by Mary Daheim
She shook her head. “But I do hurt-all over.”
“Then I’ll be very careful. Sit up. Here, I’ll help you.” He put his arms around her and pulled her close. “ ’Tis a bit tricky, but you won’t have to bear all my weight this way.”
Dallas looked faintly bewildered but straddled his lap when she saw how hard and ready her husband had become. Fraser held her around the waist and she clung to his shoulders. Cautiously, he penetrated her body, and, locked together, they moved back and forth in an increasingly passionate quest of mutual fulfillment.
“Jesu!” Dallas breathed, as at last she slumped back in Fraser’s arms. “I feared I’d never feel so again!”
Fraser kept hold of her as they both fell back on the straw. “Did I hurt you, lassie? I can’t quite seem to get the hang of being restrained when you’re in my arms.”
She smiled at him lovingly as she pulled some pieces of straw from his dark hair. “You did right well, for a pirate. But,” she added, propping herself up on one elbow, “this isn’t the most comfortable bower I’ve ever lain in.”
He reached out to run one long finger along her cheek. “Not as pleasant as the lake at Falkland?”
Dallas smiled dreamily at the memory. “No—but much more so than that first night—and those damnable pomegranates.”
Fraser laughed aloud. “I could have been more sensitive. But you were so maddening and willful—and I thought to distract you.”
“Distract me!” It was Dallas’s turn to laugh—and she realized it was the first time she had laughed in days. “You distracted me all right, but to think I could ever have compared what you did to me then with what almost happened with that foul beast at Leith ....”
“Don’t think about it.” Fraser held her close again and kissed the tip of her nose. “Think instead, how far you and I have come since the pomegranates.”
Dallas pressed close to her husband, ignoring the pain her bruises evoked. “Oh, yes, my love, we have indeed.”
That night, when they walked hand in hand along the edge of the McVurrich farm, Fraser told Dallas that he had given up the Richezza. She was stunned, in spite of what he’d told her before leaving for Rome. Indeed, she actually tried to talk him out of it at first, fearing that he would eventually regret his decision and blame her for holding him to it.
But Fraser was adamant. “I’ve thought about it for some time and it’s not just for you that I quit the sea. I won’t say I walked away without a few pangs, especially for the crew, but that phase of my life is over.” He paused as a cat crept up over the low stone wall, eyed them suspiciously, and zipped away into the evening fog. Fraser recalled the stunned reaction of his seamen who had not learned of his departure until he was actually ready to disembark. MacRae and Corelli had both been told the last night out. Stupefied, they’d argued with him for some time until they realized his mind was made up. MacRae was overwhelmed at the idea of captaining the Richezza but even more distraught at losing Fraser. Corelli, who would become first mate, mumbled a great deal in Italian and was still shaking his head in disbelief when their captain saluted the crew and walked away for the last time. From somewhere up in the forecastle, a lone piper had played a mournful sea chanty as Fraser rowed off in the long boat.
Dallas huddled into her cloak, for the September night was damp and chill, with a brisk wind coming off the North Sea to send the fog swirling over the partially harvested fields. “I never thought you’d really do it,” she said. “All those handsome things in your cabin—you left them aboard?”
Fraser grinned at her. How like Dallas to concern herself more with the valuable possessions than with any of the other factors. “Aye, they belong there.” He took her arm, steering her back towards the McVurrich croft. “One thing I took, though. I brought back the fur coverlet from the bunk to Beauly—I wanted that, to always remind me of how you shivered under it, scheming to marry me and making your strange bargain.”
“It turned out to be stranger than I ever dreamed,” she said, squeezing his arm. “All I wanted was to provide for myself and my family, to live a quiet, secure life. But look what happened instead!”
“It’s not been tranquil, I’ll admit. But for now, I think it best you stay here indefinitely,” Fraser said, pausing at the door to the croft. He felt her bristle and continued speaking before she could protest. “It’s not safe for you to go back to Edinburgh until I take care of a few matters. I’ll remain with you here for a few days, though Annie and Oliver won’t relish the idea of giving up their bed to us.”
“We could always sleep in the stable.” Her suggestion was not entirely facetious, but Fraser dismissed it with a kiss on her forehead.
“Nay, lovey, you need a comfortable resting place. When I’m gone, you can use Donald’s old bed, and I’ll leave money so that the McVurrichs aren’t out of pocket having to keep you.” He started to open the door, but Dallas put her hand on his arm.
“Iain, are we going to be poor?” she asked plaintively.
He raised one dark eyebrow at her. “I was wondering when you’d get around to asking me that. Nay, Dallas, we won’t be poor, I’ve still got my estates in the Highlands, unless James figures out some way to steal them. But we won’t be as well-off, that’s just a fact.”
Dallas wrinkled her nose, considering the prospect of reduced circumstances. “Isn’t there some other type of work you might be interested in?” she finally asked.
Fraser stared at her for a few seconds, then threw back his head and roared with laughter. Dallas, obviously, was beginning to recover.
Four days later he returned to Edinburgh. The city’s mood was peaceful, with the court in residence at Holyrood. Fraser would have to see the Queen in order to report on his mission to Rome, but first, there were two items he had to take care of.
One of his serving men discovered Maclnnes at the Thistle Tavern in Hackerston’s Wynd. Fraser waited outside in the chilly October air for almost an hour. When Maclnnes emerged, the duel to the death was conducted with dirks, and ended before more than a handful of onlookers could gather or the watch could be summoned.
Archibald Clark was tracked down in a brothel near Candlemakers’ Row, lying with a scrawny whore. Clark’s head was encircled with a dirty bandage and the whore fled when Fraser ordered her out of the room.
Fraser made certain his victim understood why the ultimate penalty was being extracted. Clark’s death was neither as quick nor as clean as Maclnnes’s. Fraser was not a cruel man, but his inbred Highland code of justice could not always be subjugated to fit his conscience. He had given both men a fighting chance; it was more than they had given Kennedy, more than they had intended to give Dallas.
Fraser still had to deal with James Stuart of Moray.
James did not go from Wemyss to Stirling. The christening date had been delayed by the Queen and the elaborate preparations were temporarily put in abeyance, so he decided to return to his house in Edinburgh.
Shortly before James came back to the capital, Fraser made a surreptitious call on the Queen, who seemed happy to see him, eager for his news about the divorce proceedings. He carefully explained that while Pius the Fifth had agreed to consider the matter, he’d expressed concern over Mary’s failure to suppress Protestantism in Scotland.
“I’ve practiced tolerance in order to keep peace,” the Queen asserted petulantly. “Misguided though they may be, the majority of my subjects prefer the new religion.”
“I personally sympathize with your approach,” Fraser said calmly. “But His Holiness feels otherwise.”
The amber eyes flashed angrily as the Queen picked up a silver-edged missal from her desk and threw it down in disgust. “I know how long papal dispensations take, and frankly, I don’t care to wait for the Pope! Are you about to offer me more of your meddlesome advice?”
Fraser leaned his hands on the desk and faced Mary. “You asked me to go to Rome, which I did. I asked you to see that my wife was protected—which you did not do
. In my absence, Dallas came close to being raped and murdered.” He saw the expression of astonishment on the Queen’s face and realized she’d probably not heard any of the details. “But all that is past,” he went on, “and now I’m asking permission to ward myself in Edinburgh. My days at sea are over.”
Distractedly, the Queen’s hand fluttered at the silken veil which hung down from her pearl-edged coif. “I—I hadn’t heard your wife was endangered. Tarrill should have told me.”
No doubt Tarrill had thought it best not to prate her sister’s horrendous experience about the court. Nor did Fraser have any intention of disclosing the details to the Queen. “You haven’t granted my request yet,” he reminded her with growing impatience. “Am I free to remain unmolested within the city?”
It appeared that Mary had to take a moment to comprehend his words. But she nodded jerkily and gave him her promise. A formal safe conduct would be drawn up for him that very afternoon. “I’ll see that it’s sent to your town house,” she declared, one hand gripping the edge of the desk. Her white skin had suddenly turned chalky and she gritted her teeth in pain.
Fraser moved swiftly around the desk. “Lassie, are you ill?”
The drawn face regarded him uncertainly. “It’s nothing, these attacks come and go. Send for my ladies on your way out.”
He hesitated, unwilling to leave her in misery which was clearly both emotional and physical. The Queen had changed greatly since the spring; her behavior during this interview indicated some great erosion of spirit that Fraser couldn’t yet fathom. But he’d been dismissed and knew that the Queen would be relieved to see him go.
James Stuart had built a small three-storied house next to Holyrood Palace. The wan October light was fading over the slanting gables and steep roofs as Iain Fraser dismounted by the hedge which surrounded the cobbled close.
A gaunt-cheeked serving man answered the front door. When Fraser gave his name, the man looked momentarily startled, but moved off immediately to inform his master of the newcomer’s presence. As Fraser had half-expected, the serving man returned a few minutes later, saying that Lord James could not be disturbed.
“I’ll wait then,” Fraser said calmly, easing down onto a brocade settee.
“I’m sorry, sir, you don’t understand ....” The serving man was not used to dealing with someone like Fraser. “His Lordship may be unavailable for the rest of the day.”
Fraser surveyed the settee critically. “Not much room to stretch out .... Still, I could doze sitting up.”
The serving man pressed his palms hard against his snow-white apron. “That’s impossible, you must come back later on ....”
“Or not at all?” Fraser cocked an eyebrow at the man. “Don’t fash yourself, I know James would just as soon see a plague-carrier as me. But you might as well tell him I have no intention of evaporating like some misty Highland kelpie.”
Thinking that anyone less like a water sprite would be hard to find, the serving man reluctantly scurried back to his master. Five minutes later, James himself appeared, regarding Fraser warily from his hooded eyes. “I’m quite busy with state matters,” he said abruptly. “I understand you were outlawed and I have a good mind to call the watch to arrest you.”
Fraser reached inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of parchment. “My safe conduct, signed by the Queen. Would you like to read it?”
James frowned at the parchment but waved it aside. “I’ve been away, I had no idea how misguided my sister had become in my absence. I shall have to speak to her in the morning.”
“I hope you’ll still be able to speak by morning,” Fraser commented dryly. “I didn’t come here just to listen to you prattle about your own self-importance, James.”
Impassive as ever, James brushed a piece of lint from his plain black doublet. “Then I suggest you have your say and be gone,” he declared, ignoring Fraser’s veiled threat.
Fraser had risen from the settee. “Actually,” he said with an indolence that masked his violent intentions, “I came to kill you. But this space is confining, so I suggest we move outside.”
James’s facial muscles tightened imperceptibly. “I always knew you were reckless, Iain,” he said with a contemptuous little laugh, “but I never thought you were daft until now.” He appeared to be unconcernedly stretching his arms but instead, his right hand had shot towards a bell cord next to the drawing room entrance. Fraser, however, was too quick for him. His sword unsheathed, he lunged at James, pinning the other man’s sleeve to the wall.
“That was shabby, James, a trick unworthy of you. You’re wearing a sword, I’ll venture you can’t even go to sleep without it. Now let’s go outdoors and see if you can use it.” Abruptly, he pulled his own weapon out of the wall to free his opponent’s arm.
James’s eyes glinted under their drooping lids. He seemed about to say something, then turned on his heel but made sure Fraser wasn’t behind him. Throwing the door open, he let his unwelcome guest precede him into the close.
“Oh, no,” Fraser said as James stopped. “Not here, where half of Edinburgh will be our audience and your household will race to the rescue. In back of Holyrood, on the level ground below Arthur’s Seat.”
“As you will,” James shrugged. He didn’t like it; he wished it weren’t almost dark, with only a cleft of moon riding high in the autumn sky. But he’d never let Fraser accuse him of cowardice. The two men trooped off around the house, skirted the palace gardens and halted on the damp grass of the meadow.
Though Fraser favored the dirk for close-in fighting, he knew James usually wore a sword. Consequently, he had decided to use the longer, slimmer weapon. He’d not want it said that he’d killed the Queen’s half-brother without giving him every possible advantage to defend himself.
James moved back a few paces, trying to gauge Fraser’s most vulnerable areas of defense. Though six inches shorter, James’s compact frame and physical stamina made him a worthy foe. It also made him a smaller target.
He let Fraser move in first but was able to parry the thrust easily enough. They both made several probing feints, then James went high for Fraser’s neck. It was a near miss, momentarily breaking Fraser’s concentration. James moved in closer, but his opponent recovered quickly, parrying a second thrust and retaliating with a lunge that ripped the black doublet’s shoulder padding. A subsequent attempt caught James in the upper arm. Retreating hastily, he sought time to regain his poise.
“I say you’re daft, Iain,” James asserted, trying to keep from sounding out of breath. “The Queen is unwell, and if she dies and you kill me, Darnley will rule!”
The threat was not a hollow one, Fraser realized. But Mary was not fatally ill, as far as he could tell. And Fraser had sworn to let nothing stop him from wreaking vengeance on James Stuart.
“I’ll chance that,” he replied, advancing on his foe. “I’ve so many scores to settle with you, I can’t begin to count them all. But you know each one as well as I do.”
James seemed to be considering Fraser’s words but the apparent shift in his attitude was only a diversion—he lunged swiftly at the other man, grazing his left forearm. Then their swords clanged together as they fought toe to toe, neither daring to give the other an opportunity to break free. The proximity of their struggle prevented Fraser from seeing James draw a smaller dagger from the sleeve of his doublet. But he did catch the weapon’s glint as it came thrusting up towards his ribs. Fraser whirled away and fell sideways in one furious motion. The impact knocked the swords from both men’s hands.
But James fell upon Fraser, the dagger still clutched in his hand. Fraser swung sharply with his right fist, catching James on the temple. Grabbing his foe’s wrist, he twisted it until James dropped the dagger. Then Fraser hurled James off of him and grasped him by the throat.
“Swords and such are too neat for you, James,” Fraser grunted, using his knees to pin down his enemy’s arms. “I’d rather kill you with my bare hands.”
For onc
e, James’s eyes were wide open. “Killing me solves nothing! You’ll die for it, you know!” He was dripping with sweat, struggling for breath, desperation oozing from every pore.
But Fraser was heedless of logic or consequences. His long fingers began to tighten around his victim’s neck while James started to turn a hideous shade of purple. The voice which called Fraser’s name had to repeat itself several times before being heard.
“Iain, for Christ’s sake, leave him be!” Hands gripped at Fraser’s shoulders in a vain attempt to break the stranglehold. At that point, James lost consciousness.
The Earl of Bothwell raised his fist and brought it crashing down against Fraser’s skull. Stunned, Fraser released his prey abruptly and fell sprawling onto the grass. One hand rubbing his head, he sat up slowly, his fierce gaze turned on Bothwell.
“You meddling whorehound, why did you stop me?” Fraser yelled, struggling to his feet to confront the Border Earl and the four moss-troopers who stood alertly behind their lord.
“For God’s sake, Iain, I know James has wronged you heinously, but killing him would mean disaster!” Bothwell stooped to pick up James’s dagger, lest Fraser be unconvinced. The moss-troopers had already retrieved the combatants’ swords. Bothwell lowered his voice, steering Fraser away from the others: “Queen Mary has been unwell since she gave birth. Even her mental state is unbalanced. If anything happens to her and James isn’t around to protect the prince, Darnley will rule Scotland. And don’t think he’d be strong enough to keep this realm out of Elizabeth’s greedy hands. We’ll all be dead men then!”
Fraser was getting a rein on more rational thought. He, who had always vowed to put his country’s welfare above personal grievance and internecine feuds, was being put to a severe test. James had tried to kill him, had had him imprisoned, and though he’d had no part in putting him to the horn, had refused to lift the outlaw ban. He’d had Kennedy murdered and had almost succeeded in killing Dallas as well. Even Fraser’s concept of loyalty to crown and country had its limits.