings, lad, I daresay ye dinna expect me, did ye?”

  “Not at all, but ye are always welcome. Please join us in the hall for supper, ye must be famished from your journey.”

  “Any other visitors here, lad?” Clearly, Stewart did not feel the need to play coy.

  “Aye, Douglas awaits yer pleasure in the hall.”

  “And he’s brought that daughter wi’ him, no doubt. That’s no wife for ye, lad. She’ll see ye to an early grave and no mistake.”

  Campbell gave him a tight smile. The man was right of course, but Campbell’s goal was to avoid all mention of matrimony with either of his houseguests. This was going to end poorly. There was no way to pick a bride without picking a side of war and mortally offending one of his allies. This was going to end very poorly indeed.

  Moments later, Stewart was seated on the chair of honor at the high table and Campbell found himself wedged between the fuming Lady Eileen and Miss Beatrice, a wisp of a girl barely out of the nursery. Stewart proclaimed her to be twelve years old, but Campbell sincerely doubted the truth of that statement. She looked around the room with big, watery eyes, her bottom lip trembling. He turned to speak to her but she started to shake so he merely smiled and tried not to notice her fear. He wished he could hand her back to her mother for clearly she was not fully grown.

  Lady Eileen stabbed at her meat with her knife and glared at him. He smiled in return, a false, please don’t kill me, sort of smile. He glanced over at Isabelle who was watching him with some interest. He had to fit in a pickle barrel. He just had to. Anything would be preferable to this.

  Stewart stood and raised his goblet to get everyone’s attention. Campbell forced his face into something he hoped was neutral interest. Whatever Stewart was going to say, Campbell was certain he did not want to hear it.

  “Please raise your cups to drink to the sovereignty of Scotland,” announced Stewart. People stood, cups in hand. “To Scotland, may we defend her freedom from the English oppressors with our hearts, our minds, and our very lives.”

  “To Scotland!” the people responded cheerfully and drank.

  Campbell glanced at Douglas, hoping that somehow he might have missed that indirect jab at him. No such luck. Douglas glowered in his whiskey.

  “Aye, let us drink to Scotland.” Douglas rose and addressed the crowd. Campbell silently willed him to be civil, hoping to avoid a brawl in his hall. “To all her faithful servants. Let us cast away those who do not love her truly, and raise those who will serve her unto death.” Campbell cringed at the veiled reference to Scotland’s long-absent King David, but Campbell’s clan cheered and drank again, unaware of the battle between the two great men that was taking place at the head table.

  It was Stewart’s turn to glare at his wine. He pushed back his chair as if he was going to stand up to make another toast. Campbell was desperate. How could he get the men to cease hostilities? He glanced across to Isabelle, sending her a silent plea for help. She took an apple from her plate and tossed it from hand to hand.

  Stewart began to stand but Campbell shot up and exclaimed, “Entertainment! We have a great treat for our esteemed guests. Please bring in our jugglers at once. Hurry men, dinna keep us waiting.” Corbett and his men were hustled out and began to perform their acrobatic routine around the central hearth of the great hall. Campbell collapsed back in his chair. He looked again for Isabelle. What a blessing she was there.

  Except, when he looked for her, she was gone.

  Thirty-Seven

  Cait and Isabelle slipped out of the hall while everyone was watching the performance, then dashed down the side stairs toward the dungeon. Outside the door, Isabelle dumped the crushed herbs she had picked while appreciating insect life with Rabbie into the goblet of wine.

  “Are ye sure this will work?” asked Cait. Her eyes were wide and she chewed on her lower lip.

  “Certainly,” replied Isabelle, hoping she sounded more confident than she was. “I nursed my uncle for many years, and this never failed to put him to sleep.” She stirred the mixture with her finger, wishing she had been able to grind the herb a bit smaller. Little green flecks were now spinning around in the glass.

  “Here,” said Isabelle, handing the goblet to Cait. “Get the guard to drink this without looking at it too close.”

  “What if Andrew does’na wish to marry me?”

  “I doubt that will happen.”

  “But what if it does?”

  “Then we can send him to perdition with the knowledge that we attempted to save his ungrateful neck.”

  “Nay! We canna do that. Even if he does’na wish to wed, we still must save him.”

  “Fine, fine. Hurry now, we have not much time.”

  Isabelle gave Cait a bracing smile and set off to find the minstrel.

  ***

  Andrew sat in the gray gloom of the dungeon waiting for a miracle he knew would not come. He was a McNab after all. He had taken responsibility for the abduction of Cait in order to prevent Campbell from destroying what was left of his clan. Yet he had hoped Cait would convince Campbell to spare his life, or his brother would arrive to save Andrew from the need to die bravely.

  When the priest came in the morning for confession, his hopes disappeared into the dark corner of his room. It was hard to sit alone with the knowledge of his fate. His only comfort was that he probably would not have to wait much longer.

  Andrew sat back on his bench and closed his eyes. His thoughts turned to Cait once again. He had decided that if he was to die for it, those few days with her were enough. Though, if he had known he would be condemned to die, he would have taken her to his bed. It was a shame to die a virgin, but nothing could be done about it now.

  He pictured Cait on the grassy hill, her blond hair blowing around her. He remembered their sweet kiss. He could almost feel her soft lips on his. He pictured going down on one knee, asking her to be his wife, and in his dream she did not refuse him. This time she said yes and hugged him tight. He wrapped his arms around her and gently laid her down on the soft grass of the hill. She kissed his neck and pulled him closer. And this time there was no burly brother to ruin the moment.

  Andrew sunk back on the stone bench. His senses must be starting to go for he could hear the swish of her skirts, smell the lavender soap she used. It was wonderful and torturous. He opened his eyes feeling more alone than ever.

  Before him s
tood Lady Cait. He wondered at what point his mind had abandoned him for madness. He stood, but the vision remained. She was an angel of perfection, her silver gown shimmering in the light of the single candle she held. She looked so real he stepped forward until he reached the end of his chain.

  “Cait,” he rasped, his voice rough from lack of use.

  “Andrew?” The apparition spoke. He was hearing voices now too. Oh well, at least his madness gave him a vision of her.

  “Andrew, are ye well?” She ran to him and wrapped her arms around him.

  “Och, but ye’re real, my dearest, sweetest Cait.” Andrew crushed Cait with his embrace.

  “Canna… breathe…”

  Andrew released her. “Sorry, but how is it… oh, ye are here. I love ye, I love ye.”

  “Andrew, I feared ye would be angry wi’ me for no’ telling ye the truth.”

  “I could ne’er be angry wi’ ye. Only, can ye stay a while? I would so much like to have ye here for a while, if ye could.”

  “Aye, we have a plan. A plan for ye to escape.” Cait took the key she’d swiped from the guard’s belt and unlocked Andrew’s chains.

  Andrew stared at her. Could this be true? He wondered for a moment if the honorable thing to do would be to refuse and accept his sentence. He quickly rejected the notion as sheer foolishness. “Sweet Cait, I knew ye would help me. But I dinna want to put ye in danger.”

  “Dinna worry yerself over me. I am not the one they want to hang.”

  “True.”

  “I winna let them kill you. I winna let ye die for something ye dinna do.”

  “Yer brother is a fair man, Cait. He is no’ executing me for abducting ye.”

  “Then why has he sentenced ye to die?”

  “Stealing the horses.”

  “The horses?!” Isabelle put her hands on her hips. “Why should he care for that?”

  “’Tis a hanging offence,” Andrew said apologetically. “And truth be told, I wasna going to return them.”

  A faint glow of a candle grew brighter. Someone was coming.

  “Hide,” hissed Andrew, and pushed Cait under his stone bench.

  “Cait?” said a female voice.

  “’Tis safe, ’tis my friend, Isabelle,” said Cait in relief.

  Isabelle emerged with a single candle and a man cloaked in a cape and hood. “This is the man I spoke of,” said Isabelle. “He can marry you if it be your wish.”

  “I can perform the service, but it will no’ be recognized by Campbell,” said the cloaked man.

  Isabelle looked at the minstrel. He didn’t look like himself. He didn’t sound like himself. Interesting. She set out to find the minstrel when he had approached her cloaked, his face obscured, saying he was ready to perform the service.

  “We understand, we wish to be wed,” said Andrew. He looked nervously at Cait. “At least I do, if it be yer wish.”

  “Aye,” said Cait with a bright smile. “I wish nothing more than to be yer wife.”

  Isabelle raised an eyebrow. She wished nothing more? Isabelle shivered in the dank surroundings. The ambiance was somewhat lacking, but Cait was beaming at Andrew as if standing in a field of flowers.

  “I understand ye confessed to the abduction of Lady Cait,” said the minstrel in an odd Scottish accent. Cait and Andrew would never know who he was.

  “Nay, it wasna him, it was his older brother Archie,” said Cait.

  “Wheesht, Cait,” hushed Andrew. “I dinna wish to bring trouble to my clan, sir.”

  “So ye accept blame for a crime ye dinna commit. Admirable. Please take the hand o’ yer betrothed,” The minstrel priest performed the Latin service well. At least he did as well as Isabelle’s understanding of Latin allowed her to judge. He switched to English for the vows, which the couple repeated with breathless anticipation.

  Isabelle fluctuated between happiness in seeing her plan come together and irritation at the dewy-eyed couple before her who were oblivious to the barriers before them. If Andrew could escape from the castle, he would have to stay one step ahead of Campbell. And how could Cait ever hope that Campbell would allow her to be with Andrew? The happy couple did not seem to appreciate the kind of danger that surrounded them. Or perhaps they were just savoring what might be their last moments together.

  The minstrel spoke a blessing and prayed for the couple. He prayed for eternal salvation and peace in the arms of Mother Mary which, considering Andrew’s death sentence, seemed appropriate. “Ye both understand this marriage will no’ save ye in Campbell’s eyes.”

  “Aye, I understand,” said Andrew. “It was verra kind o’ ye to provide a service. May I ken the name o’ our benefactor?”

  The robed minstrel stood silent for a moment, then made the sign of the cross. “Be at peace. Go wi’ God.”

  The robed man walked slowly up the stairs, as if he carried many more years than he did. Truly, Isabelle began to wonder herself if this was truly the minstrel or if he had sent some other Scottish priest to do the job. Shaking her head at the puzzle, she turned back to Andrew and Cait who were ignoring her in their embrace.

  “Wait until dark, then make your escape,” said Isabelle, getting back to the essentials. “I have told the silk peddler to expect you to hide in his wagon. You will leave when he does at first light.”

  “Are you sure he can be trusted?” asked Andrew.

  “Yes, I would bet my life on it. And since you have few alternatives I would say this is your best chance at regaining your freedom.”

  “But what of the guard when we emerge?” asked Cait. “Surely there will be a new guard to take the place o’ the sleeping one. Can ye get him to drink the sleeping draft too?”

  Isabelle’s shoulders slumped. She had not thought of that. “No, I used all I had on this potion.”

  “I can overpower the guard,” said Andrew. “Especially if ye put the key back on his belt, no one will know I’ve been unchained.”

  Isabelle took the offered key, unease creeping down her spine. “You will not do serious harm, will you? I do not want the blood of Campbell’s guards on my hands.”

  “Nay, I swear to ye on my life I shall overpower him and leave him tied up, but alive.”

  “O’ course Andrew winna hurt anyone,” gasped a shocked Cait. “And I’ll be here to help.”

  “No,” said Isabelle. “You must go back to the ladies’ solar. You can meet Andrew to say good-bye in the wagon, but you will be missed if you are gone any longer.”

  “Nay,” said Cait, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m no’ going to say good-bye to Andrew, I’m going wi’ him. I’m his wife now and I shall stand by him.” Cait’s chin started to tremble. “I winna leave now. This is my only chance to be wi’ him.”

  “Cait,” Isabelle ground out. This was getting out of hand. Her plan was to free Andrew and perform a mock wedding to make Cait happy. It was not her plan to enable Cait to escape. Campbell’s response would be… oh she didn’t even want to think about it.

  “Listen to me,” said Isabelle. “Andrew will have a better chance of getting away if you are not with him. If Campbell thinks he has kidnapped you again he will never stop searching until he finds you.”

  “As long as he finds us after our firstborn enters the world, there will be very little he can do but accept us. Please, Isabelle, this is my only chance. I know I am the sister of the laird, but shoud’na I have a chance at happiness? If I stay, David will force me to wed Gavin Patrick, and I will be miserable all my days.” Tears streamed down Cait’s face.

  Isabelle sighed. “What am I supposed to say when you are missed?”

  “Ye’ll think of something. Ye’re smart that way.”

  Isabelle trudged back up the stairs to place the key to the shackles back on the belt of the sleeping guard. She had certainly gotten herself into a muddle now.
Good thing she planned to be on that wagon herself. She did not want to be around when Campbell found out they all were gone. And yet, she understood wanting to be with the man she loved.

  Even for just one night.

  Thirty-Eight

  Isabelle slipped back up to the sleeping quarters and bundled some pillows under the blanket on Cait’s bed. She hoped Mairi would not check on her. Then she went into the ladies’ solar. It was empty, since the entertainment was just ending. She would have but a moment to do this. She took a quill and found a parchment. She would not leave again without an explanation.

  Isabelle hoped that if Campbell knew she was safe with her own guard, he would let her go without pursuing her. The need for secrecy might not even be warranted. He might allow her to leave with her guard, without complaint. He had, after all, said he would give her to the bishop instead. Yet he was still a wanted man in England, and her soldiers were Englishmen. Captain Corbett had trusted her by coming into Campbell’s gates. She could not betray him, not knowing what Campbell or his illustrious houseguests might do. No, she needed to sneak away quietly.

  She stared at the blank page, wondering what to write. How could she express her feelings toward Campbell? Her conscience bothered her. She had promised Campbell not to escape. She argued with herself that if she left a note, it wasn’t truly running away. It was a poor excuse, but it was all she had.

  Footsteps and happy female chatter could be heard from down the hall. Isabelle scratched a few lines of inadequate explanation and rolled the parchment, stuffing it in the pocket of her skirts.

  “Lady Tynsdale,” said Mairi, entering the solar. “Where is Cait?”

  “She is over-tired from lack of sleep. I had her lie down to rest.”

  “Poor Cait. Ye missed a fine performance,” said Fiona, her folded arms resting on her large belly.

  “Aye, ’twas amazing,” said young Gwyneth.

  “’Twas a paltry attempt at best,” said Lady Eileen, and all the heat left the room.