by Mary Wine
Keir lifted one eyebrow. “Who is it?”
Alarik McKorey walked into the chamber before the yeoman could answer. The door shut behind him and the key ground in the lock. He swept the chamber before speaking.
“Damn miserable place.”
“We’ve recently made improvements, thanks to my wife’s knowledge of these English yeomen and their enjoyment of bribes.”
The two trunks had arrived and thick bedding now adorned the bed. There was a writing desk and candle holders on the once-bare table.
“Is that a fact?”
Keir stood and studied Alarik. His father had raided McKorey lands. He was unsure what to make of the man. Alarik stared at him in silence.
“Ye’ve brought honor back to the McQuade name. ’Tis a welcome thing, I’m thinking.”
Alarik offered him a grin and his hand. Keir took it. “What news?”
The grin faded from Alarik’s face. Helena moved to the bed and sat down, leaving the two chairs for the men. She chewed on her lower lip, awaiting what Alarik had to say. There had been no word from court, only a simple letter informing her that Edmund had been sent home for burial.
“None that is good.”
“Well, ye’re nae a bishop, so I’ll take that as a sign that I’m keeping me head, at least for the moment.”
Alarik rubbed his jaw. “A trial has been agreed upon. A trial by yer peers.”
“Barons…” Helena clamped her mouth shut when she realized she’d spoken. Alarik looked at her.
“Nae quite. The king has made sure to place a few earls among them, yer brother-in-law Brodick McJames among them.”
“That’s sporting of Jamie.”
“It is. He wasna so kind toward Ronchford.” Alarik smirked. “I’m set to judge him.”
The attempt at humor didn’t work for Helena. A trial was double-edged. So easily it might lead to the word guilty being placed on Keir’s name. There was much to condemn him and little to clear his name. Fear dug into her, raking its claws across the fragile hope she had kept cradled against her heart. As more days had passed, it had become harder to keep her hopes kindled against the amount of time that passed without Raelin being recovered.
“When, McKorey?”
“Tomorrow. I figured those English wouldn’t tell ye until ye were standing before them.”
Keir scowled.
“I didna do it.”
Alarik shrugged. “Of course ye didna. Ye’re a Scot. Ye’d have snapped his neck with yer own hands, or I’ll rip that kilt off ye myself.”
“It’s a relief to have someone who understands me at last.”
Both men chuckled, making Helena shake her head. Men did not make sense. Their humor was incomprehensible. But that left her with nothing to ponder but the coming trial.
Keir tried to kiss her the moment Alarik left.
“Don’t.”
She pushed past his arms and he frowned at her.
“’Tis good news.”
She turned on her husband. “How can you say that? Without Raelin, there is no witness.”
“Ye’re assuming the lass will have something to say that will point the finger at the man who paid for the crime.”
Helena frowned.
“’Tis most likely that yer brother was slain by an assassin that those English lords will say I paid. A trial has always been the only end to this.”
He crossed his arms over his chest in a pose that she recalled too well from their first few days together. The man was fixing to be immovable.
“I am strangling in this waiting noose, Helena. I’ll face every peer they line up to judge me and gladly.”
“They may return a guilty verdict.” Her voice trembled in spite of her effort to contain it.
“Better some decision than this.” He opened his hands to indicate the chamber. “I willnae live like this just to hold onto life. ’Tis no life, Helena. I want to take ye to Red Stone, nae babble about it like some old man who is too broken by age to step outside any longer. Time will do that to me soon enough. What is the point of growing old if I have nothing to talk about except these walls when I get there?”
He meant it. Rage flickered in his eyes but it was the frustration that punctured her own temper. He nodded and closed the distance, reaching out and pulling her into his embrace in spite of her protests. They were only halfhearted ones. In her heart she understood that the man she loved was dying in front of her eyes.
“I cannae bear to think of ye growing round with my babe in this place.”
And he wouldn’t tolerate her thinking him coward enough not to face what was to come. Of course not. That gallant man she had first been attracted to could never hide in a prison because it allowed him to draw breath.
“I love ye, Helena. But I am nae content to hide.”
She reached up and placed her fingers against his lips. “Let’s not speak.”
He kissed her fingers, agreement shimmering in his eyes. But there was also a glimmer of anticipation. He was eager for the battle. Of course he was. So she would be as well. Instead she reached for him, her fingertips far more familiar with his form now. For all the horror that the chamber might have seen, in the last month it had been a place where they had become lovers, where they laughed and teased, doing all of the things that time had not allowed them to do.
Keir threaded his fingers through her loose hair, pleasure lighting his eyes. Here she left it hanging down her back because she knew he loved it that way. He pushed the dressing robe off her shoulders, leaving her in her chemise. He bent his head, angling it so that his lips might be pressed against her throat. He kissed the smooth skin and she gasped at the heat. It rippled over her skin and down her body. Only a loose chemise covered her and she made a little sound of delight when he pulled her against his own shirt-clad body. Her breasts were free to enjoy the way they compressed against his harder body. His cock was hard and it pressed against her belly.
But her husband lingered on the column of her throat, teasing her with unhurried kisses before gently biting her. It was a soft nip but it sent pleasure surging through her. He licked over the bite, a low rumble vibrating his chest and throat. Her hands curled into talons on his biceps.
“Ye make me impatient, lass. Like a lad without a beard.”
“Patience is overrated as a virtue.”
Her voice was raspy with need. Keir slid his hands over the curves of her hips, gripping them and lifting her up onto the tabletop.
“I agree.”
He pushed her chemise up to bare her thighs, his hips pressing them apart. He gripped her hips again, holding her firmly as he raised his kilt and moved his body until the head of his cock pressed against her. For all the rush to penetration, neither of them hurried the pace. He rode her gently, keeping each thrust smooth. He lingered deep inside her, letting her feel the way her body stretched around him. Helena reached for his hair, tangling her fingers in it. Her senses were full of his smell. Pleasure tightened slowly until it became unbearable. Her husband sensed it and abandoned his lazy pace, his body working fast and hard to push them both over the edge into a pulsing rapture that wrung a cry from her.
He held her, remaining deep inside her as their bodies quieted. His hands smoothed over her. He plucked at her chemise and finally moved back enough to pull it over her head.
“I think I shall keep ye nude.”
“I’ll freeze.”
He grinned and scooped her off the table, walking across the floor toward the bed. He settled her among the bedding and joined her there, his hands cupping her breasts while he trailed kisses over their soft skin.
“I’ll keep ye warm, lass, and that is a promise.”
The Chapel of St. Peter-ad-Vincula was silent. Keir walked down its center aisle, making the only noise, and that was minuscule. His fellow peers sat waiting for him. It was the same place that others had been condemned, the same aisle that Anne Boleyn had walked down before her head was struck from her body. Had she
been as full of life? Helena watched her husband and couldn’t help but marvel at the way he moved. It was powerful and striking without a hint of hesitation.
He reached the end of the aisle and stood firmly in front of the assembled lords. The trial commenced and each moment felt like a dagger being poked into her skin—small torments that produced an agony that lasted for an eternity. When the last question was asked, they both watched the lords retire to a chamber for deliberation.
Helena wondered if it would, in fact, be a true verdict of their opinion on the facts. So many times the guilty verdicts pronounced were given in response to the king’s whim. Anne Boleyn’s had been. The large doors shut, preventing her from seeing what transpired. She stood with two yeomen of the guard. Their faces were like stone while they guarded her. Soon enough she would be called to answer to the details of whatever the lords wanted to know. But she smiled because her husband would have at them first and Keir McQuade was no fool.
The nine lords sent to judge her husband were quite intimidating. Helena faced them without fear. Her husband was gone now, so that her testimony might be kept from his ears. A test of their honesty, to see if their accounts matched. Lord Warwickshire sat among them along with his Scottish son-in-law, the Earl of Alcaon. Brodick McJames was dark-haired like Keir and he wore his kilt proudly. They were the highest-ranking men present. True to his word, Alarik McKorey sat among the English barons but that was only three votes against the others that she felt sure would judge the situation fairly. Lord Bramford rose and began questioning her the moment she stopped in front of them. His voice was coated with disdain, and he peered at her like one might a rodent. Helena refused to be intimidated. She answered his question but the man became bolder.
“Come now, Lady Hurst, do you intend to maintain that your brother lowered himself to striking you because you did not defend him in the presence of the king?” Lord Bramford said as he pointed at her. “Admit that you were Lord Hurst’s lover.” He spoke it so calmly, as though it was the most common truth. She lifted her chin in the face of his accusation. She had no shame to cast her eyes at the floor over.
“I was not. We’d barely met. I was pure on my wedding night.”
“Is that why there was no witness to your wedding sheets? No inspection by a midwife before the wedding that we may call upon to prove you a maiden at that time?”
“I held no control over those matters.” Helena tried to keep her voice even. Anger might so simply be considered a sign of guilt. “I was ordered to wed by the king and my brother. The queen herself brushed out my hair. I obeyed.”
Bramford glared at her. “Obeyed? You ran from the king’s will, madam.”
“Enough, Lord Bramford. I have a few questions myself.” Brodick McJames, the Earl of Alcaon, silenced the blustering English lord with one hard look. He was not an easy man to read. When he returned his dark stare to her, she felt the intensity of his gaze.
“Why did ye flee into the night?”
“My brother told me I was to be wed by royal command to Lord Ronchford, but that he would spare me that and sneak me to the country if I braved the three blocks to make it appear that I had fled on my own. Edmund promised me that his carriage would be waiting.”
The earl’s brows lowered, and Helena stared straight at him. She was finally grateful to her parents for teaching her to stand so perfectly. Today, she would not crumple in the face of questions designed to smear her with guilt. The church was lit with hundreds of flickering candles, but she did not feel comforted by their light. For a house of worship, it was tense and filled with dark suspicion. A queen of England had been condemned here, as had other men who had been as guiltless as her husband.
“Ye trusted yer brother to have a carriage waiting for ye when he had used yer dowry for gaming debts?”
Her cheeks colored. She couldn’t help it. It was still a shame, long after becoming happy in her marriage.
“I did not know the details. Edmund told me I was to wed because Raelin and I were out of the queen’s chamber without escort. I knew nothing of the gaming bet.”
“Preposterous.” Lord Bramford scoffed at her.
“I would like to question Lord Ronchford.” Lord Alcaon cut a quick look at the assembled lords. Several of them nodded, but Helena was more concerned with how many of them sat in sullen silence. Their minds were already set. She lowered herself and turned to leave. The aisle was suddenly too long and the sound of her own footsteps piercing.
Keir stood in front of his peers. His patience was thin and that was no lie. His father had spent his entire life berating him, but it appeared that he seemed only to tolerate such from his sire. Today, this group of peers was treading on his last bit of goodwill with their prying questions and dishonorable insinuations.
At least it appeared it was nearing an end. He stood at the front of the church, waiting for their verdict. It was Brodick McJames who stood up to pronounce the lords’ decision.
“We have no verdict.”
“What is that supposed to mean, man?”
The earl maintained his somber expression except for one corner of his mouth that twitched upward. “We are evenly divided on the issue, with the exception of one man who refused to cast a vote. Hence, we have no decision.”
In another time or place Keir might have laughed—chuckled at all the wasted effort, or at the ironic twist of fate. But instead he crossed his arms and stared at the lords in front of him.
So close.
Yet not close enough. He’d failed to do everything he set out to complete in London. That knowledge stung. The stain of this trial would remain on the McQuade name long after he’d departed. It would haunt his children when they came to court.
Brodick tilted his head to one side. “We’ll send our findings to the king for his consideration.”
“Aye. And I’ll be right here awaiting his pleasure. No mistake about it.”
The earl did smile; he just couldn’t help but enjoy Keir’s humor.
Lord Bramford, on the other hand, turned red with rage. “Your humor is quite misplaced, Lord Hurst!”
“Is that a fact?” Keir unfolded his arms and pointed at the man. “I’ll tell ye what is misplaced. I am. Being laird means I’ve people and land to be seeing to. I came to London to find a bride who was educated in the ways of running an estate and she is nae helping a soul locked up in this fortress. Nobility is nae a thing that should be used to mask laziness. If Edmund Knyvett had learned that lesson I believe he would still be among the living today. Instead he was a boy in a man’s body, who managed to keep inflicting his shortcomings on the living.”
“Disliking him did not give you the right to have him murdered.”
“I didna pay for his death, man. If you cannae see that I have what I want, ye’re a blind man. Do I look like I’m eager to join the court?” Keir reached down and pulled on his kilt. “I’m a Scotsman and I plan to finish me business and go back home. There are crops to plant with a care to how it’s done, or there will be suffering on my land next winter. It is a duty my father charged me with while he was off seeing to the glory of his own gains and it is one that I intend to continue doing since I’ve no care for dancing around the king day in and day out. That is nae to say that I didna see that some of ye work hard with our monarch to keep this country running, but it is nae something I crave.”
Keir offered them a nod of his head before turning his back on them. Discontent filled him as he covered the steps that would lead him back to his tower chamber. Every fiber of his being resisted. Rebellion burned in his gut and it was getting hard to remind himself that his actions would fall onto his people’s shoulders should he act on his impulse to fight his way free.
Damned diplomacy.
“I have decided on my vote.” Roan Lawley, Baron Heaton, spoke up.
Brodick turned to stare at the man. He had kept his thoughts to himself throughout the proceedings and had been the one lord who refused to pass a verdict. He was a
large, burly man. He wore only a wool suit, cut in the English fashion, but lacking lace and baubles. The finest thing on him was his boots. Brodick admired them for the workmanship. They came up his legs and the top of his pants tucked into them.
“Innocent. That man is innocent.”
Bramford sputtered but Roan Lawley turned to glare at him. Bramford snapped his jaw shut instantly, upon which Brodick raised his eyebrow. There was something there. Something a plain wool suit hid.
“Do you wish to change your ruling on Lord Ronchford?”
Baron Heaton fingered his chin. “If my silence vexes you gentlemen, so be it, but I have stood before a panel of my peers and it is no light duty in my opinion. I will not cast my vote without firm conviction in my conscience. I still find insufficient evidence to condemn Lord Ronchford. Or to find him innocent.”
“But enough to set Lord Hurst free?” Bramford asked the question. It annoyed Lord Heaton. He rose and towered over his fellow English lord.
“The man didn’t come to court expecting a title.”
“But that does not mean he didn’t marry with an eye on gaining one.”
Lord Heaton frowned. “I doubt you understand, Lord Bramford, but I do know what it is like to be locked up while my responsibilities go unattended. Lord Hurst is not a man who places his position above his honor. If that were so, he never would have spoken as he just did, without a care for the egos sitting in front of him.”
Lord Heaton turned his attention to Brodick. “He reminds me of you.”
Brodick chuckled. For all his English blood, the man was likeable.
James Stuart smiled—at least, inwardly. His gut had been clenched most of the day while he waited for word from the Tower.
“McQuade is judged not guilty.”
Several of his advisers frowned. His temper itched to slap them down, but that was the sort of thing that made for short-lived kings. The world was not as it had been at the time of Henry the Eighth. Elizabeth had known that and left him a mighty nation, thanks to her ability to walk down the center of every hot issue laid before her.