by Mary Daheim
“They’re taking her into the Black Turnpike. Jesu,” he muttered so that Dallas could barely hear him, “did I do right after all?”
“I wish we’d never come,” Dallas cried, her hands over her ears to block out the obscenities of the mob. “Please, let’s go back!”
But they were trapped by the crowd, their backs to the Tron Kirk. Even after the Queen had been led away inside the Black Turnpike, the vindictive citizenry remained, as if in a body they formed a single guard to hold her prisoner there.
“I don’t think this lot would take kindly to me hacking our way out,” Fraser told his wife, grimly surveying the ugly expressions on the onlookers’ faces. “We’ll have to wait a bit, just hang onto me.”
Dallas did just that, her head resting against her husband’s chest. The light was fading and the crowd had begun to quiet, though no one seemed ready to leave. “Remember,” she said into Fraser’s open shirt, “how we met that first night the Queen rode into Edinburgh? How different it all was then!”
Fraser’s arm tightened around her waist. “Aye. A lot of things were different then.”
They stood clasped together in silence for a long time, detached from the crowd by a mutual surge of memories: Dallas, prickly as a hedgehog, learned but naive, had trooped up the High Street, heartbroken over her father’s impending death, yet eager for a glimpse of the bonnie young Queen; Fraser, arrogant, self-contained, half-pirate, half-royalist, all Highlander, ready to offer his services to the new sovereign, hopeful of a bright future for Scotland. And somehow, through it all, they had found neither the security Dallas had sought nor the vision Fraser had pursued, but instead, they had found each other.
Their twin reveries were broken by a sudden hush which engulfed the crowd. It was dark now, but torches lit up the night in front of the Black Turnpike. From a window above the street, Mary Stuart could be seen, no longer regal, her composure shattered by defeat and humiliation. The auburn hair streamed down her shoulders, the plain blue bodice hung open to reveal most of her white breasts, the long graceful hands clawed at the air.
“Oh, God, oh, my God,” she shrieked, “come to my defense! I have been betrayed! Oh, help me, somebody, help me!”
The crowd turned breathlessly silent. In the glare of the torches, Fraser could see faces change from malevolence to pity. Then the Queen was gone from the window, and slowly, quietly, her subjects moved away from the Black Turnpike.
For James Stuart, the feel of Scots soil beneath his horse’s hooves felt satisfying. How long he’d waited for this day, a virtual lifetime: He alone would now assume total power in Scotland. Indeed, for once in his life, he’d not been patient; after leaving Berwick, he’d spurred his horse to a gallop, leaving his retainers far behind. He cared not for riding into Edinburgh surrounded by faithful minions. To ride into the city by himself was triumph enough.
Of course he’d have to act the faithful brother and visit the deposed Queen at Lochleven where the Douglases had imprisoned her. But that was of little consequence—Lochleven was well fortified, isolated in the middle of a lake, and rumors that the irksome Hamiltons planned a rescue attempt worried him little.
He was feeling so full of himself that he almost started to hum, but his Protestant upbringing would not permit such unseemly behavior, even here, alone on the tree-shaded road between Restalrig and Edinburgh.
And then he realized with a shock that he was not alone after all. Just a few yards ahead of him, a horse and rider moved out from behind a massive oak tree. James cursed under his breath as he recognized Iain Fraser.
“Welcome home,” Fraser called out, leveling his pistol at James. “I trust you’ve time to chat?”
It never occurred to James that his adversary would not use the pistol. He slowed his horse to a walk, then dismounted in front of Fraser, who was now standing next to Barvas. “How did you know I was coming?” he demanded, hoping he looked as impassive as usual.
“It seemed the most likely route.” The shafts of sunlight filtering down through the trees made the muzzle of Fraser’s pistol gleam like mellow gold. “Besides, I’ve been scouting these byways for the past week.”
“You are persistent, I’ll say that.” James was breathing more rapidly, almost in tune to the deep, snorting wheezes of his weary horse. “Speak then, I’m listening.”
“How generous you are.” Fraser waved the pistol with an exaggerated carelessness that made James grit his teeth. “It appears you are going to be regent, James. You’ve coveted that position for a long time, even before Mary ever left France.” He knew James’s hackles were rising but paid no heed. “You’ll need some help, though. The Gordons aren’t pleased about deposing the Queen. The Hamiltons are furious at the prospect. And Bothwell is still at large.”
“You would bargain with me for your support?” James laughed scornfully. “I’m surprised at you, Iain. If I’m willing to take on all the Hamiltons and Gordons put together, not to mention Bothwell and his Border ruffians, I can deal with you as well.”
Fraser raised an eyebrow. “Can you now, James? I don’t think you quite get my meaning. It’s not support I’m offering, it’s hindrance—or the lack thereof.” He reached inside his dust-stained jerkin and pulled out the amulet. The ruby caught fire in the sunlight, momentarily dazzling James. “This isn’t the one you gave Delphinia, of course. But I’m sure you have its mate.”
James’s heavy-lidded eyes opened wide. He gazed at the amulet for a drawn-out minute. “How long have you known?” he said at last, his voice very low. “How long have you been certain?”
“Long enough,” Fraser replied. He stuffed the amulet back inside his jerkin. “By my reckoning, I’m the elder by seven months. Do you suppose the people of Scotland might consider me a better candidate for the regency than you? After all, I bear nowhere near the stains and stigmas of the past as you do. I never intrigued to murder Rizzio or Darnley, either. I may be Catholic, but I’ve always let a man follow his own conscience when it came to religion. Oh, I’ve some enemies here and there, but they don’t total anywhere near the number you’ve acquired over the years. I just might make a damnably good regent myself, James.”
“You would not dare!” James seethed. “I’ve earned the regency, I’ve waited all these years, I’ve had experience ....”
“Come, come,” Fraser taunted, allowing himself to be fascinated by the workings of James’s face, “you sound as if you were applying for some post as butcher’s apprentice. I’m not saying I actually want your treasured prize. I could be appeased, after all.”
“What do you want?” James growled, his eyes once more hooded but wary.
Reaching out with his right hand, Fraser playfully poked at James’s chest with the pistol. But there was no laughter in the hazel eyes as he answered the question: “Now you’re being sensible, James. I want my lands restored immediately. Morton must settle in cash for the town house, my lassie insists upon that. Of course, it is understood that I am no longer outlawed. And I will be legitimated when Parliament meets next.”
“I shall tend to all your requests, but the last,” James said, trying not to let his shoulders slump in relief. “I’m afraid your legitimization would be inappropriate. There is no one left in Scotland capable of doing that.”
Fraser shoved the pistol into James’s chest so hard that the other man gasped. “Lucky for you it didn’t discharge,” Fraser said mockingly. “You forget, I studied some law at St. Andrews. With proof and witnesses, both of which I now have, any court of law in the country is empowered to legitimate me. Though I would prefer that Parliament act in my case, as it did in yours.”
James took a deep breath, trying to control his rampaging thoughts. If Fraser were made legitimate, he would always present a threat. Yet James knew that outright refusal would doubtless mean death. If he acquiesced now and reneged later, Fraser himself could go before Parliament. Of course, it might be possible to put Fraser out of the way before that happened. But others must k
now the truth by now—the redoubtable Lady Fraser, for one, and God only knew who else. If Fraser died mysteriously, all Scotland would know who was responsible. And such an accusation could jeopardize the regency, an unthinkable possibility.
“You’re quite right, it could be worked out,” James said, with something of his customary blandness. “It merely seemed rather late in time to act on the matter.”
“Never too late when it means the difference between my sons inheriting my property one day or letting it revert to the Crown.” The pistol remained pointed at James, and Fraser looked quite solemn. “Oh, James,” he said softly, “how easy it would be to kill you! I owe you so much vengeance, for what you’ve done to me, to my wife, to the Queen!”
Even James’s mount seemed to sense the danger. He snorted, pawed the ground, and James had to steady him with a hand that was none too sure.
“But for all that,” Fraser went on, “you are Scotland’s best hope to prevent civil war and to secure the succession. After all, you’ve always been Elizabeth’s pet, and if anyone can persuade her to name a successor, it will be you.” Fraser lowered the pistol and stuck it into his belt. “And,” he added with a rueful shake of his head, “you are my brother. That’s meant nothing to you, but much as I hate to admit it, it does mean something to me.” Then he jumped into the saddle, wheeled Barvas around, and galloped off through the shadowy forest.
For the past month and a half, the Fraser entourage had been encamped in George Gordon’s town house at Johnston Terrace. Dallas had gone there grudgingly, none too pleased at sharing Gordon’s roof and wary of meeting Catherine. But Gordon behaved civilly enough and Catherine never made an appearance. It was a more commodious arrangement than sharing quarters, at least that was what Dallas kept telling herself. But as the summer dragged along she began to wonder. She’d found two acceptable houses, one in the High School Wynd, the other near the Water Port. But Fraser had dismissed them both. Dallas suggested, somewhat sarcastically, that if her tastes didn’t suit him, perhaps he should go house-hunting on his own. The comment had not rankled him in the slightest; he’d merely grinned, paused for a moment to fondle her bottom, and ridden off towards Restalrig.
When he returned to Johnston Terrace that night, he told her about the confrontation with James. Ecstatic, Dallas fairly jumped into his arms. “We aren’t poor! You have your lands back, you’ll be legally recognized as the King’s son! Oh my love, you finally bested that odious James!”
“Not precisely,” Fraser said, shaking off her enthusiastic stranglehold. “But I suspect James may see my shadow across his path for a long time to come.”
Dallas clapped her hands in triumphant glee. “He’s lucky you didn’t shoot him as he so richly deserved. Oh, Iain,” she exclaimed, the dark eyes shining, “tomorrow, first thing, let’s make arrangements to get the town house back!”
Firmly, he took Dallas’s hands in his. “Nay, lassie, I’m afraid we can’t. We’re not staying in Edinburgh.” His hazel eyes held no mockery now as he looked directly into her questioning face. “We’re going home. To the Highlands.”
Fraser expected Dallas’s resistance to come in the form of a shrieking tirade. Instead, she turned cold, obdurate and logical. With Fraser no longer an outlaw, she pointed out, there was no reason to leave Edinburgh. Her kinfolk were all in the city, she’d seldom see any of them if she lived in the Highlands. Besides, Tarrill was expecting a baby at Christmastime. Then there was James—would her husband turn his back on that villain and let him govern with a free hand? And what of the Queen, held captive by Morton and the rest of the despicable Douglases? Misguided as Mary Stuart might have been, her tragic state must surely touch Fraser’s heart—wasn’t she his half-sister?
“Everything you say is true,” Fraser acknowledged, pulling off the jerkin and carefully depositing the amulet in Dallas’s little cedar chest. “But I’ve finished with all that. James will do no worse by Scotland than his predecessors. I grieve for Mary, I care about her, but she chose her own path. As for your personal inclinations,” he continued, stripping off his white cambric shirt, “you can come with me or stay here.” He was washing his face and hands in a big silver basin. His back was turned to Dallas and for some moments he heard no sound out of her.
“I suppose,” she finally said, somewhat testily, “I could always while away the hours teaching some of those illiterate clansmen of yours to read. At least I’ll have Sorcha for company. The boys will probably like it there, with all those peculiar poachers and wondrous woodmen and whatever else crawls around the Highlands.”
She’d come up behind him, pressing her body against his back, wrapping her arms around him, letting her fingers stray across his chest and down towards his midsection. “Ugh, I mustn’t distract you from washing,” she said, dropping her hands, “you’ve been in the saddle so much lately, you smell like Barvas!”
But he’d already swung around, reaching out to lift her up in his arms. “You’re too late,” he grinned. “If you insist on molesting a gentlemen at his toilette, you’ll have to pay the price. Besides, I always thought Barvas smelled rather good—for a horse.”
“Barvas may smell better than some of the feckless wenches you’ve bedded,” Dallas retorted as he dumped her on the bed. “Oh, Iain, I’d go with you anywhere. What could be worse than that chicken farm at Dunbar?”
He had unbuttoned her bodice and freed her breasts, teasing the nipples with his tongue. “Actually,” he said, pausing to slip the rest of her dress over her hips, “we won’t be living at Beauly, at least not for long. I have a surprise for you.” He traced the outline of her waist, her hip, her thigh with his finger. “Remember last summer I wrote to you and said there was something I couldn’t tell you yet?”
“Vaguely.” Dallas shivered with delight as he put his hand between her legs.
“I’m building you a house, on property near Inverness.” He looked up to watch her expression of pleasure over this new, grand acquisition. But Dallas only sighed and pulled him down on top of her.
“Tell me about it—later,” she said and kissed him hard on the mouth.
Fraser could not help but regard his wife quizzically; nose to nose, he tried to read her reaction. “Is this the same lassie who once lusted after a certain house in Gosford’s Close?”
“Oh, aye,” she answered between kisses, “but since then ... I’ve discovered I lust ... only after you.”
If Fraser was even faintly skeptical, he did not let Dallas know it. Women, he had decided a long time ago, always believed precisely what they wanted to believe. And the lush curves of Dallas’s body definitely befuddled Fraser’s analytical processes. As he kissed her stomach and the dark, curly hair between her thighs, he heard Dallas sigh with pleasure; but her question caught him off-guard:
“Did you ever make love to Catherine Gordon here?”
Fraser looked up, his chin resting on her hip. “Catherine? Well, no.” He paused, and the crooked grin was sheepish. “I mean not in this bed.”
“But in this house?”
Fraser tried to shrug nonchalantly. “Well, it is a Gordon house.”
To Fraser’s surprise, Dallas laughed and pushed his head back between her legs. But when she spoke again, her voice was serious. “It’s strange,” she said, “but I don’t care any more about Catherine ... or Delphinia ... or the rest of them.”
Fraser was straddling her, his hands clasped behind her head. “Nor,” he asserted, “do I.”
As he possessed her body and Dallas moved to the pinnacle of ecstasy, she felt that Fraser was with her not just for the moment, but for always.
John Hamilton had come to say good-bye. He had hoped to see both Frasers before they left Edinburgh, but only Dallas was in when Hamilton called at Johnston Terrace.
“Iain’s out with Cummings, seeing a furnituremaker about some special pieces he wants for the new house. Do sit, John. George and Anne are out, too—in fact, they left Edinburgh several days ago.” Dallas
gestured in the direction of a handsome leather-covered chair in the Spanish style. During the Gordons’ absence, she seemed to have taken over the whole house.
“I can’t stay long,” Hamilton replied, sitting down and trying to make his large frame comfortable in the narrow, straight-backed chair. “I just wanted to wish you both well in your new home.”
“That’s very kind ....” Dallas halted in mid-sentence. “See here, John, I’ll not mince words. What can I say? How can I thank you for all you’ve done for Iain and for me?”
He shook his head with an unaccustomed air of impatience. “Say nothing. It’s better that way. I’m just pleased that you and Iain have had things work out so well.”
Dallas wasn’t sure how much he knew about the confrontation between her husband and James Stuart. Rumors of their meeting had run rampant throughout the city during the last few weeks. For all Dallas knew, Fraser might have already confided in Hamilton. But even though the whole world would know eventually of Fraser’s birthright, she felt obliged to hold her tongue. “It is only fair that Iain be reinstated,” she commented evasively. “Tell me, what news of the Queen?”
“You heard she is recovering from her miscarriage of Bothwell’s twins?” He saw Dallas nod. “It’s all so damnably tragic. Bothwell still on the run, the Queen forced to abdicate, the little Prince crowned in his mother’s stead and tales of escape attempts from Lochleven abound.”
“One such story mentioned that the Hamiltons had tried to stop the Douglases from taking Mary there in the first place.” She eyed him speculatively but it was his turn to be evasive.
“You hear all sorts of rumors these days.” Suddenly he smiled. “One amusing tale, though—Will Ruthven is said to have fallen under the Queen’s spell and has been dismissed as her gaoler.”
“Will! Always the weathervane, blowing on the winds of romance or ambition—or are they one and the same to him?” Dallas shook her head ruefully. “But what of James? Will he be named regent as Iain says?”