The brogue she’d adopted drew censure. “If you’re to mingle in polite society here, you’ll have to drop the common speech,” Hiram warned. “Less of the ’tis and ’twas.”
She faced a harsh new reality.
Her protectors took her out in their carriage. She wrinkled her nose and held her breath as they passed through some parts of Edinburgh, longing for the fresh air of the Highlands.
She didn’t recall the town being so crowded. “There are too many people here,” she lamented.
“It’s an important city now,” Hiram replied, puffing out his chest.
He’d been born in Edinburgh, inheriting his wealth and status from his burgess father. She understood his pride, but Kilmer beckoned. Mayhap if she went home, she might forget Morgan. “I’ve been thinking about returning to Kilmer,” she told Hiram one afternoon. “With my uncle’s fate unknown, the estate needs…”
“My dear cousin,” he replied. “It’s doubtful Glenheath will hold on to his lands and titles. I’ll be surprised if they haven’t already been confiscated and given to some favorite of Cromwell’s.” He hesitated, as if deciding whether to continue. “There’s talk that the earl will be brought here for trial. Indeed, it’s rumored Abbott is already on his way to assume his duties.”
“Duties?” she asked.
“The Protector has named him Governor of Scotland.”
She swayed as her heart plummeted. She’d never considered Kilmer might be forfeit. Solomon had told her he believed Glenheath would be brought to Edinburgh, but she truly hadn’t lent the notion any credence. However, it seemed Morgan had been right about Abbott's elevation to a position of power.
“I must remain here then,” she replied, “until we know my uncle’s sentence.”
~~~
A sennight later, Hannah was in the dining room, sipping soup from a porcelain bowl when word was brought by a liveried manservant that Abbott and his entourage had arrived in Edinburgh, prisoners in tow. She was gradually becoming accustomed to eating something other than bread, cheese and oatmeal, but the news tied her stomach in knots.
It stuck in her craw that she was sharing a hearty meal around an elegant dining table with her cousin and his wife and squabbling bairns. Her uncle would be locked away in a fetid dungeon in Edinburgh Castle for who knew how long, only to be sentenced to death at the end of the ordeal. She trembled for him.
Sorcha evidently sensed her dismay and reached across the table to take her hand. “Glenheath knew the risks,” she whispered, with a wary eye on her children.
“Aye,” she replied, “but where’s the justice if he’s executed and then the king is restored?”
Seated at the head of the table, Hiram scowled. “We’ll not discuss this at table.”
He was right. It was wiser not to involve the bairns in the argument. The less they knew, the safer everyone would be, so Hannah excused herself and fled to her chamber.
Pacing restlessly, she concocted scheme after perilous scheme to help her uncle escape. After more than an hour, she threw herself onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, exhausted by the impossibility and pointlessness of the idea. From what she’d heard of the castle, she’d need an army to breach its defences.
The only recourse left was to do what she could to ensure her uncle and his commanders were well treated and brought to trial in a speedy manner.
~~~
Morgan hadn’t cared much for Edinburgh the first time he’d passed through on his way to Dùn Fhoithear—a lifetime ago. “Too crowded,” he complained to Smythe. “This is the only place I know where you’ll see five or six-story houses. No room to build, I suppose.”
“Noisy as well,” his batman agreed, helping him ease the specially tailored four-fingered leather glove onto his injured hand. The wound was healing well and required only a light bandage, but he preferred to wear the glove in public. The finger only pained him when he thought of Hannah, which was every moment of every day.
The ancient castle that brooded over the town had been completely converted to a barracks at the beginning of Cromwell’s occupation. Abbott established his military headquarters there. For living accommodation, he took over a nearby mansion abandoned by its royalist owners. Morgan was assigned an amply furnished but not ostentatious bedchamber, the like of which he’d never slept in before. Even his father’s austere house was no match for the stark grandeur. He’d a feeling the place had been stripped of its previous owners’ possessions. The bed was comfortable, but the only way he could sleep at night was with Hannah’s shawl wrapped around his hand. He couldn’t get the twang of Solomon’s mouth harp out of his head.
“Do you miss the others?” he asked, worried his malaise might simply lie in adjusting to a new life.
Smythe eyed him. “The lads? I suppose I do, Colonel, but I’ll get used to it here and I ’preciate the opportunity.”
“You earned it,” Morgan told him truthfully, but didn’t mention how glad he was Abbott had agreed to let the youth leave the gunnery crew. He was fond of the boy and saw his potential. His accident on the beach was the reason he and Hannah had met. Or was their meeting predestined?
“Sir will do,” he told Smythe.
“Yes, Colonel,” came the reply as his servant gathered the day’s laundry and left.
Morgan doubted he would ever get used to Edinburgh nor to being addressed as Colonel. Abbott had told him in secret meetings that it would take months, mayhap years of negotiations and relationship building to accomplish the goal. “And no one must suspect what that goal is,” he’d warned. “I intend to remain Cromwell’s faithful friend and servant until the day he dies, and I expect the same of you.”
The future loomed like a precarious balancing act, but Morgan appreciated the trust Abbott had placed in him. He was confident he was equal to the task for which Hannah had been willing to sacrifice her life. If he immersed himself in it, mayhap the grief wouldn’t be as intense.
PREPARATIONS
Hiram poked the peat fire into life, then turned to his family, cleared his throat and read out an invitation to a reception. It was to be held a fortnight hence in the castle’s Great Hall in honor of Abbott's appointment as Governor of Scotland.
Hannah squirmed in her chair. “Surely you’re nay—not—planning to go?” she asked indignantly.
“Of course we’ll attend,” he replied with equal annoyance. “My absence would be seen as a snub. Not good for business. Governments come and go. Trade goes on.”
Hannah pouted for a while, but then it occurred to her this might be the opportunity she’d been looking for. “Mayhap I should come too.”
Hiram shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Chances are you’ll let something slip.”
His wife came to her rescue. “Hiram, it would do her good to get out, meet people.”
She’d hadn’t confided in Sorcha, but suspected the woman saw herself in the role of matchmaker, her mission to help Hannah get over a broken heart. There’d been a steady stream of unmarried male visitors to the house. None of them sparked her interest.
“I will be on my best behavior and speak like the educated noblewoman I was raised to be,” she promised, warming to the idea.
Hiram drummed the fingers of one hand on the mantel.
“Folk will wonder why you haven’t brought your guest along to congratulate Abbott,” she wheedled.
That did the trick, though he proceeded to enumerate various conditions, none of which she heard. She’d already begun to rehearse what to say to the famous general that would save her uncle from the chopping block.
The following day, lads from Hiram’s factory brought bolts of velvet. His wife insisted on dark green for Hannah and midnight blue for herself. Seamstresses appeared to take measurements and were soon busy cutting fabric. Sorcha lectured them at length about the cut and fit, and how the lace modesty panels were to be sewn into the décolletage in such a way to allow for easy removal.
“We must be prepared,” she whi
spered to Hannah, “for when fashions change.”
Feigning a headache, Hannah excused herself when her cousin’s wife launched into a treatise on the exact details of the coifs they were to make. She stifled a giggle at the vision of Lizzie Beaton’s facial reaction to such frivolities.
~~~
Wherever Morgan ventured inside the castle or without, rumor buzzed that Oliver and Elizabeth Cromwell would journey from London for the official installation of Abbott as Governor of Scotland.
The general assured him this would not be the case, but nevertheless encouraged the rumors. “If people are preoccupied with the pomp and circumstance it will keep their minds off sedition,” he told Morgan.
Organisation of the ceremony and the social gathering slated for afterwards was left in the hands of the castle’s steward, much to Morgan’s relief. He wasn’t in the mood for planning menus and entertainment. It fell to him to make preparations for Glenheath’s trial.
To this end, he paid several visits to Hannah’s uncle. He’d been apprehensive the first time, nervous he’d find the Scot chained to the wall in a foul dungeon, despite Abbott's reassurances to the contrary.
The odor of decay and damp increased his unease as he descended into the vaults, but it came as a relief when the jailer swung open the heavy doors to the cell built for prisoners of war. The jaunty tune being played on a tin whistle ceased abruptly. Glenheath and several of his men were relaxing in hammocks slung from beams below the domed brick ceiling. Red-faced grins reminded Morgan of naughty boys at Shrewsbury caught in the act of telling bawdy jokes.
He’d arranged for Murtagh to accompany the earl to Edinburgh. The blacksmith wasn’t an officer in the rebel army, but he’d saved Morgan’s life. The burly cook perched on a stool next to a square hole cut deep into the stone wall. A hearty fire burned in the grate within and Murtagh turned a spit on which was skewered something that looked and smelled surprisingly like a suckling pig. Laundry—shirts, drawers, hose—hung on rope lines strung here and there. Morgan thought he’d wandered into a well-equipped barracks and suspected this wasn’t the worst accommodation these hardy men had endured.
They bade him welcome, and he found himself looking forward to spending an hour or two in their company as he gathered information freely given. He came to consider the oft-asked question—Ye’re certain ye’re nay a Scot?—the highest compliment they could bestow.
THE ELF
Hannah stared at the lass gazing back at her from the mirror. Her braided hair was tucked into a pointy coif that made her look like an ælf from the tales the Northumbrians told. Secured under her chin with gossamer ties, the gold colored coif was exquisitely embroidered to match her green gown, but really—an ælf! If she managed to confront Abbott he’d think she was a creature conjured from the netherworld.
Yet when she looked again, she saw something else. She arched her back and smoothed her hands over breasts and hips. Loving Morgan had made her a woman.
Hiram burst into his wife’s chamber. “Wonderful,” he gushed. “Ye both look wonderful.”
Hannah noted the lapse into common speech but decided not to remark on it. He was barely aware of her. His regard for his wife, usually kept carefully in check, was evident, and she had to admit the petite Sorcha looked more attractively elfin that she did.
His euphoria was short-lived when the distraught French nanny hurried into the foyer as they were about to leave. “Mademoiselle Beatris is unwell,” she lamented.
“Unwell?” Hiram asked, clearly annoyed at domestic interference in his plans.
She stuck a finger in her mouth and gagged. “She retch, milord.”
Sorcha lay a hand on her exasperated husband’s arm. “It will only take a few minutes to calm her. She’s not used to both of us leaving.”
Hiram paced after she left.
Hannah sat in an upholstered chair, revising her plan of attack.
“We’ll be late,” he complained. “The hall will be crowded. I wanted to be near the front. It’s important to be seen.”
Suddenly, the idea of being subject to the hated general’s scrutiny stole Hannah’s courage. What if he recognised her from their brief encounter at Dùn Fhoithear? “Mayhap…”
But a smiling Sorcha swept into view. “All is well.” She took her agitated husband’s arm as he led the way to the waiting carriage.
When they arrived at the castle and were finally admitted to the Great Hall, Hiram’s words proved true. They were at the very back of an impenetrable crowd. He fumed, despite Sorcha’s whispered attempts to soothe him. Even on tiptoe Hannah could see nothing. She supposed one of the dozen or so uniformed men at the front of the cavernous hall was Abbott, but she’d have to wait until later for a chance to speak to him.
~~~
Morgan’s position as Abbott's adjutant mercifully ranked him in the second row of dignitaries lined up at the front of the Great Hall. His commander soaked up the attention of the elite of Edinburgh society as Cromwell’s edict naming him Governor was ceremoniously proclaimed.
The solemn words echoed off giant roof beams held aloft by carved stone corbels. The domed ceiling wasn’t as ornate as the soaring splendor of Chester’s cathedral, but the dark wood lent a brooding warmth.
Once the applause died down, conversation began, muted at fist, but then it gradually filled the hall with the lilt of predominantly male Scottish voices. Morgan delayed attaching himself to any particular group for as long as politely possible, accepting it as inevitable that every time he opened his mouth to speak, the first question would likely be…
The crush rendered mingling difficult and so the crowd moved as one, like flotsam on the incoming tide. Plaids of reds, blues, and greens proudly graced the men’s shoulders, but it seemed every woman patronized the same dressmaker. High necklines denied the menfolk even a glimpse of female flesh, and who could have suspected there was so much velvet in Scotland, every ell of it dull and drab.
He detached himself from a small group debating the merits of various breeds of sheep when he became aware of an altercation going on near the general. He ought to have stayed close to Abbott in the event of any unpleasantness. As he shouldered his way through the crowd he saw it was a woman wearing some kind of pointy headwear haranguing the new governor, despite attempts by some nearby to dissuade her.
They’d expected there might be a few dissenters in the crowd, but for a woman to be courageous enough…
His throat constricted. Breathing became difficult.
As he came up behind her, he glanced at Abbott. The tight smile pasted on his face betrayed the inner struggle to maintain his composure. The message in his narrowed eyes was clear—get rid of the unpleasant nuisance discreetly.
Then Morgan heard the voice he’d longed to hear. “Surely you understand that in your new position of authority, Governor Abbott, you must be seen to administer justice fairly. The Earl of Glenheath is a nobleman from a distinguished Scottish family who cannot be incarcerated in some dank cell and tortured. He surrendered to you willingly…”
When she paused for breath, Morgan stood as close as he dared without touching her, though it necessitated fisting his hands at his sides. He breathed in the scent he’d dreamed of, itched to gather her into his embrace as he watched the point of the coif bob up and down. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I can assure you, Mistress Kincaid, the earl and his men are not being tortured, and their cell is not dank.”
Abbott raised an eyebrow when she abruptly ceased her tirade.
She turned slowly, shock etched on her pale face. And something else. A longing in the green depths he suspected she saw reflected in his eyes. She opened her mouth, whimpered his name, then collapsed against his chest.
Silence reigned.
Abbott gaped. “Do I know this woman, Colonel Pendray?”
He put his arms around her as she swayed and looked down at the tip of her endearing headgear, resolved never to be separated from her again. “I’m not sure,�
�� he lied. “But I do, my lord Governor. She is my betrothed.”
~~~
Hannah struggled to understand how Morgan could be here, in Edinburgh, holding her, clearly as overjoyed to see her as she was to see him, but all she could squeak out of her quivering lips was, “Colonel Pendray?”
Abbott's stern voice brought her crashing back to reality. “Your betrothed seems upset. I suggest you escort her out of the hall, and we’ll discuss this later.”
Morgan clamped a strong arm around her waist and pressed her to his side. She clung to his gloved hand, fearing she was squeezing too tightly. The curious throng parted for them like a field of wheat in the onslaught of a summer storm as he hurried her out. Her feet barely touched the polished planked floor.
“Don’t speak,” he warned as he whisked her outside, across the Palace Yard and up the steps into Saint Margaret’s chapel.
When the door slammed behind them, he lifted her into his embrace and pressed her back against the cold stones. His mouth claimed her lips—his kiss rough, demanding, full of need. Their tongues embarked on a frenzied mating dance. They mewled, groaned, sighed, nibbled and sucked. She made needy, throaty noises she’d never made before. They skimmed hands over intimate places, relearning in a few frantic moments all that had been only a precious memory.
The coif slipped off her head, dangling around her neck by its ties. Painstakingly braided hair loosened under the onslaught of Morgan’s fingers and fell like a cape around her shoulders.
He braced his thighs against hers and pressed his arousal to her most intimate place. “I missed you,” he growled.
“I can tell,” she replied, feeling reckless, relishing the wild abandon of their reunion after too many sennights of restraint and longing.
She kissed his gloved hand. “Is it healing?” she asked.
“Aye, thanks to Murtagh.”
They laughed as he nuzzled her neck. She peered into the dark chapel and her heart stopped. “We shouldn’t be in here,” she breathed.
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