King of Storms

by Amanda Scott

  Holy Kirk had claimed ownership, and the present Pope, apparently believing that at least a good portion of the treasure had somehow made its way to Scotland, had twice sent men to find and reclaim it—so far, unsuccessfully.

  De Gredin was the Pope’s man. Therefore, his return was clearly an omen.

  Fife’s sole interest in the treasure lay in a single item that he believed formed part of it, and that, thanks to an informant, he had reason to believe truly was hidden in Scotland. So if de Gredin and the Pope needed his aid to find the treasure, he could certainly turn that need to his own good. After all, even if they failed to find the treasure, papal support alone might be enough to tip the balance his way when the time came to persuade Parliament that he should be King.

  He had no liking for de Gredin, however, and glowered as he said bluntly, “You betrayed me last year. Why should I trust you now?”

  Still kneeling, the chevalier held out the sealed document he had brought with him. “Read this, my lord. Then decide what you will.”

  Holyrood Abbey Woods, Tuesday, June 4, 1381

  A faint ring of ripples forming around the hitherto motionless fishing line was the first indication from below of any interest in its neatly baited hook.

  Holding the pole gingerly, nineteen-year-old Lady Sidony Macleod stared at the rings as they expanded and multiplied in number. For at least an hour, she had been sitting on a low, flat granite promontory that jutted into the long, narrow loch without seeing a single fish, although the burly, gray-haired gardener who had lent her his pole had assured her the abbey’s loch teemed with them.

  Now she wondered if she should pull up her line. She did not really want to catch a fish, anyway. She had only taken the pole because it had seemed to lend a greater sense of purpose to her stolen walk than mere escape.

  Having a fish as proof of that purpose might be useful, but having to carry one would be a nuisance. Her older sister Sorcha had always carried any they had caught on such expeditions at home.

  “Are you sure I’ll catch one?” she had asked the gardener.

  “Och, aye, m’lady,” he’d assured her. “Likely, ye’ll catch a fine salmon or trout for your breakfast.”

  Sidony had found it impossible to refuse so kind an offer, so she thanked him and accepted a small pot of earthworms as well, to use for bait. Then, crossing the three back gardens between Clendenen House and the woods, and slipping through the hedge boundary, she had strolled among the trees, lady ferns, and flowers, finding the ground annoyingly boggy. But soon she had come upon the glassy, dark-green loch, and its serene beauty had drawn her, making her forget the muddy ground.

  With gray sky overhead and trees growing to the water’s edge, the loch darkened outward from a grayish green color in the center to a raggedy line of black shadows near the shore, where surrounding trees reflected off the mirror-like surface.

  The temperature was mild, and the woods seemed unnaturally still. Sidony had followed the loch shore until she had come upon the jutting granite slab. After slogging through muck, the gray-and-white rock looked invitingly dry and clean.

  Her boots were heavy with mud, and the hem of the blue kerseymere skirt she wore with its matching tunic likewise bore evidence of her trek. But it was an old dress and not one she cared for. She had put it on to play with her fourteen-month-old nephew, because it would save any finer gown from grubby hands or spills.

  Baiting her hook was easy, thanks to similar expeditions with Sorcha near Castle Chalamine, their home in the Highlands. As she pictured the castle and its nearby tumbling burn and dense green shrubbery, a sigh escaped her lips.

  She had been away from home for more than a year—too long.

  Tears welled at the thought, and one spilled down her cheek just as the pole jerked hard in her hand. Gripping it tight in both hands, she lurched awkwardly upright, trying to avoid falling into the water, stepping on her skirts, or losing the fish.

  Larger than she had expected, it did not want to be caught and was fighting so hard that she wished she had not caught it at all and wondered if she could just extract the hook and let it go.

  In a similar instance with Sorcha, her older sister had said the fish would die anyway, and might linger in pain for days first. So at last, as it lay flopping feebly on the granite, Sidony picked up a rock and resolutely ended its life.

  Staring at the dead fish, she grimaced and looked for a length of ivy she could string through its gills and mouth to carry it. Telling herself that she had been very clever and that she did not want to catch another fish, she picked up the gardener’s pole in her left hand and turned back toward Clendenen House.

  A few minutes later, finding no track, she realized she had lost her way.

  Had the sun been shining, she might have been able to tell what direction to go. Sorcha could tell by the sun, although Sidony was not certain how, because she had never thought to ask. She did know the sun set in the west, though, and had watched it go down the previous night, on the Castle side of Clendenen House.

  Perched as Edinburgh Castle was on its own craggy hilltop at what she thought was the northwest end of the royal burgh, it was visible from everywhere—everywhere, that is, except her present location, where the canopy was too dense.

  She told herself she was just getting an extra bit of freedom and someone would find her eventually if she did not find her own way. The abbey bell would ring for Vespers, and she could easily find Clendenen House from the abbey.

  By now people surely wondered where she was, because she had been gone for some time. They might be annoyed that she had not said where she was going, but she had not wanted to wake her sister Isobel or their hostess, or disturb the men, and she had not meant to get lost. It occurred to her then that if someone did come looking for her, she would just get back sooner—if they searched for her. They might not have noticed yet that she was gone. They often did not notice her.

  Perhaps someone would hear her if she whistled a little tune.

  Ladies were not supposed to whistle, and she was sure the others would condemn such behavior. But the only one of her six sisters presently at Clendenen House was Isobel, who was pregnant again and sleeping soundly.

  Sidony did not know many tunes, so she whistled her favorite one over and over. Since whistling was one of her few accomplishments, it did seem unfair that ladies were not to do it. She wondered, as she often did, who made up such rules.

  If it were up to her, she would not be so strict.

  Just then, to her relief, the abbey bell began to toll, but its reverberations filled the woods with sound. Only as the last echoes were fading was she able to tell that the bell tolled from somewhere to her right.

  In the ensuing silence, a horse snuffled.

  She opened her mouth to shout, then realized she might be hailing a stranger or even an enemy. Horrid men had once abducted her sister Adela.

  Anyone seeking her would call her name. That the rider remained silent indicated a stranger, at best.

  Hearing the soft, melodic whistling, the rider had reined in his horse. The tune intrigued him, and he wanted to hear more, but the thickheaded beast he rode, not nearly as well trained as his own mounts, had snorted in protest, making him hope the whistler was no enemy. But although his profession had won him as many foes as friends, few of either would expect to find him in the abbey woods.

  Nevertheless, he dismounted, checked to be sure his sword was properly in its scabbard across his back and had not shifted to one side or the other as he rode. Then, looping his rein around a handy branch, he moved toward the whistler with the swift, silent strides of an experienced woodsman, avoiding twigs, puddles, and pebbles as much by long-developed instinct as by looking out for them.

  He saw her moments later, a small, slender, but curvaceous beauty with flaxen, almost white, hair hanging in two thick plaits, one forward over her right shoulder, the left one hanging down her back to her hip. The plaits looked soft and smooth. He felt instant l
onging to touch one, to see if it was as silky as it looked.

  She walked tentatively, peering about, but he thought her uncertain rather than fearful.

  Her dress was in sad shape, which was a pity, because as beautiful as she was, she would augment any gown. She should wear silk or satin, and have furs and jewels to enhance her beauty, not a large, fresh-caught salmon in one hand and a decrepit fishing pole in the other.

  He thought her father should be flogged for letting such a beauty wander unguarded. Still, there she was, and Giff MacLennan was not a man to let opportunity stroll away. He moved closer, stepping on clumps of bluebells to muffle his steps, altering direction to avoid approaching from behind and startling her.

  As he drew nearer, he looked down, certain that if he was not looking when she saw him, she would think he had not seen her. He did not want her to screech.

  Hearing the change in her footsteps on the spongy ground, he knew she had spotted him. When she stopped, he looked up to find her staring at him, wide-eyed.

  Her eyes were beautiful, too, a clear light blue that looked almost translucent. Her lashes, like her eyebrows, were several shades darker than her hair, yet not dark enough that he would call them brown. She gripped the fishing pole tightly in her left hand. The fine-looking salmon dangled from a vine looped in her right.

  “Good morrow to you, mistress,” he said. “Art lost in these vast woods?”

  She nodded, still wide-eyed, her full, soft-looking lips invitingly parted, her round, equally soft-looking, equally inviting breasts rising and falling gently but with increasing tempo inside her bodice. She still had not spoken.

  “I can show you the way if you like,” he said, flashing his most charming smile. Usually, it drew a responding smile from its target, but she continued to regard him silently and soberly.

  “Would you like that, lass, for me to show you the way?”

  She nodded again, looking into his eyes in a way that stirred his loins.

  Still smiling, he said suggestively, “I would require only small payment from you in return for such a rescue.”

  He had not thought her eyes could widen more, but they did.

  Still she did not speak.

  He stepped closer, holding her gaze, wondering if she would step back.

  The ground felt springy underfoot, but for once he paid little heed.

  She was even more beautiful up close, and she clearly invited his attention.

  Sidony could not stop staring at the dark-haired stranger. He wore a leather, steel-lined vest that Borderers called a jack-o’-plate and plain leather boots and breeks, the latter snug around muscular thighs and calves. The sword slung across his back and the dirk shoved down one boot ought to have frightened her, but not for an instant did she mistake him for a Border ruffian.

  Not only was his shirt too white, too well made—and of fine linen, at that—but he carried himself with an arrogance one saw only in the landed classes.

  He was not the handsomest man she had ever beheld, for his features were irregular, and his nose too aquiline, but something about him fascinated her.

  She liked the merry twinkle in his dark-blue eyes, and his voice was as smooth as honey, the sort one could listen to for pleasure. But he was as tall and as broad across the shoulders as Hugo or Rob, and she preferred men who did not take up so much room. Such men tended to loom over one and assume one would do as they commanded. Her brothers-in-law were all such men. She did obey them, though, so perhaps they had cause to expect obedience.

  She was still wondering when the stranger was going to tell her what her payment must be when he bent swiftly and kissed her on the lips. To her shock, he put a hand at the back of her head to hold her so he could keep kissing her.

  His lips felt soft against hers, then harder, more demanding. He closed his eyes, which was too bad, because they were the darkest blue she had ever seen. Like the water in the loch, they were so dark they looked almost black.

  His free arm slipped around her waist, and she knew she should protest, even push him away. But no one had dared do such a thing before, and she found it more interesting than one might have expected—had one had time to expect anything.

  Then his tongue slipped between her lips, and she reacted without thought, pushing hard against his chest with both hands, notwithstanding fish or pole.

  He let go of her then, stepping back with a look of astonishment. Behind it, she thought briefly that she detected a shadow in his eyes, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a mischievous grin.

  “Why so violent, sweetheart? You’ll not deny you enjoyed that.” Still grinning, he put his hands on his hips as if he dared her to contradict him.

  Anger surged so swiftly that again she acted without thought. Swinging hard, forgetting she still held the fish, she gave him a clout across the face with it before he—or she, for that matter—had time to recognize her intent.

  He snapped up a hand in defense and stepped back, but the boggy ground betrayed him and the fish had smacked hard. His left foot lost traction and shot out from under him, and to her horror, he sat down with a splat on bluebells and mud.

  She turned and ran, but before she had taken four steps, a hand of iron clamped round her upper left arm, jerked her to a halt, and spun her to face him.

  “By heaven,” he said, still gripping her arm, his furious face close to hers. “I should put you across my knee to teach you better manners.”

  Stiffening abruptly, Sidony found her voice at last. “How dare you!” she snapped. “Release me!”

  To her astonishment, he did. But the extraordinary dark-blue eyes flashed fire, then narrowed ominously. “What are you doing out here alone, dressed like a common serving wench?”

  “I thought you were a gentleman,” she said, giving back look for look. “Is this how gentlemen treat common serving wenches? I didn’t know.”

  “Don’t try me too far, mistress. I’m a tolerant fellow, but I don’t tolerate insolence from anyone.”

  “Is it insolent to ask such a question?” She raised her chin. “I should think it much more insolent to go about kissing innocent serving maids.”

  “They are generally not so innocent,” he said, grinning again.

  “And why is that, do you think?”

  He opened his mouth but shut it again, frowning. “I wonder,” he said. “You ask saucy questions but look as cool as if you were inquiring about the weather.”

  “You do not answer me.”

  “Nay, lassie, and I won’t, because either you know why serving maids are usually not so innocent and asked your question to put me in the wrong, or you do not know, and are therefore too innocent for me to tell you. Moreover, you did not answer my question, which was more important than yours. And I asked mine first.”

  “I forgot what it was,” she said, although she remembered quite well.

  For a moment, he looked as if he might shake her, and to her utter amazement, she anticipated the experience with tingling curiosity.

  That sudden awareness sobered her. What, she wondered, could have put such an absurd notion into her head?

  With a patient note in his voice that she knew had nothing to do with what he must be feeling, he said, “I asked you what you are doing here alone, dressed like a common serving wench.”

  “It is bad manners to comment on a lady’s dress, is it not?”

  She watched with satisfaction as his eyes narrowed again.

  He made a sound like a growl, then said, “Look here, are you really lost?”

  “Aye, although now that I know where the abbey is—” She broke off, looking around and realizing that in her mad dash for freedom and subsequent capture, she had lost her sense of direction again. “I’m still lost,” she admitted.

  “Where do you live?”

  “I came into the woods from Clendenen House in the Canongate,” she said.

  “I ken the Canongate, so we can find Clendenen House. Had you turned the other way and followe
d the loch shore, you would soon have seen the abbey.”

  Having no wish to discuss what she ought to have done, she said sternly, “It was wrong of you to take payment for helping me.”

  “Aye, it was wrong, but I enjoyed it all the same,” he said, grinning again.

  “Did you? Why?”

  Giff shrugged, then stopped grinning, feeling again the unfamiliar guilt she had stirred moments before with her naive question about serving wenches. He was uncertain what stirred it this time, but the sensation was the same. Surely, she had not elicited such a sharp response from his conscience by speaking three words, but she looked so intent, as if his reply would mean something, as if he could hurt her by saying the kiss had been no more to him than any other stolen kiss.

  He did not want to hurt her. She had not smiled once, and he wanted to make her smile.

  His conscience, which had long remained agreeably inactive, stirred again. That he had not behaved well was as much her fault as his and was surely no cause for this strange unease. He was a man who took adventure and pleasure where he found them, and who rarely counted cost, but with her, he wanted to make amends.

  She still waited patiently, without speaking, but he would not cater to her vanity by telling her the kiss was special. She was a beauty, to be sure, and he would not mind growing better acquainted with her, but a man of his sort had little time for dalliance. And he had no time at all to dally with a virginal maid of doubtless noble birth who might expect marriage to come of it.

  Therefore, more brusquely than he had intended, he said, “I must get you home, so we’ll go this way.” As he put a hand beneath her elbow to urge her forward, he added, “Does anyone even know you came into these woods?”