A Midsummer Wedding (The Scottish Relic Trilogy)

by May McGoldrick

  Elizabeth bit her lip. This had to be the most ridiculous plan she’d ever heard. It would never work.

  “When they reach the abbey,” Queen Margaret said to Clare, “I expect you to be putting on a tragic show of love and loss.”

  “I can do that,” Clare said.

  “But I can’t,” Elizabeth blurted out. “This is far too complicated.”

  “Why? What can go wrong?” the queen asked.

  A thousand things, she thought. “Macpherson is a warrior. This is certain to bruise his honor, and we don’t know how he’ll respond. What if he decides to approach them? Engage Sir Robert in a fight? What do I do if—?”

  “I’ll make sure my own guards will be there to keep anything from getting out of hand,” Margaret told her. “That is not a worry. But for this plan to work, you must do your part. Before he even sees them, you must convince Macpherson to take pity on ‘Elizabeth Hay’ and back away from this marriage. You’ll need to do the lion’s share of the work at the tavern and along the way.”

  So she must pretend to be someone else. Lie about a non-existent liaison. Fool this man with a ruse he might see through in a moment.

  This was a hopeless plan. Elizabeth was in real trouble.

  Chapter Three

  Two days he’d been stuck here, and Macpherson was getting damned tired of the place. The inn where he was staying, just down the hill from the castle, was a ramshackle affair, but it was the best one in the borough, boasting fairly clean rooms, an actual bed, a reasonably honest innkeeper, and the best ale for twenty miles. He needed to be in Stirling, but the Highlander had no interest in staying with anyone who kept houses here. So he’d let the entire inn.

  As Alexander sat at a long table in the empty taproom finishing his letter, one of the shutters of a window looking out onto the street banged loudly. The wind coming in from the southwest was rising. If he were at sea, he’d be taking in sail and preparing for a squall.

  He looked over the letter. He was no lawyer, and certainly no poet, but it would have to do. Corking the ink horn, he gestured for his squire David to return the writing implements to the innkeeper, who’d just carried in a fresh cask of ale from the cellars. The day had been uncomfortably warm with hard rain occasionally blowing through. Alexander thought for the fiftieth time how he wished he were breathing the fresh salt air from the deck of his ship or the clean mountain air from the ramparts of Benmore Castle.

  He couldn’t wait to leave the Court. The very air here suffocated him. The sycophants, panderers, fops, the cowards pretending to be warriors, the games, the women dressing to lure their friends’ husbands, the painted smiles, the fluttering eyes. This was the place where virtue went to die. Summoned numerous times by the king to Falkland Palace, he was well schooled in the poisoned atmosphere of the court. Stirling Castle was no different. And his intended was comfortably embedded in this festering climate. No wonder she couldn’t allow herself to give notice to his requests.

  The wiry young squire returned and stood waiting a few paces off while the Highlander read over the letter one more time and then folded it.

  “Take this to the White Tower,” Alexander ordered. “I want it hand-delivered to Mistress Hay.”

  “You know, m’lord,” David said cautiously, “I shan’t have any more luck getting this message to the lady than I did before.”

  Alexander glared at the young man. “You need to impress on the queen’s guard that this is important. The blasted wedding is only seven days off. The letter must get to her now. Tell him, or whoever you talk to, that the content of this is vitally important to . . . to my intended. Now get your skinny arse up that hill to the castle.”

  “Aye, m’lord,” David said, rightly sensing danger in his master’s tone.

  Taking up the letter, he bolted for the open door, nearly running down a shape that moved into his path from the street.

  “Beg pardon, m’lady.”

  Alexander looked up in surprise at the woman coming into the taproom. The hood of her light cloak had tipped back, revealing golden blond hair bound in thick braid that disappeared down her back. Her dress of deep green was belted with a sash of black velvet that matched the color of the cloak. This was not the baker’s daughter, come to deliver the bread for supper.

  She did not look right or left, but went directly to the innkeeper, who seemed as surprised as the Highlander.

  “Don’t know what I can do for you, mistress,” the man said. “But the inn is closed for the next sennight.”

  “Closed?” she repeated, perplexed. “But I was told that the Macpherson laird is staying here.”

  “Aye.” The innkeeper nodded toward Alexander. “There’s the very man himself.”

  The blond head swung around, noticing him for the first time. “Oh!”

  Above her high cheekbones, large alert eyes fixed on him. Wide, full lips pressed together as she studied him. The lass was young, pleasing to look at, but from the set of her shoulders and the hands clasped tightly together, he decided she was a woman on a mission. She started toward him.

  Alexander stood. “What can I do for you, mistress?”

  She didn’t see a bench protruding from beneath a table until it was too late. Alexander dove toward her as the woman’s arms flew out to arrest her fall, and he caught her just before she hit the stone floor. As he lifted her back onto her feet, he realized he was holding her in his arms a bit longer than he should. And he wasn’t complaining.

  Pressed against his chest, she was all curves beneath the cloak and layers of clothing. Alexander’s head filled with the most tantalizing scent he’d ever smelled on a woman. A combination of roses and . . . something else. Citrus flowers. Sweet memories of sailing in the Mediterranean flooded back to him.

  With her feet once again on the floor, she tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go. They were wedged between two tables. Her attempt at sliding past him resulted in his chin brushing across the top of her head. The softness of the golden hair startled him.

  By the time Alexander was able to look into her face, the woman’s earlier appearance of determination was gone. Her face was flushed, and she was making a great production of rubbing a bruised knee even as she straightened her dress and cloak.

  “Perhaps we should start again,” he said, not trying to hide his amusement. “As I said, I’m Alexander Macpherson. What can I do for you, mistress?”

  Her gaze was slow to rise to his face, but when it did he was caught by the color of her eyes. They were blue, but not the azure shade of a clear Scottish sky. They were dark blue, like the sea off the coast of Morocco.

  “My name is . . .” She paused and cleared her throat. “I am Clare Seton.”

  The name meant nothing to him, so he waited for her to say more.

  “I serve as a companion to the queen. One of her ladies-in-waiting.”

  Finally. The lass must have been sent by Elizabeth Hay. His haughty intended was at least acknowledging that he’d arrived in Stirling.

  “I’ve come on behalf of your future bride,” she continued.

  His curiosity was aroused by the appearance of this young woman. Why would Elizabeth refuse even to accept a message carried by his squire but now send this lass? Either something was amiss, or here was yet another reminder of how unversed he was in courtly ways. In either case, now might be a good time to keep his nose in the wind.

  “And what of it?” Alexander leaned back against the trestle table and crossed his arms.

  “If you’d be kind enough to take a walk with me, everything will become clear.”

  Remaining where he was, he looked at her steadily and saw her squirm under the scrutiny.

  “Only down to the river. Well, actually . . . to Cambuskenneth Abbey,” she stammered. “It’s not too far. Not a mile down the hill.”

  “Why?”

  She looked away before saying in a lowered voice, “To meet with Elizabeth.”

  Alexander let her words float in the air fo
r a moment before replying. “Why not meet me at the castle? Or come here herself?”

  “It wasn’t possible. She had some business to attend to.” The young woman was twisting her hands before her. “She was certain you wouldn’t mind joining her at the abbey.”

  He didn’t mind, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Indeed, he was impatient to get this business over and done with. He’d walk from here to Edinburgh, if he needed to. His ship was waiting at anchor off Blackness in the firth, and he was ready to be on it.

  Besides, he mused, it would be best to do the deed in person, rather than leave her to read it in that letter he’d sent off.

  But he didn’t like being ignored, and something in him—the devil probably—was enjoying seeing this Clare Seton squirm a wee bit. He only wished it were Elizabeth Hay herself. Still, he wondered what they’d told this one to expect from him.

  “Actually, I do mind,” he said flatly, turning away from her.

  “But . . . but is it really asking too much to meet with your intended before the wedding?” the young woman stammered.

  “Exactly what I’ve been thinking for the last two days,” he replied, pouring himself a bowl of ale. “Is it beneath her to see my squire? She repeatedly sent him away without even a word.”

  “I am sure she meant no disrespect.”

  “And I mean no disrespect now. But if she wants to see me, she can come to me.” He picked up his ale, dismissing her.

  “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “Am I?” he said sharply. “You have my answer. Be on your way.”

  No sound of rustling skirts. No steps retreating toward the door. Only the creaking of the inn’s sign outside, swinging in the gusts of wind. Perhaps she wasn’t so frightened, after all. He drank down the bowl, pretending she wasn’t there.

  “Please reconsider it,” she asked in a soft voice.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her, surprised by the note of dejection in her tone. Her head was held high, but she was strangling two fingers with the leather tie from her cloak.

  “Even if you don’t care to meet with her, I need to go to the abbey, and I assumed you would accompany me. I didn’t bring an escort.” She unwound the tie from her fingers, seeing she’d drawn his attention to it. “I would truly appreciate it if you . . . if you’d come with me.”

  Alexander looked into her eyes for a long moment. She was lying. She’d come here for some other reason. He was the master of a dozen ships. He was laird of Benmore Castle. He’d learned early on the need for being able to see through a man . . . or woman. He could recognize when a person was lying. And that was exactly what she was doing. But why?

  His gaze moved downward, taking in the pulse jumping wildly on the smooth column of her neck. He was becoming intrigued with this Clare Seton and whatever her game was.

  “I can understand if you don’t care to meet her. But I know Elizabeth quite well. Perhaps you’d be interested in asking some questions about the woman you intend to marry.”

  Alexander tossed the bowl on the table.

  “Very well, mistress, since you need an escort. And frankly, I’m getting tired of sitting here waiting.” He gestured toward the door. “Lead the way.”

  Chapter Four

  Queen Margaret would love him. Clare Seton might reconsider her nuptials. Every lady-in-waiting in the White Tower might drool over him. But not I, Elizabeth thought.

  Well, perhaps a little.

  She was twenty-three years old and she’d been navigating the courts of the world since she was a girl, but this afternoon—for the first time in her life—she was finding that she was not immune to men. At least not to this Highlander.

  But why now? Why did he need to be so handsome? Intensely blue eyes, the lines of his face and jaw so perfectly carved, his nearly black hair tied neatly in the back and falling past his shoulders. How different he was from the genteel courtiers who wore the latest German fashions and fluttered about the women, attempting to woo one or the other with sweets and poems no doubt written by some Italian. Nay, this Highlander would have no time for any of that. With shoulders as wide as any draught horse, he was so tall he needed to duck to go out the inn door. A bit rough in manner perhaps, but Alexander Macpherson was beyond handsome and he was all man. And Elizabeth didn’t miss the way others took notice as they walked past.

  “Don’t be a fool,” she murmured to herself.

  The wind was buffeting her, and the rain that began again almost as soon as they left the inn was falling harder now. Before they left the borough, it was coming down in sheets, driven nearly sideways by the gusts. She couldn’t remember a storm so powerful.

  Her cloak and hair were whipping about her. Elizabeth peered ahead as they descended toward the cluster of cottages huddled along the banks of the River Forth. Once they reached the bridge leading to the abbey, they might see Clare and her fiancé at any time, if they were still out braving the weather. In any event, she needed to be alert. But the man striding beside her was definitely a distraction.

  The Highlander suddenly reached out and pulled her against him as a donkey cart coming down the hill behind them came dangerously close to her.

  She slipped, and her face pressed against his side. His tartan against her cheek did nothing to soften the hard, muscled body. The scent of wool and leather and man filled her senses. This was the second time he’d caught her. She righted herself and pulled away.

  When she looked up at him, Macpherson was glaring at the farmer in the cart, who appeared to be laughing to himself as he continued on his way.

  She needed to clear her head. She needed to keep her mind on why she was here and what she intended to do. Before they reached the abbey, she had to convince him that he was better off walking away from the upcoming nuptials.

  “Elizabeth and I have been friends for a year now,” she said over the wind, encouraging him to ask questions.

  “The Setons are an old family,” he said, ignoring her comment. “You’re a respectable lot, despite being Lowlanders.”

  This was not the direction she wanted the conversation to go.

  “Now that I think of it,” he continued. “I’ve met a few of you in recent years.”

  Disaster, Elizabeth thought in panic. She knew almost nothing of Clare’s family.

  “How about Elizabeth?” she asked. “I’m told you two have never met.”

  He was looking at the sky, which was becoming darker and turning an odd shade of green. The torrential rain had already formed muddy streams in the road. Aside from the frown on his face, the Highlander seemed unaffected by the elements.

  “Allow me to tell you about Elizabeth,” she repeated over the gusts.

  “No need. Tell me about yourself.”

  Her foot disappeared into a water-filled gulley, almost to her knee, and he caught her again as she pitched forward. It was impossible not to notice the power and the ease with which he lifted her and set her on her feet. It was also impossible not to notice that he was slow to release her. For an insane moment, his handsome face came perilously close as he adjusted her hood and pulled her cloak around her.

  “How long have you been in the service of the queen?”

  “A year,” she answered. “And I’m to be married end of the summer.”

  “Who’s the lucky man?”

  “I don’t think you know him. He’s a Lowlander.”

  Truth and lies suddenly became a jumbled knot in her head. She tried to remember what she planned to say to him and what she’d already admitted.

  “I assumed that,” he responded. “What’s his name?”

  “Sir Robert Johnstone.”

  “I know him.”

  Damnation. Hellfire.

  Why didn’t Clare say anything about this? How could it be that she didn’t know? How could Elizabeth take the Highlander to the abbey and show him a man he knew and a woman who was pretending to be her? It wouldn’t work. She was doomed.

  She’d tried to tell Que
en Margaret the plan would be a disaster. She wouldn’t listen. Elizabeth swore she would kill Clare the next time she caught up to her.

  When her foot slid on the rock, all she could think was that the damned thing was smooth, it was slick with mud and rain, and it had no right being in the middle of good dirt cart path. She cried out. As she flailed wildly with both arms and feet in the air, time seemed to slow to a crawl until her face was only a splash away from hitting the ground. How he was able to scoop her up before she landed was a mystery. But before she knew it, her face was nestled into the crook of his muscled neck. Her lips were pressed against warm, taut skin. His scent filled her, and the urge to let her body sink into his nearly numbed her sense of reason.

  “You don’t get out much, do you?” he asked. “Some wind and a wee bit of water, and you’re helpless as a bairn. I can’t imagine how many servants it took to convey Elizabeth Hay down this hill.”

  A tingling warmth shot through her. Finally, he’d mentioned the name of the woman he was to marry.

  As he put her down, Elizabeth drew back, pulling her cloak tight against the driving rain. With her eyes riveted on the increasingly treacherous cart path, she began to walk, and he fell in beside her.

  Panic again seized her as they reached bottom of the hill. She needed to set up the ruse now, if there was any hope of it working. And that hope was fading by the moment.

  “Elizabeth comes this way often,” she said as they started into the ragtag riverside village. “Sometimes daily, I believe. There is . . . well, I should just tell you. She meets someone.”

  “Is Sir Robert in Stirling?” he asked, ignoring her.

  “He is. But I’ve just told you that your intended meets a—”

  “Where is he staying? I’d like to pay him a visit.”

  Was he deaf? Could he think more than one thought at a time? Apparently not.

  In spite of the storm, a surprisingly large number of people crowded the road to the bridge. Carts and a stubbly flock of newly shorn sheep slowed their progress. The bridge was just coming into view. Elizabeth’s blood ran cold. They were almost at their destination, and she’d done nothing to set up the ruse Queen Margaret and Clare devised.