Many of the villagers looked at her with curiosity and speculation, and he realized that his own people were wondering just as the MacIveys had if she were not the object of his affection—his mistress.
That thought stirred his wrath to a further degree, despite the fact it was not such a wild stretch of the imagination. She was young; she was beautiful; she was titled. She would make a proper wife for a laird.
Not this laird, he thought angrily, all the more so because he could not deny finding her attractive.
He wanted to send her far from him, for she disturbed him beyond reason.
He tried to tell himself it was only because Catherine had held her so dear, because his wife had wanted Gwenyth’s presence, when she had not even known his face.
He needed his distance from her, he thought. The expression of sweet gravity on her perfectly sculpted features as she spoke to those who came through made him long to roar out a denial, to stride out, to find his horse and ride…
Ride into oblivion.
Late in the day, Tristan urged him to break his vigil, to eat, but he could not. He knew that Gwenyth was only a few feet away, with nothing to do once they had closed the great hall to the mourners, and that she would overhear him, but he could not bring himself to care.
“Leave me be with my lady through the night,” he commanded.
“Me good laird—” Tristan began.
“Leave me be,” he repeated.
Tristan knew him well and obeyed. Rowan was only dimly aware when his steward led Gwenyth from the hall.
He did not stand throughout the night but pulled one of the great brocade chairs from the fireplace, set it by the coffin and slept thereon.
No one disturbed him until morning. When Tristan came to check on him, Rowan told him, “Do not leave her alone, Tristan. She wouldn’t want to be alone.”
“I’ll be here, m’laird, watching, until you return.” Tristan cleared his throat. “We will bear the Lady Catherine to the chapel for services at ten, if that meets your desire.”
Rowan nodded. “Aye,” he said, and left.
In his chambers, he felt the keen sense of it being a far different place. He had not slept in here since Catherine had become so ill, sleeping by her side when he was home—or not sleeping at all. His life had changed in the blink of an eye when Catherine had suffered her accident. Until then, he had been a happy man, but he had quickly become a hollow one. He had chosen to give his all to the Crown, even before the queen had returned. Every man needed a passion, and with the loss of Catherine as she had once been, he had made his country his passion.
It was odd; he could scarcely remember when he’d had a wife—a real wife. Still, with her passing, he felt the hollowness all the more.
There was not much that could be said for fairness in life, he thought bitterly. Catherine had been nothing but kind, had looked for nothing but good for all men, yet her fate had been cruel, while idiots, madmen and butchers seemed to live long and well.
He called for a tub and water to bathe, then dressed slowly and with care; it seemed important that he be at his best to afford Catherine her last honors. Finally, when he was clad in his tartan and clan brooches, he hesitated. It was so final, to say the last prayers, but he could tarry no longer.
When he reached the great hall, his men were ready. Catherine’s coffin was lifted as tenderly and carefully as if she but slept, and Reverend Keogh stood at the front of the coffin, Rowan’s household assembled around him. At Rowan’s nod, the reverend began his prayers. The procession moved across the hall and out to the light, and from there to the chapel that flanked the castle walls.
The words said for her soul seemed to blend together. Rowan knew that he didn’t think it necessary for any man to ask God to accept Catherine; indeed, if there was a God, she was already in His keeping.
He was grateful that Reverend Keogh was a good man who spoke only the words that were proper for a funeral rite; he made no mention of the world at large, the good or evil therein, or the proper way for any man or woman to worship. He spoke eloquently about Catherine, and when he was done, all present passed by once again, kissing the coffin, or setting wild flowers upon and around it. At last the service was over.
Rowan strode from the chapel, aware that his workmen were already waiting to see that her coffin was set properly in the family crypt, in the niche below the one that held his parents, and in company with those who had come before them.
Somewhere, stonemasons were already preparing a magnificent plaque to cover the tomb that would be her silent memorial now.
He was expected, he knew, to welcome the local thanes and the villagers into his castle once again, but he could not. He left that task to Tristan—and his unwanted guest, Lady Gwenyth—and strode to the stables, mounted his horse and rode out, just as he had earlier longed to do.
He couldn’t help but wonder if his restlessness was like that which must have seized Gwenyth two days before. The suggestion angered him, and he did not want to know why.
But he did know, even without any thought at all.
Those who believed he hungered after her were not so far astray in their thoughts.
And that he could want her, with Catherine so recently dead, appalled him.
If she were a whore, a loose woman, a courtesan with no reputation to lose, it would be one thing. But she was not. She was a lady born. The queen’s lady.
He could not forgive himself for the desire he felt, and it angered him further to remember that Bryce MacIvey had coveted her, had nearly taken her for his own.
He reined in on the high tor where he had brought Catherine to breathe her last.
Gwenyth would be leaving come the morning, or as soon as he could arrange it. And leaving with orders that she be guarded like a jewel, that no man be allowed to upset or make free with her, no matter what Angus’s intentions to control her might be. She needed to be taken away from his own fury, Rowan thought. In fact, she needed to be wedded to a laird in some distant place, where she could be temptation for no other.
He simply wanted her gone.
“Catherine,” he said aloud softly, and bowed his head. It had been more than two years since they had visited Catherine’s home in England and she had nearly died in the accident, more than two years since his son had been stillborn, a secret he had shared with no one, and Catherine had lost all sense of the world. He lowered his head, glad that at least he had been there with her at the end. Glad that she had known his face one last time, that she had touched him.
Then, after a moment, he said very softly to the heavens, “Forgive me.”
GWENYTH WAS AWAKE, but barely, so she was startled by the tapping at her door so early in the morning.
She had not seen Rowan for several days. The castle was decorated in black cloth, subdued and somber, as was natural for a state of mourning. But Rowan had not remained inside. He had ridden out before the sun each morning and returned late, and none had dared disturb him.
She had been irritated that she was not allowed out at all, but because of the nearly disastrous end to her last foray, she stayed in the castle as bidden.
No, as ordered.
She was not a fool, and she did not want to chance another encounter with men such as the MacIveys, but she was growing restless at the lack of things to do. There was an excellent library in the castle, and so she read, but after so many days, the black drapery and the air of gloom that hung over the castle began to feel suffocating. She, too, mourned Catherine. But she could not know what those who had known her for years—who had loved her, like Rowan—were feeling. She wanted to afford Catherine every honor, every drop of grief, all the respect, that she deserved. But she felt as if she needed air.
She sat up in bed as the gentle tapping came again.
“Yes?” she said.
Her door opened a crack.
“Lady Gwenyth?”
It was Tristan.
“Aye?”
“I�
�m sorry to disturb you, but Annie asked me to tell you that she is on her way to see to your things.”
She frowned. “Oh?”
“Indeed, my lady. Y’er to ride on to the ferry for Islington this morning.”
“Laird Rowan intends to leave so soon?”
“Nay, lady. Ye’re to ride on with an escort.”
“I see,” she murmured.
She heard Tristan clear his throat. “When ye’ve dressed, m’lady, would ye be so kind as to spare me a minute of y’er time?”
A curious smile curved her lips. “Of course.”
As soon as the door was closed, she leapt up, washed and dressed quickly for the day. As she struggled with the ties for her stomacher, Annie arrived and, clucking, helped her. “Me job in life is but to serve ye, lady. Call upon me more often.”
“I like a bit of privacy, Annie, and you serve me very well, thank you,” she murmured. She noticed that Annie was wearing an amused grin, despite the dark air that sat upon the castle.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Oh, I cannae say, m’lady.”
“Of course you can—your job in life is to serve me, is it not?”
Annie laughed delightedly. “In this, I cannae!”
“And why is that?”
“Because Tristan would speak with ye.”
“Annie?”
“Me lips are sealed on this, m’lady. They must be. ’Tis not me right to speak.”
Truly curious, Gwenyth hurried to the great hall. Tristan was there alone, hands folded behind his back as he paced the great room.
“Ah, m’lady.”
“Tristan.”
He looked around, at the black draped around the castle.
“’Tis truly not the proper time to speak of such things, but I fear that…well, you are to ride to Islington.”
“And?” she encouraged.
His cheeks burned bright red.
“Tristan, please, speak your mind.”
He came to her, fell upon one knee and took her hand. “M’lady, I ask that you grant me the hand of your maid in marriage.”
Her mouth gaped open. “Annie?”
He looked up at her, puzzled. “Nay, lady. Liza Duff. She has enchanted and bewitched me. Nay, nay, I do not mean bewitched, good God, else fools would have her on a pyre again. She has helped me here, these few weeks. She has been such a friend, and I…old gnarled fool that I am, believe that she has feelings for me, as well.”
She smiled as he looked up at her with such hope and earnest appeal in his eyes. “Tristan, I am not the woman’s keeper. You must ask her.”
He shook his head gravely. “Ye must give y’er blessing.”
“Have you spoken with Rowan?”
“Aye, and he said that I must speak with ye.”
Gwenyth’s smile deepened. “If it is only my approval that you need, then I give it most freely. If Liza agrees,” she added hastily. She would never force anyone to wed, she vowed to herself.
But apparently Liza agreed. She burst in from the corridor that led to the stairs, rushing toward Gwenyth. She looked as if she was about to throw her arms around Gwenyth, then hesitated and almost skidded to a stop. Her face was alive with happiness.
Gwenyth laughed, reaching out to give Liza a hug.
“Bless you, bless you, lady!” Liza said. “Dear God above, I owe you not only my life but so much more in service, and truly, all my days I will serve you when you call upon me, and yet…I was all but dead, only to find such tender care with Tristan. I…” She paused, swallowing guiltily. “I am sorry to find such happiness myself now, when…when there is such sorrow here, and…I don’t know when we can be duly wed, but—”
“Today,” Gwenyth said.
They both stared at her, jaws gaping.
“No grand ceremony, no fancy rites,” Gwenyth said. “Liza, if you would remain behind, if you two truly love one another, then I will stand witness. I can swear to you that I will have such a swift service honored by Laird Rowan.”
They both remained silent, just staring.
“It will not be legal.”
“Queen Mary will make it so. She asked James to ensure that the marriage is recognized by the Church, it there was any question. Where is Reverend Keogh?” Gwenyth asked, then was surprised by a soft cry of delight and turned to see that Annie, too, had entered the hall.
“He is in the chapel, I believe,” the older woman said.
“Then we will go there and speak with him,” Gwenyth said commandingly, suiting deed to words.
Reverend Keogh was aghast at the idea of a ceremony without the proper time allotted beforehand, but he agreed to it when Gwenyth explained that she was leaving for her own estates, and that she did not feel right leaving Liza behind unless the marriage had been finalized. As they spoke, she was stunned to see Rowan stride into the chapel, the dark look he always seemed to wear those days upon his face.
“Lady Gwenyth, escort has been arranged. You are to be upon the road within the hour,” he said curtly.
She straightened her spine so that she was at her tallest, then spoke softly, but with determination. “I will not leave so quickly. You are aware that Tristan and Liza wish to marry?”
“You would stop them?”
“Good heavens, no, my lord. I would have them marry today.”
He frowned so fiercely that she almost stepped back. “The castle is in mourning,” he told her.
She nodded. “It is in Catherine’s sweet honor that I would have them quietly wed today. Here, now, before God.”
“The papers are not drawn,” Reverend Keogh murmured.
“You may read the rite, Reverend, and then fill out the proper papers,” Gwenyth said, staring at Rowan. She bit her lip, careful to choose the right words to use. “Everyone honored Lady Catherine,” she said very softly. “But would it be wrong, in her memory, to leave this man who served her, and you, so long and faithfully, without giving him the wife he loves, the solace that he needs? My Lord Rowan, I beg you. Set aside the grief that plagues you so. Allow this marriage here and now, simply and quietly.”
He stared at her, his expression thunderous. She thought that he might actually be about to growl.
“Reverend Keogh?” Rowan said.
“Such haste is not seemly,” the reverend said with a sigh. Then he lifted his arms. “And yet, Laird Rowan…if these two would be satisfied with the very simple word of God, and you and Lady Gwenyth to stand witness…”
“So be it. Do it,” Rowan said.
Gwenyth blinked, amazed. His anger didn’t seem to have changed in the least, but perhaps he had decided that Tristan deserved happiness for having been the one to serve Catherine most loyally.
More so than himself.
“Do it,” he repeated.
They all looked to Reverend Keogh. “Come to the altar, then,” the churchman said.
“Oh!” Annie cried delightedly, clasping her hands together.
“Laird Rowan, you will stand so. You will give the bride freely to Tristan. Lady Gwenyth, here is your position, as witness.”
And so Reverend Keogh began his ceremony. He was a God-fearing man, dedicated and gentle, and, he talked for a very long time.
At last Rowan cleared his throat, interrupting him. “Perhaps, Reverend, we could get to the vows?”
“Indeed,” Reverend Keogh said, abashed.
And so, with joyous looks upon their faces, Liza and Tristan were wed. They made an odd couple, for she was much younger and thin as a reed, while he was a staunch and solid fellow, his face as weathered as the rocky tor. But the looks on their faces were so beautiful that Gwenyth was not surprised when even Rowan stepped outside himself for a moment to be glad for the pair.
But then he said impatiently, “It is done.”
“My Laird Rowan, a moment. We must have the papers duly signed.”
Rowan chafed as the reverend went to the room where his table and great Bible were situated, then sat in his
hard wooden chair and wrote. At last he called them in. First the bride and groom signed, the bride marking an X, and then Rowan and Gwenyth.
When the reverend opened the great Bible to enter the couple’s names, Gwenyth couldn’t help but notice that the last entry was Catherine’s death—and the one just before that for the stillbirth of the infant Michael William Graham.
“Now is it done?” Rowan demanded.
“Aye,” Reverend Keogh said.
“Then Lady Gwenyth must be on the road,” Rowan said.
His eyes met hers, and she couldn’t help but feel a qualm. He looked as if he despised the very sight of her.
She had forced him to ride out to her rescue on the very night of his lady’s death.
“I will be gone immediately,” she assured him.
He nodded.
She turned to Liza, giving her a hug, and then Tristan. She slipped a delicately carved gold ring that Mary had given her in France from her finger, and pressed it into Liza’s hand. “For you. And, Tristan, you have been so kind to me. I believe you admired the roan in our party. He is a gelding, but he is a fine animal. He came with us from France, where he was part of Queen Mary’s stables. His name is Andrew, though I know not why. He is yours.”
“Bless you, m’lady. Ye gave us gift enough in one another,” Tristan said.
Rowan cleared his throat, and Gwenyth thought he sounded angry, but he spoke kindly just the same. “I will grant a homestead to you both.”
Perhaps, she thought, he was upset that she had reminded him, with her own gifts, that he needed to offer something to the couple. No matter.
Gwenyth felt a sudden urge to leave that was surely greater than his desire to have her gone. Though she was trying desperately to maintain her own calm demeanor, it was difficult to be so despised. “I will be going now,” she said to the assembled company.
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