The final words were spoken. Sir Henry led Percy and Brigette to the desk across the chamber to sign the necessary documents. In the name of the queen, Sir Henry signed first, then passed the quill to Percy, who signed with a flourish in the name of Iain MacArthur. Brigette stared dumbly at the quill when Percy held it out to her.
The dowager countess opened her mouth to scold, but Percy placed the quill in Brigette's hand and gestured to the marriage documents. Accepting her fate, Brigette signed with a bold flourish. She was Lady MacArthur now, for better or worse.
The dowager countess instantly grabbed her daughter's arm and steered her toward the door, saying, “I'm certain you'll want to change your lovely gown before supper, my dear."
Reading the warning in her mother's eyes, Brigette nodded and left. As she crossed the foyer, a peal of masculine laughter rang out, Percy's tight control having broken.
2
Almost magically, the mist had disappeared under the cover of darkness. Each person milling around the courtyard noted the change and hoped Basildon Castle would see the sun's rays that day. Since before dawn, the Scots had been preparing for their departure, but now most lounged about, awaiting Lady MacArthur.
Wearing a grim expression, Spring entered and crossed the courtyard. “She's not in her chamber,” she told the countess. Percy and Madame Devereux exchanged worried glances.
“If she's run,” Richard snarled, “I'll flay her alive."
“Humph!” Heather snorted derisively. “Brie's too much of a coward to ... Here she is.” Dressed for traveling in a dark woolen safeguard and cloak, Brigette entered the courtyard from the castle's chapel and smiled apologetically.
“They thought you'd run!” Heather exclaimed. “I told them—"
“I was bidding farewell to Father."
The countess's expression softened and she opened her arms to her daughter. Like a bereft child, Brigette flung herself into her mother's embrace. She closed her eyes, felt the warmth of her mother's love, and knew nothing would be the same after that day. When Brigette left Basildon, she would be leaving her childhood behind.
“I'm afraid,” Brigette whispered.
Her mother tilted her chin up and smiled sadly. “There's nothing to fear, sweet. If Lord Percy is any indication, your husband is a good man. Will you promise me something, Brie?"
Brigette nodded. “Yes ... anything."
“You are impulsive at times,” she said. “Before you do or say anything, remember you are an earl's daughter. Can you do that for me?"
“Yes, I promise."
The countess kissed Brigette, then held her close. “Say good-bye to your brother and sister,” she whispered finally.
Brigette turned to Heather. Weeping, the sisters flew into each other's arms.
“I'm sorry I frightened you,” Heather sobbed. “I'm certain Lord MacArthur doesn't kill for pleasure."
“And I'm sorry I insulted you,” Brigette returned. “I like your freckles. You'll write?” Heather nodded, and they hugged each other a final time.
Brigette looked at her brother. His lips quivered with the effort not to cry. “Farewell, my Lord Earl,” she said and curtsyed.
In a most undignified manner, the young lord threw himself into his sister's arms and nearly toppled her over in his distress. “I'll miss you, Brie."
“Learn your lessons well, Richard,” Brigette said, hugging him close, “and you'll grow into as fine a man as Father."
“I will,” Richard promised, then glanced sidelong at Percy. “If you need me,” he whispered, “send word."
Brigette stood and kissed Sir Henry on each cheek. “I will also miss you, my lord. You've been like a father these past years, and I thank you for caring."
“Be happy, Brie."
Brigette nodded, then turned to Percy. “I'm ready."
Percy helped her mount, then mounted his own stallion. Brigette saw the Scotsman Jamie lift Spring onto her horse and was glad her cousin was traveling with her. At least she would have one friend in her husband's home.
Percy shouted a command. Surrounded by her husband's men-at-arms, Lady MacArthur began her long journey to Scotland. They rode in silence at a leisurely pace, and Brigette studied the countryside, consigning it to her memory. It would be a long, long time before she'd see her homeland again.
The morning progressed and as the sky gradually lightened, so, too, did Brigette's mood. Why must I suffer with an ignorant husband? she thought. Because the queen commanded it? Bah! If living with the heathen proves intolerable, I'll run away!
Approving of her newfound confidence, the sun broke free of its confining cloud cover. Brigette, feeling the excitement of high adventure, giggled with youthful joy and spurred her horse forward. Racing against an invisible opponent, she galloped ahead of her escort. Cursing, Percy bolted after her.
Glancing back, Brigette saw Percy gaining on her. She spurred her horse faster, but his stallion was too potent for her gelding. Percy shouted for Brigette to stop, but she ignored him. He reached over and yanked the reins from her hands, forcing the gelding to slow and then stop.
“Dinna’ be ridin’ ahead wi'out givin’ fair warnin',” Percy scolded. “It's dangerous!"
“The sun is shining and it's grand being alive!” Brigette exclaimed, undaunted by his sternness. Her joy was contagious, and in spite of himself, Percy smiled. Glancing back at their approaching entourage, she added, “I do not approve of the way your man Jamie has been eyeing Spring."
“I hadna’ noticed her complainin',” Percy said. “I did notice, however, yer changin’ the subject."
“How very astute of you!"
“Seriously,” he added, “ye canna take off like that whenever ye wish. It's impossible to protect ye and there could be highwaymen lurkin’ aboot."
“Oh.” Brigette nudged her horse closer to his and looked around, half expecting to be attacked.
“Percy,” she asked suddenly, “why did Lord Iain seek an English bride?"
“'Twas Black Jack's idea. Politics, I'm supposin'."
“Politics?"
“Why did yer queen match ye wi’ a Scotsman?"
“Probably so there'd be one less papist in England to worry about,” Brigette replied drily.
“As I said, politics."
Each passing mile saw Brigette's mood and derriere chafed by the endless ride. By dusk, her excitement had vanished. They stopped for the night at St. Albans, a town overlooking the Ver River.
They halted in front of the Red Lion Inn where they were expected, one of the MacArthur men having ridden ahead to make arrangements. Too fatigued even to dismount, Brigette swayed precariously in her saddle.
“Puir lassie,” Percy clucked. He lifted and carried Brigette into the inn's common room. The innkeeper, a short and stocky man, led him immediately to Brigette's chamber. An equally suffering Spring followed behind.
"No!" Brigette cried, realizing Percy meant to set her down on the bed. “I'll eat standing and sleep on my stomach."
Hiding his amusement, Percy turned to Spring. “Jamie will be back wi’ supper. Be ready to leave at dawn."
The door closed, and fully clothed, Brigette lay facedown on the bed. “Forget my supper, cuz. I'm too weary to chew.” The last word was barely out of her mouth and Brigette was asleep.
* * * *
After five days in the saddle, Brigette and Spring were still sore, but suffering less. They'd traveled north, passing through Leicester, Derby, Sheffield, and the medieval town of York.
York was the end of civilization as Brigette knew it. At night, Spring and she slept on uncomfortable cots in a tent raised by the MacArthur men. Unbelievable as it was to the Englishwomen, the hearty Scotsmen wrapped themselves in their black and green plaids and slept comfortably enough on the ground.
Commiserating about their calloused buttocks and debating whether the sun would ever be seen again, Brigette and Spring rode together, surrounded by the MacArthur men. Glancing away from her co
usin, Brigette was stunned by the sight just ahead.
"Look!" she cried, pointing a finger.
On the horizon was a carpet of purple heather. Breathtaking mountains, painted a vibrant green by their blanket of trees, rose majestically in the distance.
Alarmed by Brigette's cry, the MacArthur men drew their swords. Realizing there was no danger, Percy ordered the men to sheath their weapons, then reined in beside the two women.
“Your Highlands are beautiful!” Brigette exclaimed.
“Highlands?” Percy was confused.
“Look there, Percy. The Highlands!"
“Och, lass! We've just left England behind.” Percy dissolved into laughter and was joined by his men. “It's the Cheviot Hills, Brie, no’ the Highlands. It's part of the borderlands—Bothwell's country."
“Bothwell?"
“The Earl of Bothwell,” he told her. “Unfortunately, we willna’ be enjoyin’ Jamie Hepburn's renowned hospitality. He's a guest of yer queen, in the Tower, but accordin’ to rumor, he'll soon be freed."
“Whatever did he do to be imprisoned in the Tower?"
“Do?” Percy shrugged his shoulders. “Nothin', as far as I know."
“Then why—"
“Yer queen doesna’ need a reason,” Percy interrupted. “It's as I said before—politics."
“Oh."
“I've sent a mon ahead to tell the earl's men that we'll be passin’ through,” he added. “I dinna want them attackin’ us."
"Attack?" Spring cried, alarmed.
Percy glanced at his sister-in-law's tirewoman. “The earl's moss troopers are fierce."
“And border raidin’ maintains their battle readiness,” spoke Jamie, who had reined in beside Spring. “Dinna worry aboot them, lass. I'll protect ye wi’ my life.” Spring smiled radiantly at him, and over her head, Jamie cast Percy a meaningful look.
“Let's ride ahead,” Percy suggested, turning to Brigette. “If yer interested, I'll tell ye a bit of Scotland's history."
They galloped ahead a short distance, then slowed their horses to a more leisurely pace, being careful to stay within sight of the MacArthur warriors. Brigette smiled expectantly at Percy.
“The greatest of Scotland's heroes is Robert the Bruce,” he began, “who bested yer English forces at Bannockburn."
“I don't believe you!” Brigette cried indignantly. “I've never heard of the Scots beating the English."
“I amna’ surprised,” Percy returned, “but it's true. Robert the Steward was the Bruce's grandson and James the first was Robert's grandson. All the royal Stewarts, includin’ Queen Mary's father, have ended tragically.” Percy warmed to his subject. “James the first was assassinated. His son, James the second, was crowned king when he was a six-year-old. Unfortunately, he was accidentally killed by an explodin’ cannon, and his son, James the third, came to the throne at nine years of age. Like his grandfather before him, James the third was also assassinated. James the fourth married Margaret Tudor, yer queen's aunt. His fatal error was invadin’ England—bein’ defeated and killed at Flodden."
“I know of Flodden,” Brigette interjected.
Percy smiled wryly. “Again, I amna’ surprised."
“I believe ‘tis best a country emphasizes its victories and virtues,” Brigette said loftily, but a mischievous smile flirted with the corners of her lips. “Do continue."
“James the fifth, Margaret Tudor's son and yer queen's cousin, married Mary of Guise. Queen Mary is their daughter. Puir James died only a few hours after she was born. Some say he was heartbroken he didna produce a legitimate male heir. A number of his bastards are scattered across the land, some acknowledged and some not."
“How sad!"
“I hope,” he added, “whatever curse is upon the Stewart family will be broken wi’ our bonnie Queen Mary."
“It would be wise,” Brigette commented, “if she refrained from naming any son of hers James."
“I agree wi’ ye.” Percy chuckled at her reasoning. But then, how could an English lady know the mighty power of the clans? She would never understand the love-hate relationship that generations of self-serving Stewart monarchs had with the Highland chiefs, who were independent monarchs on their own lands. Mostly, the Stewarts’ suffering was wholly deserved.
“Well, lass.” Percy changed the subject. “Two days and a night of travelin’ will see us at Dunridge."
“So soon?” Brigette's voice was unmistakably apprehensive.
“There's nae need to worry, Brie,” Percy said. “Iain is a good mon. As a matter of fact, I'll be surprised if we dinna see him before then."
“What do you mean?"
“If Black Jack returns to Dunridge, Iain will surely ride out to greet ye. I'm certain he's anxious to meet his bride."
The next morning Jamie was, as usual, standing beside Spring's horse, awaiting her arrival. Pleased but shy, Spring approached with a smile on her lips.
“Sweet Spring,” Jamie teased. “Ye were aptly named. It's my favorite season of the year."
Spring blushed furiously. “I never knew the Scots were such outrageous flatterers."
“It isna’ flattery.” With one calloused hand, he cupped her chin. “Be there any more at home as sweet as ye?"
“Three half sisters,” she whispered, disconcerted by his touch. “April, May, and June."
“April, M-May, and J-J-June?” Jamie sputtered, bringing a smile to her expression. “I need no’ ask when they were born. Only half sisters? Is yer mother dead, then?"
“No.” Spring looked away uncomfortably. “We've different fathers."
“I'm sorry ye lost yer own father,” he said softly.
“You needn't be,” she returned. “I never had one that I knew."
“I'm verra sorry, then.” Jamie caressed Spring's cheek, which burned with shame. “I would never cause ye pain."
"Jamie!" Percy shouted. “Cease flirtin’ wi’ the lady and help her mount."
Now it was Jamie's turn to blush. His face reddened until it almost matched his flame-colored hair, and Spring grinned. Without another word, Jamie hoisted her into the saddle.
Although the day was cloudy and cool, Brigette's disposition was sunny as she rode silently beside Percy. She was nervous about meeting her husband, but glad they would arrive at Dunridge Castle the following day. Her morning hours were spent in dreamy contemplation, not of her husband, but of the steaming tub she would soak in for hours.
“You do have tubs for bathing in Scotland, do you not?” Brigette asked abruptly.
A smile tugged at the corners of Percy's lips. “Yes, we do."
“Good.” Brigette began humming a spritely tune. She could almost feel the water's heat, steaming away her aches and troubles.
Afternoon saw them entering Argyll, the MacArthurs’ home shire. Aided by low-hanging clouds of dark gray, dusk descended quickly, forcing the MacArthur entourage to make camp earlier than usual. The men divided themselves into two groups. One group went to work raising Brigette's tent while the other lit a cooking fire and began supper's preparation.
When the tent was erected, Spring left the warmth of the fire to make up their cots for the night. Brigette remained by the fire, and soon drowsiness mastered her senses. Her eyelids grew heavy and closed.
Roused by a loud disturbance, Brigette's eyes flew open. Were they being attacked? No sounds of fighting were forthcoming, only the sounds of arriving horses and men's laughter. It must be my husband! she thought. What should I do? If I go to the tent, he'll have the advantage of sending for me; but if I stay where I am, he'll have the advantage of looking down on me. The most dignified action is to meet Iain MacArthur as an equal. Brigette stood and walked toward the laughter.
As she advanced, Brigette recognized the now-familiar green and black of the MacArthur plaid. With his back to her, Percy greeted a red-haired man who resembled Jamie. She started forward but froze as their conversation reached her ears.
“Dugie.” Percy shook the ot
her's hand. “Where's Iain?"
“He isna’ here,” Dugie answered. “We're to escort ye home."
“Black Jack isna’ returned from Edinburgh?"
“The laird is returned."
“Well, where's Iain, then?"
“Lady Antonia was havin’ some crisis wi’ wee Glenda. I dinna know what.” Dugie grinned. “Iain was neatly duped like a striplin’ lad.” Dugie chuckled, then noticed Brigette. “Is that the Sassenach bride?"
Percy whirled around. Brigette's face was pale, and she shook with fury at her husband's devastating insult. With her lips curled in a silent snarl, Brigette stalked off.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Brigette Devereux MacArthur was no exception. She stormed into the tent, her sudden intrusion startling Spring.
“What's wrong?” Spring cried, alarmed by her expression.
“He's insulted me again!"
“Who?"
"My husband!" Brigette exploded. “He sent his men as escort, but did not accompany them. Obviously, Iain MacArthur considers me unimportant!"
“Perhaps he was unable—"
“His man gave Percy no good reason for his absence,” Brigette snapped. “The man laughed. At me!"
“Oh! Perhaps—"
“Do not make excuses for a man who does not have one!” Brigette roared. “Whose side are you on anyway?"
“Is this a war?” Spring returned angrily. “Are we to choose sides?"
“This is no war.” Brigette's voice was deadly low. “A war must be fought between two, and I'll suffer no more of this."
“What are you ...?"
“Brie?” Percy's voice sounded outside the tent.
“Tell Percy that I want to be alone,” Brigette ordered.
Spring sighed and stepped outside. “She wishes to be alone, my lord."
“But I must tell her about Antonia."
“Antonia?"
“My brother Malcolm's widow,” Percy explained. “She's the reason Iain isna’ here."
“Brie is tired,” Spring said. “I'm certain she'll be more understanding in the morning."
“Yes,” Percy agreed doubtfully, “yer probably correct."
Highland Belle Page 2