by Sophia James
At that moment Marc walked back into the great chamber, his height allowing him to be spotted easily.
‘Now there is one who would make sure a woman would never wander, Lady Dalceann. A man whom you watch when nobody thinks you are looking. Sir Marc is perhaps not all he is thought to be, however. It is said his father was a Scottish lord who travelled to the court of Burgundy and sired a child with a relative of the French King. On the grounds of that information, his father could have even been my husband.’
Something in the tone of the older woman’s voice made Isobel wary. ‘Who was...?’
‘Cameron McQuarry. The old Earl of Huntworth. I was made his second wife when the mother of his sons passed away.’
Light green eyes held hers, unwavering and forthright. Was this advice given in warning or in guidance?
‘I could, of course, confront de Courtenay personally with such information, but I think it far more
judicious if it came from you.’
‘From me? I barely know him.’ Her heart began to beat faster beneath the gown of red silk.
‘Oh, come, Lady Dalceann. All tales tell me that you are far more honest than that. Besides, the warlord was in your bed at Ceann Gronna and rumour has it there were no cries of discontent.’
‘You have asked after me?’ Danger in the royal court was many faceted and even the aristocratic face of a high-born lady was not to be discounted.
‘Nay, it is de Courtenay that I am intrigued by,’ she answered.
Was it entrapment this woman offered—the chance to ensnare a commander of men and ruin him should such petition prove to be unwarranted?
‘The politics of diplomacy hold no shelter for a man of war who might wrongly claim a family name that was never his.’ Another thought then occurred to her. ‘Does Stuart McQuarry suspect the same?’
‘He is clever, Lady Dalceann, so I imagine the idea must have occurred to him. Especially as de Courtenay has the look of the old Earl.’
‘And did the old Earl acknowledge de Courtenay as his offspring?’
Catriona McQuarry frowned. ‘There is no one answer, Lady Dalceann, but a hundred other half-truths. Give de Courtenay this crest. Ask if he recognises it.’ Lady Catriona twisted a ring from her finger and handed it over beneath the cover of a long train looped across her arms.
‘Know also that de Courtenay watches every move you make, and carefully.’ Her green eyes were measured. ‘If by any chance the ring should go astray and fall into the hands of those who may misuse it, I will deny the fact that I ever gave it to you, just as I will disavow the topic of this particular conversation.’
With that she moved away into the company of a group of men, who welcomed her warmly. Lovers, perhaps, given what she had said, or merely acquaintances?
The information she had just imparted made Isobel jumpy for fear others might see what she now imagined. Marc could have killed his own brother when he had run Archibald McQuarry through with his swordplay at Ceann Gronna. She looked over at the group he stood amongst, but he did not look her way once.
Stuart McQuarry was not so reticent. He approached her almost as soon as Lady Catriona had left her side, a sneer on his face, and she felt the same edgy loathing that she had for his brother.
‘Lady Dalceann.’ His eyes ran across the tight bliaud at her breast and lingered there for longer than was appropriate. ‘I think it is only fair that you should know the other ladies in court spurn Lady Catriona as a gossip full of impossible falsehoods.’
Isobel felt the ring in her palm and remained silent.
‘With only a few weeks until the king wants you betrothed, I thought it timely to speak to you about my own situation. I am the last of the McQuarrys.’
Perhaps not quite the last. The voice inside her was strong.
‘My castle stands on the hills above Stirling on a property five times the size of your own and my family holds close to the ear of the king.’
He had shifted now, his leg almost up against her own. ‘As one of your suitors I would enjoy the chance to get to know you better.’
His breath smelt of rancid deceit, if an emotion could be given a scent, and even in court, not ten yards from Marc de Courtenay, she felt scared, the vestiges of Stuart McQuarry’s late brother’s pawing making her stomach turn. Catching the floaty material cascading from her hat, she held it tight so that he should not try to take her hand.
For the first time she saw Marc glance her way.
‘King David has given me leave to take you riding towards the west of Edinburgh town. Perhaps we might make the journey tomorrow.’
She shook her head, trying to appear puzzled.
‘Nay. There is some other important thing that I am to do, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it is.’ Scattiness in a woman was always a protection because men expected it and made allowances.
‘Then the following day...’
Again she shook her head. ‘A friend has asked me to accompany her on an outing to see her mother. I could not disappoint her.’
As if on cue Catriona McQuarry came again to her side. ‘I am sorry, Lady Isobel. I meant to return sooner, but I was waylaid. Huntworth.’ She held out her hand and snatched it back the moment that she could, the frosty reception seeming to convince
Stuart McQuarry of the wisdom of withdrawal.
When he left Catriona smiled. ‘He is a man to be avoided at all costs.’
‘I know.’
‘Good. Then let us sit and pretend that we have all the topics in the world to converse about. That should keep him and the others well away from us.’
* * *
Marc watched Huntworth leave the room, as he circled around Isobel and Catriona McQuarry to stand with Dougal MacDonald, an older man he had known well in Burgundy a good ten years earlier.
He had seen the woman pass something over to Isobel hidden under the folds of a veiled train. The intrigue of it made him uneasy.
‘Lady Isobel Dalceann is comely,’ MacDonald said as he saw where he looked. ‘I hear there are a good many names in the pile for her hand in marriage. Huntworth’s is the one most are favouring.’
‘Is yours there?’ Marc swallowed his drink as he asked the question.
‘Nae, I am too old for such a game, but if Stuart McQuarry is allowed to win the hand of Lady Isobel, I fear for her well-being, for he is every bit like his father.’
The warning was quietly given and Marc nodded.
‘From my limited knowledge of them I think the whole family is cankered through and through.’
‘Torwood, the family castle at Stirling, is formidable. Few barons could claim such a stronghold.’
Torwood. His mother had written the same unusual name in the front of her Bible that had been passed down to him. Marc had always wondered why it should be there, though his aunt had never been forthcoming. Indeed, when he had shown her the scrawl on a trip back to the courts of Burgundy when he was training as a squire, she had torn the page from the book and hurled the crumpled sheet into the fire.
‘Your mother was a woman easily duped by a handsome face. Take care that you are not as trusting.’
By then he had long lost any belief in the goodness of others; his training under Philip’s patronage was harsh and cruel. He did not show her a letter that he had found tucked into the back end of the same Bible with the name written again under a crest of three blue stars on a white background.
‘Is the old McQuarry still alive?’
MacDonald looked at him strangely. ‘Nay. He lived by the sword and he died by it. A disgruntled squire finished him off, if I remember rightly. All of his sons seem sworn to the same code of violence.’
Marc was suddenly aware that Stuart McQuarry was sidling closer so he brought the conversation to an end.
He also saw that Isobel watched him closely from the other side of the room.
Torwood. He hoped the word did not link him into the ancestry of the McQuarrys with all of his heart.
* * *
A good two hours later Marc found himself outside the part of the castle that housed Lady Dalceann. Leaning up against a tree in the courtyard beneath the high towers of her room, he watched to see that nothing untoward was happening anywhere near her person, just as he had done all the way down to Edinburgh from Ceann Gronna.
She would not see him, he knew that, but it was nice to stand and listen to the sounds and know that she would be hearing them, too: the call of a night bird, a dog barking further down the hill, the last of the revellers leaving a tavern, strong drink making them rowdy and indiscreet.
He imagined the sounds at the keep as he stood there, the sea against the rocks endlessly turning. Swearing, he wondered why the castle drew him back as it did, for he had travelled all of his life, seldom glancing across his shoulder at what had been left behind.
Tonight he felt homeless and stateless, the stigma of his birth magnified here by all those with long and venerable family histories.
His blood line could be traced to this city, too, he mused, the unexpected mention of the Torwood name burning as curiosity and wonder beneath the more forceful denial.
The glint of steel near his temple had him reeling and he leapt away from the downward thrust of a sword, his fingers finding his dagger and hurling it outwards. The heavy clunk of a blade hit bone, followed by the soft drop of a body before three more men were on him.
McQuarry’s men. He recognised their faces even as he made short work of their attack, the city lords’ aggression no match at all for years and years of seasoned warfare.
He did not even bother to take their weapons from them as he reclaimed his knife, wiped it against the fine velvet of one of his assailants’ surcoats and made his way back into the winding corridors of the castle.
Chapter Sixteen
Isobel could not sleep for the fear of all that had happened across the past few days.
Since his decree, twenty suitors had been presented to her at various times by a monarch who would like nothing better than to have her married off to one of them and to be settled again at Ceann Gronna, the problem of the keep solved neatly.
The faces of those who had offered for her hand swam in unison through the gloom of the night. Some were good men and kind men. Some like Huntworth made her skin crawl every time he reached out to touch her under this pretext or that.
None made her feel like Marc de Courtenay did and there was the trouble. She no longer wanted only a union that was political or pragmatic, even given Ceann Gronna and its people were the prize she might receive because of it. Nae, all she wanted was what she had enjoyed with Marc again, long hours filled with pleasure.
She moved her legs against the memory and her fingers crept to the space between her thighs, although a noise outside her window made her hold her breath and listen. The leaves of the tree against her wall rustled in the wind as they had done for all of the time she had been here and the sound of voices further away was not worrying, for the castle was busy far into the evening, silence coming only in the very small hours.
But someone was out there. She felt it in her bones.
Her hand found the blade she had taken from a soldier in the Great Hall who had no notion of her quick fingers at his belt. The weapon was comforting and she had sharpened its edges against stone, honed to gleaming.
Slipping out of bed, she went across to the glass, the expensive unfamiliar shininess so much easier to see out of than the oiled linens at Ceann Gronna. No shadow lurked where it should not have and she relaxed slightly, jolted a moment later when the lock on her door began to vibrate.
Someone was breaking in. To kill her? She did not scream or shout. She was perfectly capable of dealing with this herself, weapon in hand and surprise on her side.
The offender came in less than ten seconds later and she had the blade at his neck, ready to slice deep when some echo of familiarity stopped her.
‘It’s me.’
‘Lord. I could have killed you.’
‘Good.’ Marc turned to look at her then, the line of red at his throat where she had pressed down making her realise how close she had come to a mistake.
‘Why didn’t you fight?’
‘The door was not shut and I didn’t want to alert the guards.’
His eyes ran across the dagger even as he pulled a cloth from beneath his heavy mantle and opened it.
‘This is a second option,’ he said quietly. ‘I did not realise you already had a first.’
His knife was longer than the one she held, but every bit as sharp.
‘Do not let McQuarry anywhere near you if you are by yourself.’
As the moonlight fell across his face she saw what he meant. With a black eye and a gouged cheek Marc de Courtenay looked the very picture of a wounded soldier.
‘Four men waited for me this evening in the
quieter parts of the castle grounds. I recognised them from Huntworth’s group.’
‘They let you go?’
‘I made them.’
The hollow empty loneliness that had been her constant companion for so many days welled up and she turned away, not wanting him to see what she knew would be so very plain in her eyes. Replacing the knife under her pillow, she took a breath before facing him again.
‘How did you get in here without being seen?’
‘Every hall is full of shadows. I used them.’
‘If they find you—’
He did not let her finish. ‘They won’t. I have had word that your men from the keep have been given reprieve on the promise that they stay in Fife and never raise arms again, save in the name of the king. I think David will leave them there until you return to Ceann Gronna.’
Relief made Isobel feel light-headed. It was all Marc’s doing, of course. No one else in the world made her feel so emotional.
‘David would like the castle fully functional by the autumn equinox, so your suitors are expecting a late summer wedding.’
‘Nay, there is not one here that I would wish to marry.’
He brought his finger up against her bottom lip and the words died as he brushed it carefully.
‘Shhh.’
The noise of people in the corridor passed them by, revellers from the day’s celebration taking them into the small hours. When there was silence again he spoke as quietly as he could.
‘Catriona McQuarry gave you something today in the hall?’
Isobel smiled. She should have known that Marc would have seen the exchange, for even when he was not looking he noticed things.
Walking across to the bed, she extracted the ring from beneath her mattress. ‘It was this. She bade me to tell you that your father could well be the old Earl of Huntworth. Do you recognise it?’
The crest of the ring caught the firelight.
‘I was born in the last few breaths of my mother’s life as the result of a brief affair with a man she should never have lain with. What makes Lady
Catriona think it could be him?’
‘She said that you have the look of him.’
Shaking his head, he handed her back the ring. ‘If I fought my battles on such flimsy evidence, I would never have won a fight.’
She could tell he wanted to go. Already he was looking towards the door, his head tilted to the outside noises.
Disappointment blossomed.
‘You will come again?’
He seemed distant and ill at ease.
‘I will try.’
She wanted to reach out and touch his face, hurt by the fighting. She wanted to ask him to stay for the night until the early morning dawn and have him hold her just as he had done at Ceann Gronna.
But he was already opening the door and instructing her to lock it after him, as he slipped out amongst the long-fallen shadows.
* * *
The web around Isobel grew—first the threat of being an insurgent and now a new one, for the three blue stars against a plain background were etched like a ta
ttoo into his memory.
The Earl of Huntworth? His mind turned with the possibility. Everything he had ever heard of Cameron McQuarry had been unflattering, a violent and ill-tempered man of little repute.
Lord help him, that this was the father he had come to find, and why had the McQuarry woman shown the ring to Isobel and not to him?
There had been a message, too, delivered to his door the first night of his return: watch your back and ask no questions.
No questions about his father or no questions about Isobel Dalceann? He had set Mariner to watch the steps leading to his room for any movement while he was not there and he had seen only a thin, tall boy pass by. Tall and thin, like Lady Catriona, delivering a warning that she would later emphasise in the giving of the ring?
Nothing made any sense any more.
Nothing except for the feeling that when Isobel Dalceann was close in his arms, her dark eyes edged in gold promised him everything.
The list of enemies grew around them and no indication of who exactly they were. Another thought made him stop in his tracks. Was his presence in Isobel Dalceann’s life bringing a danger that could kill her in the end?
Like Madeline. She had died at the hand of a man who hated him. Could the same happen here in Scotland?
Sharp pain lanced a part of his chest that had for so many years lain dormant.
It was time to find out exactly who the old Earl of Huntworth had been.
* * *
Isobel knelt at the gilded font of the small chapel in the castle and prayed. No one else seemed to use this tiny room. Candles burnt around her, their scent strong in the small space.
She was therefore surprised when a voice took her from her devotions.
‘I thought you might be here.’ Lady Catriona made her way in and sat at one of the two pews. ‘Did you manage to show de Courtenay the ring?’ Her question was softly voiced.
‘I did, though he had not seen such a badge before.’
‘He told you that?’
There was a tone in her words that worried Isobel. Digging into her surcoat, she handed the ring back, watching as the woman replaced it on her finger.