by Carmen Caine
“Who is that with ye, my sweet bairn?” Her father shifted his head to the side.
Shaking off her sad thoughts, Kate gripped his hands tightly. “’Tis an angel sent to help us. His name is Cameron.”
“Hardly an angel,” Cameron disagreed softly from behind her. “But I am at your service, sir.”
“The Saints be praised!” Her father’s voice trembled with unshed tears. “Then, ye spoke true?” He began to cough, covering his mouth with the back of his arm.
“Can ye stand?” Kate asked when his coughing fit subsided. “Ye’ll have to walk to the cart, father.”
He tried, but he was far too weak. Kate was on the verge of tears herself to see this once proud, strong man reduced to such a state, but she had little time to indulge in sadness. Pursing her lips, she frowned and forced a strong voice. “Ye’ll have to stand. I canna carry ye…”
“Step aside, lass,” Cameron’s deep voice ordered kindly.
In one swift movement, Cameron scooped her frail father up in his strong arms and threaded his way through the sleeping forms on the floor to the door.
Hurriedly, Kate scrambled to collect their possessions. They didn’t have much, only a few bits of ribbon, her mother’s hairbrush, and a candlestick to evoke the cherished memories of their former life. By the time she had finished tying the bundle and hurried out of the almshouse, Cameron had finished tucking his fine cloak about her father’s feeble form.
“Are ye ready, Kate?” Cameron looked down upon her with unreadable dark eyes.
Clutching her precious bundle close, she nodded, and giving the almshouse a long, last look, straightened her shoulders and marched up the street with Cameron pushing her father closely behind.
The journey back to Maura’s cottage was a silent one, each comfortable with their own thoughts. Maura’s stone cottage looked inviting, even in the moonlight. Several fruit trees flowered on one side of the tiny stone building, while an herb bed graced the other. It was untended, still tangled with the dry brown weeds of the year before, but Kate already had plans to make it ready for planting on the morrow. Soon, the hedges, trees and the brown herb bed would be bursting with life. She felt it was a sign. Perhaps she and her father were finally emerging from their ill luck and on the verge of a new life.
The cottage was dark, signaling Maura had not yet returned. Strangely relieved, Kate lifted the latch and pushed the door open as Cameron once again gathered her father in his strong arms and carried him over the threshold.
Kate proudly led them to the back room. A small window allowed enough moonlight to filter through to show the straw pallet on the floor, a three-legged stool, several woolen blankets, and a small hearth. Aye, the room was tiny, but it was free of fleas and rats, and smelled only of spring, not the rank odor of the almshouse.
As Cameron gently set her father down on the pallet, Kate slipped into the main room for coals and peat, returning to coax a fire on the hearth. In moments, meager flames licked the peat, and Kate sat back on her heels with a contented sigh.
“Ye did well, my wee one.” Her father laughed weakly from behind her.
Turning, she found him comfortably settled, clutching the top of the woolen blankets with his swollen knuckles. Sweat rolled off his brow. He was still clearly unwell.
“Ye shouldna worry so, lassie.” He nodded his head in her direction. “I may be blind, but I can still see ye worry too much, my wee bairn.”
Kate’s lips split into a smile. Her father knew her well.
“And, Cameron, bless ye, lad.” Her father dipped his chin to where Cameron leaned against the wall. “Ye’ve been a godsend this day. How can I ever repay ye, lad?”
“I’ve done naught that requires it, sir.” Cameron shook his head.
As they began to murmur, Kate returned to Maura’s room to borrow a kettle and a handful of oats. She’d repay her in the morning, but her father needed to eat now. Placing the kettle on the hook over the fire, she bent to kiss him on the forehead.
“I’ve the cart to return to the Fletcher now, and I’m not of the mind to make enemies with the man’s wife,” she said. “By the time I return, the gruel will be ready.”
“I’ll take the cart back for ye, lass, if ye lead the way.” Cameron stepped forward. With a slight bow to her father, he bid his farewell. “’Twas an honor to meet ye, sir.”
And then she stood, once again, in the moonlight as Cameron lifted the cart. For a moment, she was oddly shy. But only for a moment. She was not the retiring sort, and the air of intrigue about the man was fascinating. As they set off to the Fletcher’s, she shook her head. “In faith, Cameron, but I wouldna be pleased to find ye dangling from a tree, ye’ve been far too kind this day.”
His lips twitched in amusement. “I swear I’ll not allow myself to be hanged.”
“There’s honest work to be had in Stirling,” she continued. “And even more in Edinburgh.”
“I’m afraid I must stay in Stirling, at present,” Cameron replied with a bitter lift of his brow.
“Ach, well, that is good then,” she said. Skipping to keep up with his long stride, she couldn’t resist prying. “So, ‘tis revenge that brings ye here, then?”
He gave a slight humph and murmured in a restrained tone, “If only it were that simple.”
“Oh?” Her eyes lit with interest.
“Nay, I’ll not unburden my sorrows on ye, lass.” His voice was gentle. “Ye clearly have enough.”
His voice was so soft and kind that Kate caught her breath. Staring straight ahead, she found herself saying, “My father was a brawny sailor once, sailing the seas until he met my mother. She was so afraid to lose him that she forced him to turn to fishing, and a fine fisherman he was! He often took us with him to the lochs ...” She blinked back tears, stubbornly refusing to shed them.
“Us?” Cameron asked quietly.
“Aye, my mother and my wee sister, Joan,” Kate replied gruffly. “’Twas the fever that took them both and stole my father’s strength and eyes. I’m the only one who didna take ill.” She clenched her fists and forced herself to continue. Perhaps it would be easier to forget if she said the words instead of keeping them locked in her heart. “We had to leave … we lost everything and the villagers didna take kindly to the fact that I wasna taken ill like the rest. They swore ‘twas the devil’s work.”
“Fools!” Cameron growled in a low voice.
His response made Kate smile. “Aye, but there is some perverse amusement to be had.” Her smile broadened. “We fled because they accused me of witchery, simply because I didna fall ill. And here I’ve earned our keep by selling charms as I find I’m still named a witch, but ‘tis a respectful title here.”
He didn’t share her amusement. “While the highlands may still hold witches in high esteem, lass, matters are shifting in the lowlands. I’d not let others name ye as such.”
“Ach, now, I’ve hopes to find other work.” Kate blithely shrugged her shoulders and pointed to the Fletcher’s house. “Just set the cart down here, and ye’ll be free of me, sir!”
She watched him roll the cart to its place under the pear tree, feeling a twinge of disappointment. He would go now, and she would probably never see the man again.
He strode back to tower over her, and silence fell between them.
Finally, she dipped a curtsey. “I canna thank ye properly for all that ye have done for me this day.”
“There is no need, lass.” He bowed in reply. It was an elegant, courtly bow.
Giving into impulse, she stood on her tiptoes and pulled his head down. She meant to give him a friendly kiss on the cheek, but he turned his head at the last moment and covered her lips with his.
His kiss was soft and tender, sending a shiver down her spine. She was lost in the sensation of it until the light touch of his hand cupping her jaw jolted her to her senses. Abruptly, she tore her lips from his.
He drew back warily, but with a glint of humor in his eye, he asked, “A
re ye going to slap me again?”
Ignoring the pink tingeing her cheeks, she rolled her eyes. “I shouldna have anything to do with the likes of ye!” She placed her hands on her hips. “I’m an upright, hard-working lass who knows better than to keep company with outlaws!”
“I’ve no dishonorable intentions …” he began with a wry expression.
But she was no longer listening to his words. His lips were extraordinarily fascinating, finely chiseled, begging to be touched. And, oh, the dash in the middle of his chin cried out for her fingertips. Unwilling to think, lest she lose her courage, she gave into her desire and burying her fingers in the cloth of his cloak gathered about his throat, roughly pulled him close and kissed him fiercely.
He melded his mouth to hers at once in a wildly passionate, deep, and feverish way. Emotions she had never known to exist exploded through her, and this time, he was the one to wrench away, breathing hard.
“Ach, lass … ’tis …not a wise thing …” He cleared his throat, apparently finding it difficult to speak. “Women do not … thrive in my company.”
He looked almost angry.
Ashamed, she covered her reddening cheeks with her hands. She had been too brazen. “I canna think what came over me—”
And then, all shame and embarrassment fled as this time, it was he to sweep her close as his lips claimed hers once more but with a softer touch and a tenderness that she wanted to last forever. His hand moved lightly down her back, pressing her close, and then all too soon, he lifted his head and pushed her gently away. Sliding his long fingers down to catch her hand, he brought it to his lips and kissed the inside of her wrist.
“Aye, I’ll be leaving now, while I still can,” he said in a deep voice, still holding her hand.
“Will I see ye again?” she asked breathlessly. She almost didn’t want him to answer, afraid he would say no.
“Aye, I think we both know that I’ll not stay away,” came the soft reply. “But ye should run the other way the next time ye see me.”
The desperate words pulled her heart as she watched him stride away into the darkness. But then her spirits took wing, and with a light step, she ran back to the cottage and slipped inside.
Maura had returned.
Sitting on a chair before a tiny mirror, the woman brushed her long blonde hair. “There’s to be a feast at the castle soon,” she said. “And I promised Charles that I’d find him several serving wenches. The work is yours, if ye want it, Kate.”
“Oh, Maura!” Kate’s eyes danced as she ran to smother the woman in kisses.
“Enough now!” Maura laughed, pushing her away. “Ye can come with me on the morrow. Tend to your father now!”
Feeling as if she would burst with joy, Kate slipped into her room to find the gruel ready and her father awake. Whistling a merry tune, she slowly spooned the mixture into his lips.
“And why is your heart so light, my sweet Kate?” her father asked with a weak grin.
“Oh, father! We are gone from the almshouse, and I’ve work at the castle. I do believe our fortune is changing at last!” She was so happy she wanted to sing.
“Are ye sure it isn’t that lad that has ye singing?” Her father laughed. “His voice was kind.”
Kate smiled. She didn’t want to speak of Cameron. Not yet. She just wanted to think of him and to hold the memory of his kisses close to her heart. But then her heart gave an odd flop and she sighed. If only the man wasn’t an outlaw but a good, honest fisherman like her father. Lifting her chin, she wondered if it were something she could change.
Chapter Three - The Court of the King
Cameron returned to the Brass Unicorn Inn, walking slowly, lost in thought.
Something about Kate lightened his heart. Aye, she was precocious, lively, and given to chatter, but that was her charm. The lass was warm-hearted, filled with life, and the loving tenderness with which she cared for her father was moving.
He had no business seeking her company.
Grimly, he turned up the lane, hearing the sounds of merriment drifting from the inn long before he saw it. The noise was comforting. It was the precise reason he kept rooms there. The continual commotion distracted him from his heavy thoughts.
One of his men waited outside the door, and Cameron hailed him. The dismal conditions of the almshouse had appalled him. He meant to fix it straightway. Dipping his head, he murmured his orders into the man’s ear, and then betook himself to his chambers.
On the morrow, he must announce his presence to the king in Stirling Castle. It was a miserable thought. He didn’t want to think of court intrigue. He’d much rather think of the lively lass with the sparkling brown eyes who wouldn’t stop talking, but ‘twas difficult to do without a twinge of guilt.
Settling before the warm, crackling fire, he focused on Thomas, wondering what the man was plotting, but Kate continually intruded upon his thoughts.
Ach, she was a temptation! He hadn’t been tempted in quite some time, but he knew better than to give into his baser instincts. Ach, before, with just one thought of his deceased wives, any impulse he might have had would have died in an instant, but strangely—this time—that customary deterrent was oddly ineffective.
He found sleep long in coming.
* * *
After spending a restless night, Cameron rose with the sun. Bidding Morag the Innkeeper a fond farewell, he mounted his charger and set off through Stirling’s winding, cobblestoned streets with his men riding behind.
The early morning sun cast Stirling Castle in a warm glow as it rose majestically above the belt of trees clustered at the base of the cliffs. He eyed the massive structure with reluctance as he urged his horse up Castle Hill. Below him, he could see the River Forth glistening, swans gracefully gliding under the stone bridge spanning its width. Bright green fields led to the entrance of the Royal Deer Park, and to the west, he could see the jousting arena with the highlands climbing behind it.
He grimaced.
Clothes fittings, banquets, and games of treachery would now occupy his day.
‘Twas far worse than a good honest sword-thrust.
The sound of hooves caused him to glance over and see Archibald Douglas riding forward to greet him.
Cameron raised his hand in acknowledgement and reined his horse. “Well met!”
“Aye, well met!” Archibald flashed a grin, leaning over to clasp Cameron’s arm in a warm welcome.
Archibald Douglas, the Fifth Earl of Angus, was a great bear of a man, square-jawed, ruddy, and stern with a small scar under his left eye. His rumpled red hair, bushy beard, and warm hazel eyes gave him an unassuming, friendly air, but Cameron knew him as one of the craftiest noblemen in Scotland.
“Ye’ve been a long time in coming, Cameron.” Archibald wiggled his bushy brows. “We’ve missed ye sorely.”
“Aye.” Cameron nodded, offering no further explanation. He didn’t need to. While not particularly close friends with the man, their sense of mutual respect ran deep.
“Word has already been sent of your arrival,” Archibald informed him. “The king will see ye within the hour.”
“And Thomas?” Cameron raised a curious brow.
“Aye, it isn’t easy to get the king’s ear of late. Thomas stands in the way. He never strays far from the king’s side.” Archibald growled. “We’ve need of your silver tongue, my friend, and that of Lord Julian Gray. I sent for him nigh on two weeks ago, and I expect him this day.”
The news gladdened Cameron’s heart. Lord Julian Gray was as close a friend to him as Ruan MacLeod.
With a curt nod, Cameron raised his hand, signaling the conversation was over, and in companionable silence, they rode up the street to the castle gates.
At the entrance, Cameron again paused, eyeing the great castle of Stirling rising above him. Green moss and lichen clung to the base of the outer walls, standing out in stark contrast against the dark gray stones. It was an ancient fortress and one of Scotland’s finest.
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“Aye, ‘tis time, my friend. Ye can delay it no longer,” Archibald murmured in a tone somewhere between understanding and amusement.
With a grimace, Cameron spurred his horse forward.
He dismounted in the courtyard, eyeing the newly finished, ornate tower house with its great vaulted chamber, the work of Thomas Cochrane. He’d heard the man had studied in Italy, and his work clearly demonstrated a fine skill. But in architecture only. He had no place seeking titles and attempting to govern the land.
“Follow.” Archibald raised a hand and led him through a side entrance towards the royal apartments.
As a Stewart, and cousin to the king, Cameron was entitled to rooms in the west wing of the royal apartments. As he passed the Great Hall, he caught a glimpse of the immaculately carved wooden ceiling.
“Aye!” Archibald snorted in disgust. “Our king is only interested in cavorting with his painters, tailors, and masons. I’ve not seen him on the back of a steed since he moved his court here, nigh on three months ago.”
King James III had always favored the fine arts over all else, neglecting the governing of the realm in the pursuit of gratifying his own pleasure. In recent years, his behavior often carried into excess, with endless banquets and the continual bestowal of lavish gifts upon a parade of favorites.
“What of Hommil the tailor?” Cameron asked. Last year, the man had never strayed from the king’s side. The king had openly caressed him with the fondest affection at every banquet. Thomas Cochrane had been there but hovering in the background. The entire situation had been scandalous.
“He’s been traveling with the previous castoff, Leonard the smith, spending their ill-gotten gains,” Archibald replied gruffly. “Of late, even Torphichen the fencing-master has been scarcely seen with the king. It has only been Thomas Cochrane receiving fond kisses and all favors.”
Climbing a spiral staircase, Archibald led him through several chambers to a suite of apartments that looked out over the highlands.
A velvet carpet graced the floor in front of a high, curtained bed, and nearby stood a writing desk with a vase of flowers, a feather quill pen, and a large candelabrum with eight tapers. Several carved chairs with crimson velvet cushions sat before a fireplace with a fire already crackling on the hearth.