The Thorn & the Thistle

by Julie Moffett

  Megan exhaled a sharp breath. “Mary, Mother o’ God. I’m...sorry.”

  “I’m not asking for your pity.”

  “I did no’ offer it. ’Tis an awful tragedy.”

  “Then condemn me like everyone else. I don’t blame her for seeking companionship elsewhere. When I married her, I was a whole man, yet I came back from battle a cripple. She was horrified, frightened by my injury. I could see in her eyes that she didn’t want me to touch her. It soon became quite evident that it was better for both of us when I was away.”

  Megan shook her head. “Your injury does no’ change the man ye are on the inside. Ye can’t change what has happened, but ye can make a difference wi’ the future.”

  Rolf looked down at his maimed hand. “Are you saying that this abomination does not offend you?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve seen men recover from far worse wounds. ’Tis no’ the hand that pains ye, Englishman, but ’tis what’s inside. Ye mistakenly view yourself as less than a man. And unless ye rid yourself o’ this misconception, ye’ll never make yourself whole again.”

  For a long moment, Rolf stared at her before murmuring, “You’ll not make me vulnerable to you, Megan MacLeod.”

  “True, for I cannot.”

  He frowned, stood. “I’m afraid I must concede the game this evening. I find myself weary and in need of a drink.” He leaned over the chessboard and swept the wooden pieces into the velvet bag. “So, I shall bid you good night.”

  She spoke, her voice soft. “What are ye really running from, Englishman?”

  She thought she heard him breathe a curse. “You are mistaken, Megan. I’m not running. I’m retiring. Good night.” He left the room without another word.

  Megan watched him go. She knew as surely as she knew the sun rose in the morning that he was running. Whether it was from his life in London, his dead wife, or his past, she did not know. Yet the troubling question remained, how would this affect her plans for her clan?

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The king’s messenger has just arrived,” Peter announced, walking into Rolf’s bedchamber.

  “At this hour?” Rolf asked in surprise. When Peter nodded, Rolf closed the book he was reading. He had already undressed for bed, and sat near the fire in a loose dressing robe, warming his bare feet. “Splendid. Take him to the library. I’ll be with him as soon as I am dressed.”

  Peter nodded and shut the door. Rolf stood, untying the robe and casting it carelessly to the bed. Quickly, he strode across the room, reaching for his breeches and pulling them over his legs. Perching on the edge of the bed, he drew stockings over his calves, fastening them to his breeches with a small buckle. He then thrust his feet into a pair of boots before standing and tugging on a long-sleeved shirt of white linen. As he headed for the door, his hand hovered over his neck cloth. After a moment of indecision, he left the cloth where it was, damning convention and fashion.

  In minutes, he entered the library. The messenger was already waiting for him, standing at the hearth where the fire had been rekindled. He turned quickly to face Rolf when he heard the approaching footsteps.

  “My lord,” he said, dipping his head.

  Rolf nodded a greeting, noticing that this messenger was far younger than he had expected. Dark circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes were evident, as was the paleness of his skin. It appeared as if the journey through the Highlands had been a difficult one for him.

  “Please sit,” Rolf said, motioning to a chair and then sat down himself.

  The young man looked at him gratefully. “Thank you, my lord. It was a most tiring journey. I’d swear that there were evil spirits in the forest, watching me as I passed through. It was most unsettling.”

  Rolf, too, had felt as if someone were watching him. More than likely it had not been evil spirits but Megan’s clan clad in forbidden plaids, blending into the landscape.

  “You traveled alone?”

  The young man shook his head. “No. I had an armed escort of Scotsmen from Edinburgh. These Lowlanders are loyal to the king. It was a rather unusual experience, but I arrived safely.”

  “Have you a message for me?”

  The messenger nodded, reaching into a small pouch on his leather belt and pulling out a rolled parchment. He handed it over to Rolf, who examined the seal. Satisfied that it was genuine, he rose to his feet.

  “My men will see that you and your escorts have something to eat and a place to rest. I may have wish to send a reply, so I require you to remain for at least another day.”

  The young man came to his feet. “Aye, my lord.”

  Moving to the door, Rolf called for Peter. The older man appeared instantly. “See that Abigail prepares the men something to eat,” he instructed. “Then return as quickly as possible. I wish to have a word with you.”

  Peter nodded, motioning for the young man to follow him. As soon as they had disappeared down the corridor, Rolf stepped back inside. Taking the parchment, he sat, clearing the top of papers with a single sweep of his hand. Then, with a swift pull, he broke the seal on the parchment and unrolled it, smoothing the edges down with the flat of his hands. Dragging the candle closer, he began to read.

  He had no idea how long he sat there, reading and then re-reading the message. He read it for the fourth time when Peter entered.

  Rolf jerked his head up. “God’s wounds. Everyone in London has gone bloody mad.”

  Alarm swept across Peter’s face. “What is it? Has the king denied you the right to grant pardons and land?”

  Rolf’s eyes glittered. “No, of course not. He had already given me permission to do so before I left. But he has insisted that I must see Megan wed to Edwin Farrington.”

  Peter blinked, his weathered face draining of color. “Wed to Farrington? Good God, whatever possessed him to command such a thing?”

  Rolf released the parchment from beneath his forearms and the paper bounced once before curling up again. “King George cites her father as a traitor to the crown and therefore claims Megan as his ward. He believes her union with Farrington will secure English authority in the area.”

  Peter stared at Rolf in horror. “But it will do little more than goad the Wolf into acts of greater violence.”

  “Damnation, man, do you think I do not know this?”

  Peter reached out for a chair, lowering his stocky frame into it. “Perhaps the lass is already wed.”

  Rolf scowled. “She isn’t. I spoke with her about that very matter just a few weeks ago. And now she is certain to think I had something to do with this.”

  “Her opinion matters to you?”

  Rolf pushed away from the desk, coming to his feet. “What difference does it make now? We both know that such a wedding will settle nothing. Farrington is unstable, detestable and fiercely hated by all who know him.”

  Peter raised a shaggy eyebrow. “Still, you know it’s not an unusual request. Enemies are often wed to secure peace.”

  “But to wed her to Farrington is unthinkable.”

  “Unthinkable for you, Rolf. Apparently not for the king.”

  Rolf crashed his fist down on the desk. “It would destroy everything I’ve tried to do here. I won’t permit it.”

  “Your sentiments about the girl are noble, but we have little choice. We must do as the king commands.”

  Striding across the room to the window, Rolf gazed at the dark courtyard. “Blast it, George knows how I feel about Farrington. What game is he playing?”

  Peter rubbed his temples. “Would you like some advice from an old man? Don’t question the actions of your King.”

  “I can’t just turn her over to Farrington, and you know it.”

  Peter sighed. “It’s not hard to imagine what life would be like for her if she were to wed such a man. I also kn
ow that you have come to care for her, Rolf. She is a most...unusual woman.”

  Rolf’s face remained grim. “Unusual, indeed. She has lied to me about her identity, misled me to believe she was a common whore, single-handedly injured one of my men while releasing Scottish prisoners held under my control and damn near skewered me with a blade. Yet I find myself drawn to her, as I’ve not been to any other woman.”

  “I suppose we can’t blame her for trying to protect her father and her clansmen. She appears to be fiercely loyal to those she cares for.”

  “I know it, but damnation, there must be something we can do to extricate ourselves from this situation honorably.”

  When Peter did not answer, Rolf began his lengthy strides back and forth across the room. “What could he be plotting? He knows that I admire her. For Christ’s sake, I couldn’t have made it any clearer in my letter. He would have realized that I’d be opposed to such a suggestion.”

  “He is anxious to see matters here settled once and for all. Don’t forget that Farrington is destined to live his life in the Highlands. He’s a petty nobleman with no future in London. Perhaps the king wishes to forge something permanent here. I suppose this could be accomplished by a union such as he proposes.”

  “No.” Rolf suddenly stopped his pacing and turned to Peter. “I have a better idea. I could petition the king to allow me to wed Megan instead of Farrington.”

  Peter’s mouth dropped open in stunned amazement. “You? Have you gone mad, Rolf?”

  “If the king wishes to secure this area under English rule, what better way than to have one of his most trusted lords wed the girl?”

  “But it would mean living in the Highlands...indefinitely.”

  “Megan and I could divide our time between London and Castle Kilcraig. It would be no loss for me. You know full well that ever since Caroline’s death, London and the court have been intolerable for me.”

  Peter stood, spreading his hands in dismay. “But certainly the king never believed that you would actually wish to live here.”

  “Perhaps he did, Peter,” Rolf murmured. “He knows how blasted miserable I am in London and he’s been urging me to marry. I did speak quite highly of Megan in my letter. Possibly, in his own crafty way, this is George’s method of prodding me into action—testing me to see how much I care for the girl.”

  “God preserve us. Now I am certain you have gone mad. Do you really think the king would want the only heir to the St. James estate to wed nothing more than a penniless Scottish girl?”

  “She’s not really penniless, Peter, at least not in the eyes of the Scots. She is the daughter of the MacLeod laird—the most powerful laird in this area. Her claim to that land, and thus mine if I were to be her husband, would be fully legal within the boundaries of their laws. I’m certain the king would approve.”

  “This land already belongs to England. You do not need to wed her for it to be legal in our laws. For God’s sake, I urge you to think about what you are proposing.”

  Rolf sighed at the distressed tone of Peter’s voice. “I am not concerned with our laws, Peter. If we want to soothe tensions here, then we must learn to respect the customs of the Scots. By taking Megan as my wife, I would settle two very important issues. First, in their eyes, I would have the strongest claim to the lairdship. It doesn’t matter that I already inhabit Castle Kilcraig. If I were to wed Megan, they would finally see me as having acquired it legally. Second, Robert MacLeod would certainly find some measure of satisfaction that his only daughter would return to Castle Kilcraig as its mistress. He would also be assured that her future is secure. I believe it to be an honorable solution to all parties involved.”

  Peter shook his head, his face a mixture of concern and disbelief. “Even if the king were to agree to your proposal, you can’t expect the girl to accept it. Farrington may have slain her brother, but you are seeking to end her father’s life. What makes you any better in her eyes?”

  Rolf winced at the truth of his statement. “Presumably nothing. But I’ll not harm her as Farrington would. You know that, Peter.”

  “Aye, I know that, lad. But you’ll have the devil of a time convincing her.”

  “Yes, I know. But we both know that I don’t need her permission.” Rolf walked over to Peter, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Come now, man, don’t be so anxious for my future. You worry over me like a nursemaid to a babe.”

  “Are you certain you really want to do this, Rolf?” Peter asked, still sounding unconvinced. “Sacrificing yourself like this? I’m not certain your father would approve.”

  Rolf clapped him on the back. “On the contrary, old friend. Although I can’t say that I look forward to the event, it is time for me to take another wife and provide an heir to the St. James estate. By wedding Megan, I will solve a problem for the king as well as for myself. My father always encouraged me to put duty and service above all. What more could he want for me than to marry for the good of England?”

  Peter shook his gray head. “I just hope you know what you are doing. I’m not convinced the king will agree to your proposal.”

  “Somehow, Peter, I am certain he will. In fact, while I await his reply, I believe it’s time I made myself more familiar with the glen, the villagers, not to mention the woman I plan to make my wife.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Spring was in the air.

  Megan lifted her nose to the wind, letting the reins of her mount rest lightly between her fingers. It was her personal rite of spring—seeing if she could detect the first scent of the yellow buttercups, blue harebells and wavy purple heather. The scent was not yet full blown, but Megan could already observe the first signs of the season in the glen. The sun had all but melted the most stubborn patches of snow, revealing scattered patches of rich, fertile Highland soil. The grass had begun to sprout from the earth and sun warmed the soft green moss. The hills were on the verge of bursting into the full colors of spring—lush green, cheery yellow, stunning purple and rich browns.

  She could hardly believe that spring had arrived in Gairloch and the English had held her a prisoner for several months. Yet that time had not been wasted. A foundation for peace had been laid, if only she could convince her people to accept it.

  She glanced over at Rolf, who rode beside her. He had been in remarkably good spirits for the past three weeks, whistling and jaunting about the castle as if he had not a care in the world. Today he had appeared in her doorway, eyes twinkling, and invited her to accompany him to the village. She had not been there since the day Farrington had burned it down, and wondered what had prompted his sudden decision to permit her to come with him now. When she questioned his unusual invitation, he only smiled.

  Wondering what he had planned, she rode to the village with him. Peter, Andrew and several other men also accompanied them. To her astonishment, when they reached the village, people ran out of the crofts to greet Rolf, smiling and waving. Megan’s mouth dropped open in stunned amazement. Had the villagers forgotten that he was an Englishman?

  Rolf stopped his horse at one of the crofts where a middle-aged man sat out in front, whittling a piece of wood with a sharp knife. Megan immediately recognized him as Dugald Faegen, the village woodcarver. Built like a small tree trunk, Dugald had been one of the best raiders her father had. Unfortunately, he had been lamed in one leg during a foray. Her father had insisted he return to the village where he could better serve the people who needed his skills. Dugald had done so reluctantly, but had served as a source of strength to the villagers ever since.

  When Dugald saw Rolf, he put aside his knife and wood before rising. Rolf dismounted and strode toward him in a few short steps. Megan quickly slid off her horse as well, watching with growing curiosity as to what Rolf would do next.

  To her amazement, Dugald reached down beside his chair and tossed Rolf a long woode
n pole. Rolf caught it easily in his good hand as his men crowded around him. Megan gasped as Dugald picked up another pole and held it in front of him.

  “Are ye ready, Englishman?” the wood carver called out.

  More villagers began to emerge from the huts, greeting Megan, but turning their attention to Dugald and Rolf. Before Megan could ask what was happening, Rolf had unfastened his light cloak, letting it fall to the ground.

  “I’m ready,” he announced.

  “Saints above,” Megan gasped when she realized what was going to do. She turned to Peter. “Ye must stop this. He can’t fight Dugald.”

  Peter put a hand on her shoulder. “Rest easy. Have you forgotten that Rolf has only one hand? He’ll not the harm the old man.”

  “’Tis no’ Dugald I’m worried about,” she hissed back.

  Peter chuckled. “Hush, my lady, and watch. It is quite a sight.”

  Megan looked on in dismay as Dugald moved forward, raising his pole. Rolf stepped forward to meet him, holding the stick in his good hand. Dugald gave a small cry and the two sticks crashed together with a loud crack. The force of Rolf’s hit jarred, but Dugald feinted sideways, slipping behind Rolf and clobbering him on the back with a loud thud. Rolf grunted in pain and stumbled sideways, but managed to turn around and get his stick up in time to deflect the next blow.

  “Well, now, ye are improving a wee bit, lad,” Dugald taunted, a broad smile crossing his face. “Two weeks ago, ye’d be on your arse.”

  Rolf moved forward a step, taking a swing at Dugald’s left shoulder. “Well, I assure you, I have no intention of finding my arse anywhere on ground today.”

  Dugald blocked the stick, but the force of the blow caused him to back up a few steps. “Ye’ve a lot o’ fancy words, Englishman. But let’s see what ye can really do.”

  Rolf grinned, swinging his stick again. Megan held her breath as Dugald easily met it and thrust at Rolf’s exposed side. But Rolf had anticipated the attack, leaning into the blow instead of away from it. The stick hit Rolf’s shoulder with minimal force. Rolf seized the advantage of his close proximity by thrusting his own stick against Dugald’s arm. Dugald managed to hold on to his stick but was not fast enough to counter Rolf’s next blow. Moments later, the older man went sprawling face-first in the dirt.