Highland Hearts 03 - Crimson Heart

by Heather McCollum

  “Aye, with much mist and rain. Treacherous for those who haven’t cut their teeth upon it.”

  “Like I have said, Marie, you would not find it hospitable.” Henri tapped his fingers against the table.

  “I find very little of Scotland hospitable.” She pouted in thought. “But it is my daughter’s realm, and I would not leave it for her in disarray. The people must learn to trust us, trust her, and to do so I must understand them, what is important to them.” She leaned closer to Searc and, if his instincts were correct, which they always were, the woman wanted him in her bed. Apparently his marital status didn’t matter to her. “Tell me, Master Searc, what do you want most?”

  A tilt of Marie’s lips and half-lidded eyes made the statement seem carnal. From the corner of his eyes Searc noticed a frown tighten Henri’s face. He certainly didn’t need to make an enemy of the French ambassador.

  “Mostly,” Searc answered and leaned back in his chair. “I want to be left alone.” He continued on quickly so as not to insult the regent. “Just as any Highlander. Freedom is like water to us. The land is hard and the land makes the man.”

  “Hard?” Marie asked with a renewed grin.

  “Rugged,” he countered. “A brutal foe to meet. But if respected and left unhampered, like the land, a Highlander will be loyal to his death.”

  “Loyal to one woman as well?” Henri took a sip of his wine as if joking, though Searc was certain the man was trying to decipher his intentions. “I have heard that a Highlander will…how should I say it…try out a woman for a year and then decide if he will keep her. Loyalty for a year? Sounds like Lord Arran and his loyalty to country and even to God.”

  “Handfasting is a betrothal ceremony, not a temporary marriage. Or it can be a binding for life made by the couple, like Elena and myself.” Searc rubbed his chin and shrugged. “Every man, Highlander or Lowlander, decides himself based upon his conscience if he will be loyal to a woman or to a ruler.”

  “And you?” Henri asked.

  “I am exceedingly loyal to my wife as well as to my country.” Searc focused on Henri but his words were meant for Marie. She sat silently at the table, swirling her wine.

  Henri steepled his fingers before his nose. “So we are to just let Highlanders run as they wish for them to be loyal to the regent’s daughter? That is chaos, not freedom, non?”

  “Ye tell them that as long as they work toward a united Scotland and support the Queen Mary Stewart, then they will keep their lands and remain unbothered by royal intercession unless requested.” Searc looked at Marie. “As a Frenchwoman they will trust ye when ye say that ye would never give their lands to the English.”

  “I thought the Highlanders didn’t like any foreigners,” Henri parried.

  Searc gave a brief nod. “’Tis often true, but there is little that Scots dislike more than English.”

  Marie readjusted in her chair and smiled at him, her head tilted. “And yet you wed an Englishwoman. C’est fou.” She raised her eyebrows. “Foolish, non?”

  How to answer that? Searc paused for a moment and watched a slow smile bend Marie’s lips as if she were declaring check mate. Her cat and mouse game wore on him.

  “Ye have a solid point, though in the case of the Munros and the Macbains, two English-bred women sit at the head of the clans with their Highland husbands. My own mother being one of them. ’Tis not the speech nor the upbringing that we despise about the English, it is their desire to take over our territory. As long as Elena doesn’t try to steal our lands away, I think she will do just fine.”

  Marie tipped her head back and forth, conceding the point. “Aye, the English try continually to push into France through Calais.” She rolled her eyes.

  “France will cut them out someday,” Henri added. “Like a rotten tooth, oui?”

  Marie nodded and picked up a deck of daintily painted playing cards, but Searc’s patience snapped like an overloaded bridge. “I must find my wife.” He stood, his chair scraping along the stone, pushing up the edge of a plush carpet behind.

  Marie dealt the cards around the table to three places and spoke without looking up. “Your bride is resting.” She glanced up then, her small eyes glittering with indignation though she let a grin slide across her painted lips. “Sit down.” For a moment, Searc could imagine a serpent’s tongue flicking out from between them. He held his ground.

  “Freedom, your grace, is the way to a Highlander’s heart.”

  Henri stood slowly, and even though the man was nearly a head shorter than Searc, he meant to meet him if required. The Frenchman had courage, foolish courage, but courage nonetheless. “Your regent has ordered you to sit.”

  Searc met Marie’s sharp eyes. “I mean no disrespect.” He pressed his magic down in his gut with the control he’d mastered over the years. “With the ambush this morning and a murderer still in Edinburgh, I only wish to ascertain that my wife is safe. I do not play cards and I can no longer concentrate on your strategy with Elena’s safety in question.”

  Marie stared back without changing her expression. “Sit down, Henri,” she said low. “Our Highlander must follow his heart.” She smiled then. “Such passion. Perhaps the French and the Scots do have something in common. N’est-ce pas?” She waved her hand and then started to gather up the cards. “Vous allez,” she said. “Go.”

  Searc turned on his heel toward the door. Henri spoke low to Marie in French, his words filled with nasally annoyance. Searc shut the door behind him as Marie cut Henri off with a sharp hiss.

  Searc strode across the bailey toward the residential wing, although he didn’t know which room had been assigned to them. He certainly wasn’t returning to the two French serpents to ask. He paused at the first door and after only a brief hesitation, knocked. No one answered and he continued on to the next door. With each door, the coil of tension inside him tightened, twisting and making it difficult to control his magic. The desertion of the halls and the echoing of his footsteps piqued his instincts as if danger lurked in each echo and shadow.

  He pounded on the twelfth door, but no one came to it. He pushed against it and peered into an empty room, sheets covering the meager furnishings. Frustration pushed his heart into pounding. He slammed the door shut.

  “Elena!” Her name echoed off the rough stone walls down the corridor. “Where the bloody hell are ye?” He took another turn and yelled again. This time the squeak of a door further down grabbed his focus, and he strode forward so fast it was nearly a run. When he saw one of the ladies from the great hall, disappointment heightened his anger. He halted abruptly before her, stopping just short of grabbing her by the shoulders.

  “Lass, I wasn’t told which room was given to Elena. Do you know which room she has?”

  “Je ne parle pas l’anglais, monsieur,” she answered. “Je suis désolé.”

  Searc shoved his fingers through his hair, searching his memory for any French word that might help him, but besides English he knew only Gaelic and a few biblical phrases and words in Latin. He yanked his hands off his head.

  “Mulier,” he said the word for wife or woman in Latin. “Elena?” he pointed to the door behind the woman then to the next door and the next and shrugged his shoulders. “Where is Elena?”

  “Madam Elena?” Her eyes widened, probably at his frantic appearance. Looking like a bull about to charge wouldn’t elicit help from the timid creature. He took a deep breath, forced a smile, and nodded.

  “Aye, mad-e-moi-zel,” he pronounced slowly. “Take me to Elena Munro.”

  The woman waved her hand for him to follow her back the way he had come. A sconce and a painting of a rugged landscape sat on a table across from a door that looked like all the rest on the corridor. She indicated the room.

  “Thank ye.” He knocked briskly and barged inside. “Elena?”

  The room looked similar to the one he’d stuck his head into except the draped cloths had been removed and the glowing remains of a tiny fire sat in the hearth. “
Elena.” His voice easily invaded every corner. He strode to the thin window slits that looked out over the sprawling village below, then turned back to the room. The bed looked rumpled. He crossed to it and picked up the pair of white doe skin gloves, Elena’s riding gloves. He saw her hairpins scattered about the coverlet and one ground against the stone under his boot.

  Searc strode over and yanked open the door. “Mad-e-moi-zel!” he called and the lady spun around from down the hall. “She’s not in here. Where is she?”

  The Frenchwoman hurried back, looked past him into the room and rattled off some more bloody foreign words, shaking her head. She pointed to the iron key sticking in the lock on the inside and a lightning shot of worry struck down his chest.

  Elena had left without taking her key. Had she left in a hurry, or had she been taken? He breathed deeply but magic swelled within him. Elena wouldn’t have left without informing him, not after the ambush and the murders. His hands burned.

  The woman shrugged at the key and looked at him, her eyes growing instantly wide. She squeaked, turning and fled down the hall. He didn’t have time to worry about her reaction. Elena was missing!

  His footfalls took him through the corridors and then back to the bailey where he climbed the wide spiraling walk to St. Margaret’s one-room chapel at the top. He pushed through the door, ducking his head under the pale stone arch. Father Renard stood in the alcove where sunlight, filtered by the narrow stained glass windows, cast a glow on him.

  “I thought ye were going back to Holyrood,” Searc nearly roared at the cleric but didn’t pause to apologize. He swallowed and lowered his voice. “Have ye seen Elena? She is missing.”

  The man’s one eyebrow rose. “Perhaps she decided to return to England.”

  Searc’s stony face made the man pause. Father Renard indicated the tiny pulpit. “As you can see, she isn’t here. I came back from the abbey to inspect this sanctuary since our queen regent has ordered the wedding to take place in this miniscule chapel.”

  Searc ran a hand through his hair. By the time he found Elena, he’d be bald as a chicken’s egg.

  The priest set down his thick Bible. “You suspect foul play?”

  “Aye. There is a murderer in Edinburgh and Elena is missing.”

  Father Renard pinched his lips in something of a pitying look. “Do you know if she has been baptized? If the murderer kills…”

  Searc turned and strode out, leaving the priest in mid-sentence, before he committed a mortal sin and turned a man of God into ash in a holy chapel. Another ten minutes jogging back to the castle, their empty room, and around the various parts of the huge castle, Searc returned to the Great Hall, barging in, holding nothing back. Marie held a fan of cards before her and sat opposite Henri who stood immediately, drawing his sword.

  “Elena is missing,” Searc said, breathing slowly to calm the clamoring of his magic in his gut.

  Marie frowned. “Missing?”

  “She is not in her room. Her gloves and the key were there but she is gone.”

  “Have you looked about the grounds?” Henri returned to his seat, picking up his cards in such a casual fashion that Searc nearly upending the little round table before them. His hands clenched at his sides.

  “Of course,” Searc ground out. “I’ve looked everywhere. Someone has taken her out of the castle.”

  “Perhaps she has wandered into a remote place.” Henri snapped a card down on the pile in the center.

  “She is not a mindless idiot,” Searc countered, his impatience growing with each bloody foolish comment. “There is a murderer wandering the town, one that could possibly have her now.”

  Marie called over one of the guards. “Ask around to see if anyone has seen Madam Elena in…what was she wearing?”

  “Green, a green gown. She hasn’t changed costumes from when she helped save yer life this morning.” Searc barely contained his roar, and Henri stood again.

  “Your tone borders on treason,” the French ambassador annunciated slowly in warning.

  “Call yer guards.” Searc ignored him to pierce Marie with a stare. “Send them out to scout the town.”

  “You do not order the queen regent.” Henri slid his sword free again.

  Searc felt his magic swirling in his gut. One crack in his wall, one slight nod toward letting it free, and the man would die with a single touch. “I don’t have time for ye,” he said low. “I must find her.” With that, Searc turned.

  “Let him go,” he heard Marie say behind him. “My Highlander has passion, non? And passion makes the warrior.”

  Searc slammed through the door. The shadows of the buildings in the bailey were growing long. Evening would soon fall. Where was she? How would he find her? He went to the front gate and questioned the guard, but the man had just come on duty and didn’t know if she’d left that way. This was getting him nowhere. If he were at home he’d already have the Munro warriors and possibly the Macbain warriors scouring the land for her. Here he was surrounded by strangers. Edinburgh was too big for him to search himself.

  He scanned the bailey. A cart sat near the center. He strode to it, stepping up onto the thick hitch. “To arms!” His voice boomed out over the area. Guards turned to him, drawing their swords. “A woman has been taken and we must find her before she becomes the next victim of the Edinburgh murders.”

  The men moved closer. “What woman?”

  “Elena Munro, my wife.”

  “The Englishwoman?” one asked with a barely hidden sneer and re-sheathed his sword.

  Searc kept a tight rein on his temper. Losing it would not motivate these Lowlanders. Most hated the English as much as Highlanders and they didn’t know Elena at all. He saw Marie and Henri step silently from the great hall, standing in the background. The regent folded her arms before her, watching, not helping at all.

  “Elena is wed to a Scot, so she is a Scot,” Searc countered but watched the wash of mutiny seep into the guards’ expressions. He jumped down and stepped before an older guard, one who had spoken with authority at the gate. “Do ye have a daughter?” Searc kept his voice low so the curious men had to come closer to hear.

  “Aye,” the man answered, his brows low.

  “He’s got three,” one of the other guards added. “Poor sot.”

  Searc stared the old man in his hard eyes. “And what would ye do if ye found one of them taken?” He raised his voice louder. “Taken when there is a murderer stalking the lasses of Edinburgh.” He didn’t wait for an answer but looked at another guard.

  “Ye have a wife, man?”

  “Aye, as of a fortnight.” Two others slapped the newlywed man on the back.

  “And what if ye returned home tonight to find yer dinner in an untended pot but yer lovely bride gone?” He held the man’s gaze until it darkened.

  Searc looked at another. “And ye? A wife perhaps?”

  “Aye with a babe on the way,” the man answered, his face already hardening as he knew what Searc would ask. “If she were gone I’d tear down every rock in this city to find her.”

  Searc slapped a hand down on his shoulder, feeling the man’s conviction mixed with a twinge of fear and worry. “Aye.”

  Searc leapt back onto the wagon and took in the whole audience of forty or so men. He let his voice carry. “There is a murderer in Edinburgh, stalking our wives, waiting for our daughters to run an errand or merely step out back for a breath of air.”

  Men grumbled in the crowd, shifting their feet as their blood began to race. Searc watched the hardening of faces, the look of warriors before a battle. He sensed the air grow hot with their anger, the pounding of their hearts. These men didn’t know him or Elena, but they knew loss and how it felt. They knew that their own women could be next.

  “This devil must be stopped!” Searc called. “And right now my lass is missing. If we find her, we may very well put an end to this devil before he finds yer own lass.”

  “To arms!” the elderly guard yelled.
>
  “To arms!” the others answered, raising their swords or fists in the air.

  Aye! Searc leapt off the cart and deftly split the group into four groups, one to stay behind and search the castle and grounds again, and the other three to search the city in three directions.

  “She is wearing green and has red-gold colored hair.” Searc watched the groups run in their assigned directions. And she’s the most beautiful lass alive.

  Searc glanced at Marie and Henri, expecting outrage at his complete take-over of her guards. Instead the queen regent grinned, a scheming gleam in her eyes. He nodded to her and jogged toward the stable to find Dearg. As he neared the building he saw one of the guards step out from behind it, glancing around anxiously. He’d been one in the crowd but didn’t seem to be searching. Rather he seemed to be hiding.

  When he saw Searc, he straightened immediately and strode away toward the gate. Searc acted as if he were continuing to the stable but slipped around the building and followed the guard instead. The man was guilty of something. He could tell just by observing him, but if he laid hands on him he’d be able to sense more.

  The man jogged out of the gate, glancing back over his shoulder just once and hurried to the left. Searc crept around the corner of the gate house and saw the man step back into a closed doorway.

  Searc watched him for several torturously long minutes. Damn! This wasn’t getting him any closer to finding Elena. Bloody hell! He stepped forward, intent on shaking answers out of the man, when the guard suddenly pushed out of the doorway toward another guard coming up the street riding a horse. The first man ran up to him, talking with large gestures, his arm going wide to indicate the whole town.

  Searc strode forward before either one of them saw him.

  The nervous one was talking. “It was her, wasn’t it? In green, red-gold hair and in green. Where—?”

  The guard on the horse saw Searc and nearly trampled his friend as he swung the horse around. In a leap born of fury and desperation, Searc lunged for the rider, grabbing his torso from the back of the horse and yanking him to the cobbled street. The horse whinnied and pulled away while the floundering guard held tight to the reins.