Highland Belle

by Patricia H. Grasso

  Mary Stuart would have been regal, even had she not been born a queen. Tall and gracefully slim, she possessed auburn hair, amber eyes, and pale, flawless skin. Personally charismatic, the queen's radiant smile drew people to her like iron to a magnet.

  “Iain MacArthur,” the queen greeted them.

  Smiling, Iain stepped forward and bowed low over her hand. “Yer Majesty, I've brought ye a marvelous surprise.” He turned to James Stewart, saying, “I believe I'll steal the honor, my lord.” Stewart nodded, and Iain drew Brigette forward. “Your Majesty, I present my wife, Lady Brigette.” Taking her cue, Brigette curtsyed deeply.

  “That's the most graceful curtsy I've ever seen,” the queen complimented.

  “How kind of your Majesty to say so,” Brigette gushed, “especially since I've spent the whole day practicing."

  The queen laughed, then flicked a quick glance at the handsome courtier standing beside her chair. “You're English, I'm told."

  “Yes, your Majesty.” Realizing the courtier was Darnley, Brigette grabbed the chance to strengthen her husband's position with the queen. “I find the blending of the English and the Scots a superior match,” she confided, casting blatant cow-eyes at Iain. “Perfectly complementary in every way.” The queen's smile grew more radiant.

  What a wily witch, Iain thought, staring hard at his wife. Brigette could have been an exceedingly talented stage player; she slips so effortlessly from Gypsy princess to tavern wench to politics-playing countess.

  “Come closer and sit by me,” the queen was saying.

  “I'm honored, your Majesty.” Pleased with herself, Brigette stepped forward and perched on a stool.

  “Tell me truthfully,” the queen bade, “how does my court compare with the heretic's?"

  A loyal Englishwoman, Brigette suppressed a frown. “Forgive me, but I am unable to compare the two. I've never attended Queen Elizabeth's court."

  “Your father was an earl, was he not?"

  “Yes, your Majesty, but he only attended the court on rare occasions."

  “Why?"

  “Being French and a Catholic,” Brigette told her, “my mother was not welcomed there."

  “How much alike we are!” the queen exclaimed. “My mother was also French. Did not their different religions create problems for your parents?"

  “My parents believed that all problems could be solved with love and compromise."

  The queen sent her brother a meaningful look, then smiled at Brigette. “You arrived recently from London?"

  “We have, your Majesty.” Brigette was amazed by how quickly news traveled. She peered at her husband, who looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  Iain's unease was not lost on James Stewart. “What,” Stewart asked, “was yer business in London, Lady MacArthur?"

  I've talked too much, Brigette realized. “It is of a highly personal nature, my lord.” She looked back at the queen, who was obviously unhappy with her reply. Better to be thought a fool, Brigette decided, than something more dangerous. No one had ever been axed for being a blockhead.

  “It's extremely embarrassing,” Brigette confessed, “and I admit I was at fault. You see, I quarreled with Iain and ran home to England. Naturally, my husband followed me, and as you can see, we're now the happiest of couples."

  “You journeyed alone?” The queen was shocked.

  “I traveled incognito."

  “Incognito?"

  “I wore my oldest clothes.” Brigette peeked at Iain, who was staring hard at her, unhappy with the conversation. “In London, I secured a position as a serving wench in a tavern."

  Usually grim, James Stewart shouted with laughter, drawing the surprised attention of most of the courtiers.

  “I applaud your courage.” The queen's amber eyes gleamed with good humor. “Lady Brigette is a delightful creature, Iain. You will bring her to court often?"

  “As ye wish, your Majesty."

  On the far side of the crowded chamber, Magnus had finally been cornered by the powerful, persistent Earl of Huntly. Lord George Gordon was not as easily ignored or outwitted as Magnus had assumed.

  “Magnus, lad”—Huntly's voice was friendly enough—“I've been tryin’ to speak wi’ ye since ye arrived."

  Magnus smiled insincerely and lied. “I wasna’ aware ye were even in Edinburgh."

  “Of course, lad.” Huntly's smile was equally insincere. “If ye'd known, ye certainly would've sought me out. We've much to discuss, ye know."

  “We do?” Magnus feigned ignorance.

  “I'll put it to ye bluntly. Are ye willin’ to wed Avril?"

  “Avril?” Magnus's bewilderment was genuine.

  “My daughter, Avril Gordon,” Huntly supplied, cocking a brow at the younger man. “Yer betrothed."

  Magnus had the good grace to flush. After so many years of referring to her as “Huntly's chit,” he'd forgotten her name. “Well, sir,” he hedged, “I—I havena’ thought aboot it, bein’ busy wi’ the queen's errands and all. Is she ripe for marriage? I dinna recall she was the last time I saw her."

  “That was ten years ago,” Huntly snorted. “She was seven years old."

  “Good God! Ten years, ye say?” Magnus looked suitably surprised. “Nae wonder she wasna’ ripe!"

  “Well, she's ripe now,” Huntly replied, “and I need to know yer intentions. Menzies has offered for her, but out of respect for yer father and the long-standin’ betrothal, I'm givin’ ye first choice. There'll be nae hard feelin's if ye dinna want her."

  Magnus frowned. “Menzies?"

  “Aye."

  The two men stood in silence for a time. Huntly, that expert angler from the North, had dangled his line provocatively. Deeming the information digested, he produced a miniature of his daughter and pressed it into the younger man's hands. “This is Avril.” When Magnus looked at the miniature, he was hooked neater than any fish.

  Avril Gordon was an uncommon beauty. Her fiery tresses were reminiscent of Brigette's, but her eyes were as crisply blue as a Highland autumn sky. She had a heart-shaped face, stubborn, pointed chin, and small nose.

  “How bonnie she's become."

  “She's also meek, modest, and biddable."

  “I'm nae fool, Huntly,” Magnus scoffed. “I willna’ believe that angel's face is meek or biddable."

  Huntly shrugged. “Life can be verra dull wi'out a bit of spice."

  “I agree wi’ ye.” Magnus extended his hand. “Argyll will adore her."

  “Are ye sayin’ ye'll wed wi’ Avril?"

  “Was there ever any doubt?” Magnus grinned. “How aboot after the harvest raidin'? Can Avril be ready by then?"

  “She will if I order it."

  In another part of the chamber, Percy stood with one of the courtiers. David Rizzio was an Italian court singer whom Queen Mary had favored by appointing as her private secretary, much to the angry consternation of several court factions.

  “So,” Rizzio was saying, “are you enjoying your first evening at court?"

  “How enchantin'!” Percy's voice sounded dreamy. Standing a few paces away was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

  She was appealingly petite. Her skin was ivory silk with a hint of roses upon her cheeks, contrasting sharply with her ebony hair and dark eyes. She was an exquisite wood nymph whose very existence was a siren's song to Percy.

  “I beg your pardon?” Rizzio was puzzled by the younger man's strange behavior.

  “Over there,” Percy whispered. “Who is the dark-haired beauty?"

  “Which one?"

  Percy's eyes darted to Rizzio, who was poking fun at him. The younger MacArthur laughed at himself. “Who is she?"

  “Sheena Menzies,” Rizzio replied, “and newly arrived at court."

  “Menzies?” Percy felt utterly deflated.

  “Is there a problem?"

  “Yes, the MacArthurs and Menzies are sworn enemies."

  “So?"

  “So I'm a MacArthur,” Percy explained, “and she's a Me
nzies who willna’ even speak wi’ me, never mind anythin’ else."

  “I'll introduce you. If you refrain from exchanging surnames, romance will bloom. Once a woman loves a man, she wouldn't care if he was the son of Satan himself. Any Italian can tell you that.” The queen's secretary drew Percy forward. “Lady Sheena?"

  “Good evenin', my Lord Rizzio,” she greeted the Italian in a soft, melodious voice.

  “This is Lord Percy, who's been admiring your beauty."

  Sheena blushed. Her eyes drifted to Percy, who became caught in their mysterious, black depths. Recovering himself, Percy bowed, saying, “My lady."

  Sheena smiled shyly. Having lived so long with her brother Murdac's harsh intensity, she was instantly attracted to Percy's devil-may-care stance and easy smile. “My Lord ...?"

  “Call me Percy,” he said as Rizzio slipped away. “All my friends do."

  She smiled winsomely. “In that case, call me Sheena."

  “All yer friends do?"

  “They would if I had any."

  “Come now,” Percy scoffed gently. “A lady such as yerself must have a mob of friends."

  “No,” Sheena told him. “I'm newly arrived from my home, Weem Castle. And where is yer home?"

  “Would ye care to dance?” Percy asked, ignoring her question.

  “Yes.” Hand in hand, they joined the dancers.

  Lords James Stewart and Murdac Menzies were deep in conversation in a shadowed corner of the chamber. “As usual, ye were wrong,” Stewart sneered. “There was nothin’ clandestine aboot MacArthur visitin’ England."

  Angry disappointment whitened the scar on Menzies's face. “What business did he have there?"

  “He was chasin’ his recalcitrant wife.” Stewart snorted derisively. “Her stubbornness willna’ be a good example for my sister."

  Menzies opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out; across the chamber Sheena was dancing with the younger MacArthur. Without a word, Menzies started forward, intending to separate the two, who by the look of it had eyes only for each other.

  Stewart's hand shot out and stayed him. “Dinna create a scandal in the queen's presence,” he warned, then added silkily, “If a MacArthur can partner a Menzies, why no’ a Menzies wi’ a MacArthur?” Murdac looked blankly at him.

  “Claim Lady MacArthur's next dance,” Stewart suggested. “There's nothin’ her husband can do while his brother partners yer sister."

  The cruelest of smiles spread across Murdac Menzies's face, and an unholy light glowed from the depths of his black eyes. He nodded to Stewart, then left to entrap his prey.

  As the music ended, Brigette smiled wanly at the Earl of Lennox and scanned the hall for Iain. Her stomach was revolting queasily against the day's excitement, and her aching head felt strangely light. The chamber was much too crowded and noisy, and Brigette was almost desperate for a breath of fresh air, an alarming sensation of suffocating nearly overwhelming her.

  “Lady MacArthur?” Menzies touched her arm lightly. “I'd be honored if ye'd dance wi’ me."

  In spite of her woozily functioning brain, Brigette recognized the scar-faced man from MacDonald's Tavern. “I—I,” she stammered, uncertain what she should do. “I don't think—"

  “Come now,” Menzies interrupted. “A dance could go a long way in kindlin’ renewed friendship between our clans."

  Against her better judgment, Brigette nodded and accepted his hand. However, her wildly churning stomach had a will of its own, and she gulped, fighting the sickness back.

  As they danced, Menzies studied her through veiled eyes. Her green eyes, flaming hair, and enticing breasts combined in the most delightful manner. Lady MacArthur is lovely, he concluded, much better than her husband deserves. If only she wasn't so pale.

  “I heard ye recently traveled to England,” Menzies commented, trying to detect a covert reason for the trip.

  “Yes.” Brigette's voice was no louder than a whisper.

  “A visit to yer family?"

  “In a manner of speaking.” Purposefully evasive, Brigette was as uncomfortable with his questioning as she was with the airless chamber.

  He arched a brow at her. “A cryptic statement if I ever heard one."

  In the next instant, the chamber became unbearable. Desperate to escape it, Brigette whirled away from Menzies, who misunderstood her reason for flight. His hand snaked out, grabbed her upper arm and twirled her about, none too gently.

  “Oh!” Brigette cried out and collapsed. Well honed for battle, Menzies's reflexes were sharp, and he caught his swooning partner before she hit the floor.

  “What did ye do to my wife?” Iain demanded, materializing at the sound of Brigette's cry.

  “Nothin'!"

  “This is no time for accusations.” The queen's voice was heard. “My own physician will attend her."

  Iain carried Brigette through the antechamber into the royal privy chamber. As the queen and several of her ladies looked on, he set her gingerly on the couch.

  Lord Ramsey, the queen's personal physician, rushed in. “Ye must wait outside wi’ yer kin,” he said to Iain, who bristled silently at the order.

  “This is all Menzies's doin',” Iain growled as he passed the queen on his way out.

  Lord Ramsey wafted a vial beneath Brigette's nose. It twitched at the sharp, reviving smell. Her eyes fluttered open and mirrored her confusion.

  “How do ye feel?"

  “Ghastly."

  “I'm goin’ to examine ye,” the physician explained, “and ask a few questions.” Brigette nodded.

  Iain paced back and forth in the antechamber while Magnus, Percy, and James Stewart grew tired watching him. “This is Menzies's doin',” he snarled at the queen's brother.

  The words had no sooner slipped from his tongue when the door opened. The queen and Lord Ramsey walked into the antechamber.

  “Well?” Iain asked.

  “I sincerely hope what ails yer wife isna’ Menzies's doin',” the physician remarked.

  “Do not tease the man, Ramsey,” the queen chided, her amber eyes sparkling with merriment. “Tell him what her malady is.” Baffled, Iain looked from one to the other.

  “Lady Brigette is pregnant,” Ramsey announced baldly.

  “Pregnant?” Iain was stunned. He glanced at the grinning faces of Percy and Magnus, then turned to the queen. “By yer leave, I'd like to take my wife home to Dunridge."

  “No, MacArthur,” Lord Ramsey cautioned. “Wait until the second trimester. Travelin’ willna’ be so dangerous for the bairn."

  “Come,” the queen said, turning to her brother. “Let us assure the court that all is well."

  Iain entered the privy chamber. The queen's ladies left, but not without a few arch looks and knowing smirks. He sat on the edge of the couch and smiled at Brigette.

  “I've made a spectacle of myself,” she moaned.

  “That isna’ so.” Iain reached out and caressed her cheek. “I'm the one who's made a spectacle of himself."

  “I don't understand."

  Iain grinned. “From the moment ye swooned until just now, I've been rantin’ like a madman that this was Menzies's doin'.” A horrified giggle bubbled up from Brigette's throat.

  Leaning over, Iain pressed a kiss on her forehead. When he would have drawn back, she touched his cheek with the palm of her hand. Anxiously, her eyes searched his. “Are you happy about this, Iain?"

  “What kind of a question is that?” he asked. “I want a lassie as bonnie as her mother.” Brigette smiled, reassured. Then he added, “Of course, I dinna want the lassie until ye've given me several sons to help control her."

  Brigette flew into his arms. “I love you."

  “And I love ye,” Iain whispered as his lips met hers.

  * * * *

  Anticipating the announcement of marriage between Queen Mary and Lord Darnley, the MacArthurs and their Campbell kinsman became regular visitors at the court. Brigette pitied Percy's hopeless attraction for their enemy
's sister and made it a point to seek out Sheena Menzies. Opposites in appearance and temperament, the two became fast friends. Sheena replaced Brigette's absent sisters and cousin; Brigette became the sister Sheena had never had.

  One rainy afternoon Brigette walked through the Campbell great hall and discovered Percy. He sat alone, staring dejectedly into the fireless hearth. “How now, Percy?” she called. “What are you doing?"

  “Nothin',” he answered, without looking up.

  Her lips quirked. “Claymore or dirk?"

  “What?"

  “You appear suicidal. Shall I fetch a claymore or would you prefer a dirk? Poison might be pleasant."

  Percy's head snapped up. “Why is life so verra difficult?"

  “Life is simple,” Brigette disagreed, “until we make it otherwise."

  “Breedin’ women are always content.” He dismissed her with a casual wave of his hand.

  “What an outrageous lie!"

  “It's easy for ye to speak of life's simplicity,” Percy snorted. “Ye arena’ in love wi’ Sheena Menzies."

  “Iain would be terribly jealous,” Brigette quipped, and Percy chuckled in spite of himself. “I wasn't going to tell you this,” she added. “I dislike breaking a friend's confidence."

  “What is it?"

  Brigette hesitated, then took pity on him. “Sheena admitted she has a certain fondness for you."

  Percy leaped out of his chair and lifted his startled sister-in-law off the floor, then whirled her around and around. Finally, he set her down and planted a smacking kiss on each cheek. “Ye've renewed my hope. I'll have Sheena, even if I must resort to one of the Highland's most ancient customs."

  “Ancient custom?"

  “Abduction!” Percy fairly danced out of the hall and, in his glee, almost knocked his brother down.

  “What the hell was that aboot?” Iain asked.

  Brigette glanced at the empty doorway and then at her husband. “Percy's in love."

  Iain rolled his eyes. “Who's the puir lady?"

  “Sheena Menzies."

  That certainly wiped the smile off his face. Iain's expression was thoughtful, almost calculating.

  That look bodes ill, Brigette thought. But ill for whom?

  On the twenty-ninth of July, Queen Mary married Lord Darnley in a sunrise ceremony. Following the service, the MacArthurs left Edinburgh for Dunridge Castle. With his brother's blessing, Percy stayed behind to continue his pursuit of Sheena Menzies.