She couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder for Lachlan, who to her surprise did not appear to be in the great hall.
“Who are you looking for, lass?” the king asked, and she turned around to face him, her face flushed with embarrassment.
“The English man who disputes my claim,” she said softly.
“I will hear his plea later. I will speak to you first. Without him.”
She nodded, pleased with the circumstances for now. Last time Lachlan had made a mockery of her.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She smiled as she rose.
As the King of Scots leaned forward, one hand on his staff, the other on the arm of his massive throne, the great hall’s twittering halted when he asked, “Why should I award any property to a woman?”
Chapter 16
Rosalyn sucked in a shaky breath. She wanted Fyvie Castle more than anything. It had been in the family for generations. Her da had fought for the clan, and with his dying breath had said to those with him, “Tell Rosalyn to stand by Fyvie, no matter what comes. When she is of age, make her laird.”
As much as she wanted to crumble before her king, she couldn’t, especially when she considered her da’s dying wish.
“My lord, I’m not any woman. I’m a Macpherson, daughter of Dengas Macpherson, once Laird of Aberdeen. With no sons in the family, my father asked in his dying will that his property be entrusted to me.”
“I understand property law, lass,” King James said in a softer tone, handing his staff off to the bailiff, then easing backward into his massive throne.
“Dengas Macpherson?” When the king said her father’s name, his eyebrows knotted together. Then after a short pause, a look of recognition emerged. “I knew your father. He was loyal to me, and his death brought me great sadness.”
Rosalyn was relieved to hear that her da had been in good standing with the king. Perhaps he’d reconsider is initial concern about her owning property.
“As king, however, I have the prerogative to interpret the laws to my liking.” He paused. “Or rewrite them entirely with good reason.” He leaned forward again, this time with both hands gripping the arms of his royal throne. “Although I’m tempted to consider female ownership of property outside of titled families, the British Empire will nae support it. However, if you are able to find a man willing to take your name, the Macpherson name, I can choose to award the land to you and your husband.”
My husband?
Of all the possible outcomes, including losing her head for the deception, Rosalyn was shocked into silence as she considered his decision. Perhaps having an amiable husband, one who would let her rule, could help with her dilemma.
She finally found her voice. “How soon, my lord, must the man be found?” she asked quietly, dreading his answer.
“Well, immediately, of course.” He gestured about the great hall. “There are many eligible men.”
Her anger flared and she swore inwardly, frustrated that the solution to her problem couldn’t be the one she wanted.
“Immediately? That won’t do.”
The king cocked one brow.
“That won’t do unless I have a volunteer,” she quickly amended, swallowing her anger, now willing to take what the king had offered. At least this decision allowed her to keep Fyvie from Lachlan. With some vindication, she spun around and scanned the room. Surely, amongst the throng there would be a man she’d find agreeable. She needed a business relationship, not a soul mate.
There were a few dry coughs and many downcast eyes, but then one man in the back of the hall shouted, “I’ll take her hand in marriage.”
She strained her neck and stood on her tiptoes to get a better view of the volunteer. But it wasn’t long before he strode proudly forward into her line of sight and it was then that her worst fears were realized.
Lachlan? Wasn’t he supposed to remain in his room until the king called for him? But when did he listen to orders?
Before she had time to protest, Lachlan had reached her. After a short bow of respect to the king, he gave her that mischievous grin of his, and took her hand. Then he gazed deep into her eyes and said, “I’ll marry you, Rose. ‘Twill be my pleasure.”
Rosalyn jerked her hand free of Lachlan’s grasp, then strode toward her king. Now more afraid of the consequences than her leader. “Nay, Your Majesty, this one willnae do.”
The monarch leaned forward, chuckling and crossing his arms to cover his belly. Finally, when he raised his head from a crouched-over position, he smiled at her with amusement. “Lass, your da would either be proud or mortified at your behavior today. First you tell your king that you arenae satisfied with his decision and then you tell me that the man who is willing to betroth himself to you isnae suitable.”
“Well, my da always encouraged me to speak my mind, with all due respect, my lord,” she offered with a curtsy. “This man is English,” she said as if he’d understand, pointing to Lachlan. “And he wants Fyvie. He’s the one who contests the ownership.”
This made the king double over even further with laughter. “Of course, if you want me to toss him in the dungeon for disobeying me and attending the hearing before called, I can, but rarely do I find the solution in my court so easily solved,” he choked out between chuckles. “You’ll be wed on the morrow. Case dismissed.” And with those final words, the king stood and shooed them away with a pompous wave of his hand.
Collecting his staff from the bailiff, King James proceeded to walk through the great hall, stopping to chat with courtesans until he finally made his way out of the room and the rest followed.
Still in shock over the verdict, Rosalyn stood next to Lachlan while the servants began readying the great hall for dinner as if the two of them were no longer present.
She dropped her gaze to her feet, unsure what to say.
Lachlan raised her chin to bring her gaze level with his. “We’ll both get what we want.”
She fisted her hands at her sides. “You and the king will both get what you want. Not me,” she said, then made an unladylike harrumph sound.
Before she had time to protest, Lachlan gathered her up into his arms, as if ready to carry her off, his lips just inches from hers.
“Being married can have its benefits. You can sleep with me legally now rather than sneaking around,” he said coyly, his meticulously groomed beard brushing her cheek as his lips inched closer. His pitch-black eyes and hair gleamed in a way that mesmerized her. A pleasant concoction of musk and rum wafted about him. Her herbalist senses were on alert. She barely could contain herself, wanting to let her nose drift to his neck and work its way up to his ear.
Marry English?
Coming to her senses, she yanked back from his clutches as if he’d set her arse on fire. “Ye will take my name?”
“I hate my surname,” he admitted with a sincere reply. His normal cockiness fading. “I no longer wish to be a Luttrell.”
“A Luttrell?” Her heart almost stopped beating. “Put me down,” she demanded.
As Lachlan followed her order, his face lost all color. Before he spoke, she could see in the depths of his eyes an emotional struggle taking place.
“Not Lachlan de Leverton, but Lachlan Luttrell?”
“Tomorrow I will be Lachlan Macpherson.” He plastered a placating smile on his lips and looked about the hall. “I cannot speak of this here.”
Rosalyn sighed. At least she agreed with him on that. Even though the servants seemed to be keeping their minds to their tasks, voices carried easily in the high-ceilinged great hall.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand and bringing her in tow behind him in a protective way. “Follow me, and I will tell you all.”
Conflicted but curious, Rosalyn set aside her initial disgust over Lachlan’s outburst and follow
ed him down a labyrinth of Edinburgh Castle corridors until he stopped abruptly in front of the castle’s chapel entrance.
“In here,” he said and almost shoved her inside the small, private chamber.
She turned around as he came in behind her. She was about to start into her reasons why they had no right to be in King James’ chapel when Lachlan put a finger to her lips and said, “Shh!”
She swallowed her words for a moment. An unreleased fiery response began to smolder like warm embers inside her as she began to think of Lachlan as a protector and not a predator.
Rosalyn held her breath, as if his finger against her lips kept her boiling air inside, and her diatribe of words. Then he grinned when she nodded and he ushered her to a seat in the first pew of the small, but glorious stained-glass refuge.
Although her heart had been pounding ever since she stood before her king, Rosalyn tucked her skirts in around her and settled down next to Lachlan in this place of God, hoping the blood pumping through her veins would slow. After a few deep breaths, a sense of calm swept over her as if God himself had waved his hands and bless this moment.
“We’ll be married here tomorrow,” Lachlan said softly. A warm glow in his eyes made those internal embers cool even more.
Married? The idea seemed foreign to her. Somehow, in all her twenty and one summers, Rosalyn had not imagined herself married. Perhaps it was because she’d always been protecting something. Her mother. Her sister. Her land. Her castle. Even herself. She’d never daydreamed of a picturesque church, with a handsome groom smiling at her while she said her vows before family, friends, and God.
Instead, her dreams had been full of adventure, foraging for new herbs, visiting foreign lands, healing travelers on the road, keeping the wool trade alive for her da. And regaining control of Fyvie after Nicholas Luttrell had stolen it from her family.
Luttrell. Lachlan’s father was one of the most hated men in all the realm. Nicholas Luttrell. She should have realized it when Lachlan had spoken about his father and Victoria before.
From deep in her being, Rosalyn couldn’t bury the past yet. Even if it was painful, she needed answers.
“Your father banished my family from Fyvie after my da’s death,” she declared.
“Nicholas Luttrell impregnated my mother, but he’s never been a father to me. He’s been a murderous bastard as long as I can remember. If he threw your family out, you must believe me when I promise you I had nothing to do with that.” Lachlan gazed into her eyes with a sincere pleading she’d never seen before. “I’m so sorry, Rosalyn,” he said, putting her hand to his lips and kissing the top softly. “Remember I told you my family is full of notorious men. Some murderous like my brother. He took my mother’s life. But I’m different. You’ll have to trust me,” he insisted.
When she looked into his eyes and saw the pain there, she knew she had to believe him–believe that there could be a Luttrell with some honor and goodness inside.
She sighed, willing to agree to the marriage for now because it took her one step closer to home. Then, if he proved worthy, she’d decide if he was for keeps.
“Granted, we to be married for convenience,” she said, ready to negotiate, “then we must establish some rules.”
Chapter 17
“Rules? No, not now, not ever,” Lachlan said, still grinning. “I never live by the rules and I’ll be damned if I start as a married man.”
“You shall start married life as a damned fool if you donna, Lockie Macpherson.”
The look in Rosalyn’s eyes was as intimidating as any warrior. He leaned back against the pew and studied his betrothed. Marriage? Another device to get what he wanted. No doubt she was thinking the same.
“The bishop blessed me. I can’t be damned, whether I follow your rules or not.”
“You are not marrying the bishop.”
Lachlan laughed, diffusing his discomfort and his initial resistance to being restrained. “God’s teeth, let me hear the rules, then I shall decide if I’ll abide by them.”
Rosalyn scooted a little further from him on the pew bench and crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “First rule, you abide by all my rules.” She cocked her head to one side and waited for his reaction.
Lachlan couldn’t help but release a loud grunt, but kept his mouth shut, for now, while he waited for the rest.
“Second rule, separate sleeping chambers.”
She paused, allowing him to respond. Lachlan knew that as her husband, he had the right to visit her bed anytime he liked, giving him a workaround to get what he wanted.
“Agreed,” he said stoically.
Her right eyebrow raised in response as she kept her gaze steady. “Next rule, no one in my family or anyone in Aberdeen should be told of our . . . this . . .”
“Arrangement?” he suggested.
“Yes, that’s it. Our arrangement.”
“‘Tis an arranged marriage, after all. Isn’t that what they call it?” He snorted loudly.
“Shh!”
“Only God can hear us in here.”
“I don’t want God to hear that.”
“Then you should have picked another spot.”
It was her turn to snort.
“I will agree to keep our marriage a secret, but I don’t think that qualifies as a rule.”
Sobering quickly, she ignored his comment and squared her shoulders. “And finally, I will remain a virgin as long as I wish.”
He straightened. “The king will require consummation of our marriage, and proof. I’m sorry, Rosalyn, but you can’t make that rule.”
She bristled, her pale, creamy skin turning a light pinkish-red. While Rosalyn held his gaze, she smoldered with ire.
He wanted to tell her she couldn’t get angry for something that he had no control over, wanting to explain the laws of marriage, but he didn’t. Because he had no intention of abiding by that rule, even if the king agreed. He planned to take her as quickly as he could woo her. And frankly, he would take her virginity right now if he could. The law would be in his favor, Lachlan rationalized, as he waited for her backlash.
Even before Rosalyn spoke again, her entire body shook. “I will speak with the king about that,” she said in a huff, standing, then coming close to stare down at him. “Do I have your agreement?”
Lachlan reflected for a moment. Damn her rules. Yet he was certain the marriage would solve the land dispute and keep his father’s wrath at bay until the senior Luttrell discovered Lachlan had abandoned the family’s surname. But that was another battle. For now, Lachlan needed to tie the knot.
“If the king agrees, then so shall I,” he promised, standing and taking her hands in his. Now it was his turn to stare down at her. “Any arrangement calls for sacrifice, and I’m sure we’ll both make concessions for Fyvie.”
“For Fyvie?” she whispered.
“For our future,” he corrected. Then he wrapped his arms around her and nestled her hips up against his groin. He slid his hands down her sides and with a gentle rocking motion, ground her body across his bulging cock.
When her eyes widened as big as teacup saucers, he bent to kiss her neck below her ear and chuckled into her skin. “Are you certain you want separate beds?”
~ ~ ~
Rosalyn took in a sharp breath, feeling lightheaded and in need of air, like the day she’d fainted at Berwick Castle. But before her head began to spin, she ducked out from under Lachlan’s embrace. Taking quick steps, she hurried toward the chapel door.
Tossing back her head and forcing a cheery countenance, she said, “See you at the wedding tomorrow.” Then she slipped through the door, leaving Lachlan at the altar.
Her heart wouldn’t stop fluttering as she rushed down the corridor wanting to get away from Lachlan and find Ursula. Ro
salyn had so much to tell her. And then she’d need to talk to the king.
As she continued on her way from the chapel, the magnitude of marriage weighed heavy on her. What would her da think of her marrying an Englishman? Was he turning in his grave?
“Oh, my!” Rosalyn stopped in her tracks.
“Where are you going in such a mad hurry, lass?” the bishop asked.
She realized that her breath was heavy and she was perspiring. Had she run this far unaware?
“My dear, has someone threatened you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Rosalyn nervously smoothed a few stray strands from her forehead and forced her lips into a smile. “Your Excellency, oh my, no. I was just in the chapel.”
The bishop chuckled. “Are you sure the ghost wasn’t a holy one?”
The quip caught her off guard and made her laugh along with him, allowing her to slow her heart and her mind.
“Bishop, I-I-I am to be married,” she finally said, not knowing any other plain way to tell him.
His eyes widened as well as his grin. He clasped his hands together with gleeful acceptance. “Wonderful, yet surprising news, my dear.” Then he paused as if waiting for her to tell him more.
She hesitated.
He turned his head slightly, raising both brows. “Who’s the lucky fellow? Do I know him?” the bishop prompted.
“Yes, well, it’s Lachlan,” she said, flustered. “He volunteered.”
Scratching his beard, the always-jovial bishop sobered for a moment at her revelation. “Let me understand, lass. A man you hate, an English man who’s been after your land, volunteered to marry you. And you accepted?”
She nodded rapidly, trying to blink away the tears that were welling up. It sounded crazy, she knew, but it had all made sense a little while ago.
“It was the king’s idea,” she offered, as if that would make it all sound more right than wrong.
The Golden Rose of Scotland (The Ladies of Lore Book 2) Page 11