A Midsummer Wedding (The Scottish Relic Trilogy)

by May McGoldrick

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  A MIDSUMMER WEDDING

  May McGoldrick

  Chapter One

  Stirling Castle, Scotland

  Summer 1484

  “It’s your wedding,” the young queen said. “So why do I feel as if I’m sending you to the gallows?”

  Elizabeth Hay stood at the open window of the White Tower, looking across the busy courtyard toward the chapel. A hum of voices drifted up to her as worry tightened its grip on her throat. The brilliant morning sun was shining down on the castle’s Inner Close. Along the walls yellow flags with the red lion rampant alternated with the queen’s new flag of blue and white. The shadow of a bird drew Elizabeth’s eyes to the sky. A hawk soared high above the castle walls. Elizabeth wished she could grow wings and fly above it all, her senses so sharp that she could know who came, who left, who made promises, and who broke them.

  Instead, the painful tightness grew into a knot, spreading into her chest until she could not take a full breath.

  “Elizabeth,” the queen persisted. “I’m worried about you.”

  The young woman turned to face Queen Margaret of Denmark, now the wife of James of Scotland. Known not only for her elegance and beauty, but for her kindness, Margaret’s concern showed plainly on her troubled face. Crossing the room, the queen took her hand, seated Elizabeth beside her on a bench by the window, and waved away the attending lady’s maids.

  “You’re crying.”

  “Am I?” Elizabeth managed to say, unaware of the tears slipping down her cheek.

  “Perhaps we haven’t pursued every option. If you honestly don’t want to marry this Highlander, I will insist on a postponement.”

  “Nay, that’s not it,” she began, faltering. How could she explain to the queen how she felt? Everyone assumed she was simply nervous about such a momentous step, worried over losing the life she was accustomed to, uncertain about the future. But there was so much more that Queen Margaret didn’t know, so much that had transpired these past few days.

  The young queen produced a silk kerchief and patted away the dampness on Elizabeth’s cheeks.

  The chapel bells began to toll. And now there wasn’t even a moment to explain.

  The time had come for her to go. Elizabeth stood and motioned to the other women to help her with the veil.

  “I can halt the ceremony,” Queen Margaret offered once again, putting a hand on her arm. “I can speak to my advisors right now.”

  “Nay, Highness. You’re very kind. I know you’ve done all you can to help me. But the hands have been dealt, and fortunes decided. Come what may, I must go.”

  * * *

  The Highlander waited in the Inner Close by the door to the Chapel of St. Michael. A congregation of nobles already stood inside, talking in hushed tones. Above their heads blades of golden light from the slits of windows cut brightly through swirling clouds of incense.

  Clan chiefs and lairds across Scotland knew that this union had been two decades in the making. Many wondered if the marriage would ever be consummated. It was an old story. A lass of three, a lad of seven—pawns in a contract when a fleet of ships was transferred for extensive tracts of land. As the years passed, anyone familiar with the two had hoped the families would find other means of satisfying the old promises, for it had become obvious to all that the couple were completely ill-suited for each other.

  And no one had hoped for it more than the two young people themselves.

  Macpherson frowned and edged into the shade of the doorway. Everyone in Scotland knew how different they were. Elizabeth Hay had been educated and brought up in the courts of Italy and Denmark. Now a close companion of the queen, she was well traveled, fluent in several languages, and a talented musician. In addition to being a friend of the queen, she served as the indispensable right hand of her father, the well-known architect Ambrose Hay.

  And he, himself? To the seagoing men of Scotland and England, he was Macpherson of Benmore Castle, the Black Cat of the Highlands, commander of a dozen ships that raided rich coastal towns and wreaked havoc on British, Dutch, and French traders. His chosen profession had made him a wealthy man. In seaside villages from Antwerp to Dublin, mothers evoked his name when they wanted to strike terror into their unruly whelps on dark nights. He was a Highlander. Wild, free, and dangerous. And for a wife, his closest allies believed, he would take a woman made of the same hardy stock. Not some delicate Lowland flower. Certainly not Elizabeth Hay.

  And yet here he was, sweating as the bells tolled.

  Macpherson glanced impatiently at the White Tower. Doubts ate away at him. She wasn’t coming. This marriage was not going to happen.

  A doorway opened across the Inner Close, and Queen Margaret glided over the stones of the courtyard, attended by her entourage. But he had no eyes for her. His gaze was fixed on the veiled bride at her side.

  The young laird muttered another curse under his breath and scowled at the woman drawing near. The hell he’d gone through to be here at this moment. Had she suffered, at all? The embroidered veil hid any view of her face.

  He did not speak until the queen and the rest of the bride’s escorts filed past them into the chapel.

  “M’lady,” he growled.

  “Highlander,” she replied, coming to stand before him.

  “Blast me,” he cursed, taking hold of the veil and tossing it back away from her face. “You lied.”

  Chapter Two

  Seven days earlier

  Stirling Castle

  Elizabeth Hay shivered involuntarily as she stared at the deer brought to bay in the colorful forest on the large tapestry adorning an entire wall of the queen’s chamber.

  “That is not you.”

  “Nay,” Elizabeth agreed. “My tale is captured on an entirely different tapestry. I’m in the one depicting the harried old sow, chased down and speared by a drunken pack of dirty Highlanders for my future husband’s amusement.”

  Elizabeth turned and faced Queen Margaret, sitting with Clare Seton, one of the ladies-in-waiting.

  The queen smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that one.”

  She nodded. “I’m not surprised. They only bring it out on special occasions. Don’t want to frighten any of the maidens unnecessarily.”

  Elizabeth strode to the window, breathing in the damp air. Below, rain-soaked cotters from the nearby farms were already carting in food for the upcoming wedding feast.

  “You may be allowing your imagination to run a little wild, my friend,” the queen observed. “This is a rather dark vision of the future.”

  “A future that I’m desperate to avoid.”

  “Elizabeth, we’ve been through this.”

  “I know.”

  “Macpherson is a Highlander, as you say, but the man is acting quite honorably.”

  “An honorable act that I have no wish to be any part of,” Elizabeth said flatly, trying to keep he
r temper in check.

  Five years ago, she’d been ready. But where was he then? At eighteen, she was fresh-faced and eager, dreaming of the man she’d been promised to all her life. Innocent, believing in the power of love, she’d expected him to arrive and they’d wed and he’d take her to his castle in the Highlands. Trusting in life and the man who was to be her future husband, she had no fears, no insecurities. The future was an oyster with a precious pearl, ready for her to pluck.

  But Elizabeth had dreamed of a man who never came for her. Year after year, her hopes faded. Doubt took root. Rumors reached her about her intended’s legendary exploits . . . and a lass or two in every port. Sailing the seas, raiding rich towns, living the life of adventure. He was the Black Cat of Benmore. Terror of the German Sea.

  Somewhere along those years, she stopped waiting and locked her foolish dreams deep within her. Time passed and Elizabeth traveled with her father, helping him with his work and learning his art of building. As a widower and a well-known and respected architect, Ambrose Hay made his home wherever his current building project took him. Together, they’d lived and worked in the courts of Europe. For Elizabeth, knowledge became a passion. Free of the burden of a future that depended on a husband, she developed a new life. A life that was hers.

  In the end, Elizabeth learned not to want him. She wouldn’t have him. She couldn’t imagine giving up her life to be a mere laird’s wife in a pile of stones in the Highlands. Without this marriage, she’d continue to travel with her father across the world. This was the future she wanted now.

  But suddenly the Highlander had decided it was time. He’d come to Stirling, expecting her to be that naïve eighteen-year-old. Ready for him. Grateful for him. Ha!

  Earlier that morning, she’d had a long and exhausting discussion with her father on this same topic. A month ago, the two of them had a future in place. He was commissioned to start a palace in France next June and he was taking her with him. This week, Ambrose Hay wouldn’t hear of calling off the wedding. A contract needed to be honored. The family’s name was at stake. Time didn’t negate their responsibility.

  Frustrated, she’d left her father with his plans and models piled high around him, and turned to her friend for solace. During their year here in Stirling, residing in the castle while her father worked on the renovations, Elizabeth had become a companion and confidante to the queen.

  “Stop your pacing and come sit with us.”

  Elizabeth wished she could take the queen’s suggestion, but she was too agitated.

  Clare Seton looked up from her sewing. “You can’t deny that Macpherson has made an effort.”

  Elizabeth glared at her. Whose friend was she? They all seemed in awe of the late-comer. Traitors.

  “What do you mean?” the queen asked.

  “The Highlander’s squire came to the castle asking for Elizabeth again this morning,”

  “Again?” Margaret asked. “What did he want?”

  “The messages, twice yesterday and once this morning, were the same. The laird wishes to meet with her. But she won’t even send back an answer.”

  “Why won’t you meet with him?” the queen asked, turning to Elizabeth.

  “Because I know what he wants.”

  Margaret raised one eyebrow inquiringly. “And that is?”

  Elizabeth had already explained the difference the years had wrought in her, but her friend’s romantic nature would not budge. A chance at love transcended time and disappointment.

  Queen Margaret had been a pawn herself in an arranged marriage, and she now lived in permanent estrangement from her husband. The queen knew firsthand the cold reality of the marriage business. If anyone should be able to understand Elizabeth’s dilemma, Margaret should. But she didn’t because she lived on the possibility of romance.

  Elizabeth needed a different approach. “Macpherson and I have never met. He simply wants to see me and appraise me as he would any property he was about to acquire.”

  “You could do the same,” the queen suggested. “Perhaps you’ll find out he’s more than just the wild and uncouth Highlander you imagine.”

  Too late. Elizabeth didn’t want to find anything positive about the man or this union. The mere thought of being shipped off to Benmore Castle to live among people she didn’t know made her shudder. The idea of marriage no longer held any romance. She wanted to keep the life she had now. She wanted to go to France with her father.

  Clare stopped sewing and laid her work in her lap. Even before Clare opened her mouth, Elizabeth realized she might have to kill her.

  “The word already circulating around the castle is that he’s quite handsome,” Clare offered.

  “And he’s a pirate,” the queen added with barely concealed enthusiasm. “That alone speaks of a life of adventure and excitement. A real man. And I understand he’s wealthy.”

  “Then he’ll have no trouble choosing a suitable wife,” Elizabeth responded, looking from one to the other. “He can find a woman of beauty and charm. Someone with a gentle temperament. An eighteen-year-old who would be submissive to his every whim . . . when he’s not out robbing defenseless merchant ships. Anyone, so long as I am not that woman.”

  She couldn’t care less what he wanted. She didn’t want to know what kind of wife he sought. She wished he’d just go away.

  “Come now,” Margaret said gently. “If you feel that way, meet with him and tell him just that. Tell him you release him of his responsibility.”

  She couldn’t. She’d never openly defy her father. Never bring dishonor to the family name. The Highlander would have to back away from the marriage.

  Elizabeth wrung her hands and started pacing the room, unable to understand the panic clutching at her when she thought of actually meeting with the man and making such a request. Would he agree? Could she convince him? What would happen if he refused?

  He had to be an arrogant blackguard. She’d heard the rumors. Alexander Macpherson was, by all reports, handsome and even charming. He’d been in Stirling only two days, and already there’d been talk of the man’s great height, the intense blue eyes, the smile that made a lass forget her own name. He was accustomed to having his own way with women. He took what he wanted, and he wanted this marriage. Why else would he come here now? He would never agree.

  “I can’t,” she cried out with a plaintive look at the queen. “If only for my father’s honor, I can’t be the one who breaks this contract. But I don’t want to go through with this wedding.”

  She paced the chamber, feeling as trapped as the deer in the tapestry. Each time she passed a window, she stopped and looked out at the workers, the walls, and the mist-enshrouded mountains beyond. The rain had been falling for two days, from the moment Macpherson arrived. Queen Margaret and Clare had their heads together, and they were whispering steadily.

  “Elizabeth,” the queen said finally. “Let’s be clear on this. You want the Highlander to back out of this contract.”

  “That’s it, Your Highness.”

  “But you understand that it’s crucial for both of you to emerge from this with your honor intact,” the queen continued. “Whatever happens, you don’t want to start any rumors that might tarnish your reputation or his.”

  The situation was impossible. She forced herself to take a full breath. Tarnishing her reputation was not an answer. Her father’s honor mattered. She felt helpless about what to do. Clare and the queen quietly exchanged a few more words.

  Clare was the one who spoke up. “Perhaps we can play to the Highlander’s personal sense of honor.”

  A last shred of hope. Perhaps he had a sense of honor. Would he listen to her plea? She doubted it. She couldn’t risk it.

  “What if Macpherson believed your affections already lay with another man?” the queen suggested. “Nothing scandalous. But what if he thought you’re in love?”

  “But I’m not. How could I conjure such a person out of thin air? And how would I make him believe such a thing?�
��

  “We’ll change places,” Clare said.

  It was impossible. Clare Seton was the queen’s lady-in-waiting and betrothed to Sir Robert Johnstone, a wealthy Lowlander. People knew her. Her family was well-connected at court.

  “You’re certain that Macpherson has never laid eyes on you?” the queen asked.

  “Never,” Elizabeth replied. She hadn’t gone anywhere in public since the day he’d arrived in Stirling. Desperate, she looked on in anticipation as the two women exchanged a conspiratorial look.

  “This afternoon, I’m to meet with Sir Robert,” Clare told her, “at Cambuskenneth Abbey.”

  Elizabeth knew her friend was to be married at summer’s end. It was a love match, to be sure, and hardly the same situation as she was facing. She waited, not liking where this conversation was going.

  “I think the plan is brilliant, Clare,” Queen Margaret said, picking up the thread. She turned back to Elizabeth. “You will go and meet the Highlander where he’s staying, introducing yourself as Clare Seton. While you’re there, you will weave tales of anguish. You’ll tell him that ‘Elizabeth’ has stolen your betrothed.”

  “That won’t do,” Elizabeth cried, understanding the game they were trying to arrange.

  “Time is pressing, and Clare’s plan is what we have.”

  The queen paused and glared at her, making sure Elizabeth was paying attention. “You will accompany the laird down to the abbey. Hearing your tale of woe, he’ll deny that romance because she belongs to him. You will tell him his eyes will prove her words true. That Elizabeth is in anguish over the upcoming wedding. She is meeting with her paramour this very hour at the abbey across the river.”

  “No!”

  “Hush.” The queen tsked her to silence. “At the abbey, Clare—pretending to be you—will be waiting with Sir Robert. When the Highlander sees ‘Elizabeth’ with the man she loves, he will be overcome and release her—er, you—from the engagement.”

  “But none of that is true.”

  The queen rolled her eyes. “Help us here. Help us rescue you.”