A Temptress in Tartan

by Gerri Russell

  “If I do have such visions, I promise to warn you, Your Grace.”

  After a moment he went on. “You did predict my marriage to Anne, but you failed to tell me about the attempt on her life by the others of your kind.”

  Her kind? The words stalled her pacing. King James had never addressed her as such before. He’d always referred to her as his secret informant and healer in the past. Never as a witch. He had heard the whispers Laird MacPhearson had started.

  “You will punish me for a crime that happened so far away and months ago?” Vivian had heard the stories from other courtiers who claimed witches had tried to harm the queen as she sailed from Denmark to Scotland to meet her new husband. King James had gone to the queen’s rescue and the couple had arrived back in Scotland safely.

  “I am not the instigator of this madness,” the king said, his tone defensive. “Even I cannot stop what is coming. There is unrest among my subjects. Plagues and crop failures are straining communities across Scotland. In response, people are looking for someone to blame. This time they are blaming witches. A tribunal has been established in North Berwick for several men and women accused of witchery. I must go and observe before things get too out of control, but not until I know you are safe and in the care of my old friend.”

  “Surely you have younger friends,” she quipped, then held her tongue at the king’s sharp look.

  “Only you get away with such talk, I assure you. Now stop arguing with me and do as I command. I trust Laird Campbell with your life. That should be enough.”

  Vivian shivered, fighting the unease that had settled inside her. “By sending me away, you are in essence labeling me a witch. Is that what I am to you?”

  “Shhh,” the king admonished, his gaze shifting around the still-empty chamber. “Mind your tongue. Others might not see things the way I do. While my word is absolute, do as I say or you may yet find yourself in danger.”

  Was that a threat or a promise?

  Regardless, her life was about to change dramatically. For the better or the worse remained unknown. This was one of those times when she wished she could see into her own future, but those glimpses were never forced.

  Vivian straightened to give the king a single nod of acquiescence. As the king’s witch, she had no choice but to do as he bid.

  *

  King James watched Vivian retreat from the great hall. When he was alone, he released his grip on the arms of his chair. Flexing his hands, he eased the tension that had built there while he and his ward had talked. James was obliged to settle the girl somewhere. After all, he’d promised her father on his deathbed that he’d keep her safe.

  With her gone, he could now focus on his own safety. James’s chest felt so tight he could not breathe but he forced his fear aside. For too long he had lived with the knowledge that Satan was trying to destroy him. It was time to turn the tides in the king’s favor and rid the country of that monster’s demons. To assure his own safety, he’d gathered Scotland’s finest warriors to his side, men who had vowed to protect him. His magnificent seven. His greatest triumph. His greatest secret against any threat.

  He had considered sending Vivian to one of them, but he could not risk lessening his own defenses for her sake. He needed all of the seven focused on protecting their king. Instead, he’d had no choice but to send his ward to the farthest western corner of Scotland. The once great Laird Dugald Campbell would protect the girl and fulfill the king’s obligation to her father.

  For an instant, James’s confidence faltered. Vivian was so young, and his friend was ill. One of the seven would be a better choice, and yet Dugald desperately needed Vivian’s special abilities as a healer to prolong his life.

  James inhaled slowly, then let the air slide from his lungs. His decision would stand. There’d be no more doubts. He would send Vivian to a place where no one would suspect her of anything other than being a wife caring for her elderly husband. With care, Dugald could survive for many years, meaning Vivian would be safe as long as Rupert Campbell, the laird’s only son, stayed away from Kilkerran.

  Rupert Campbell’s role as sheriff of Haddingtonshire on the opposite side of the country had kept him away from home for years. And now, as leader of the witch hysteria sweeping the country, Rupert would be out of Vivian’s reach for years to come. James had granted Rupert the power to do whatever to whomever he needed as long as it was directed at ridding the country of evil. James had no desire to hunt for witches himself. His part in all of this would be more that of an academic observer. He would watch things unfold and record the results. Men like Rupert Campbell would see that those accused were hunted down and brought to justice.

  As Vivian’s guardian, he would do all he could to keep her out of Rupert’s way. She was an innocent in all of this, he had decided years ago. He knew her to be honest and God-fearing. Her skill with herbs as well as her visions were a divine gift and not something to be feared, even though others with similar talents might be touched by evil and therefore fittingly should not be spared.

  James shifted his gaze to the flames devouring the wood in the hearth before him. Fire: the source of warmth, purification, and destruction. Just like him, the people of Scotland were frightened—frightened enough to give a man like Rupert Campbell the power to do as he wished in order to protect them, to find traitors in their midst, and rid their homeland of evil.

  Rubbing his forehead against the burgeoning ache building there, James turned away from the fire and moved to the door. There was work to be done. He’d returned to Edinburgh with his bride, ready to accept the burdens of guiding his realm through these dangerous times. Now was not the time to start second-guessing himself or the players he’d set in motion.

  If he were going to make changes to Scottish society and the world at large, he must release a proclamation to rid Scotland of all sorcery and work with men like Rupert Campbell to see the job done. Whether he wanted to or not.

  Lives would be lost—some of them innocent—when the hunting of witches began. He’d done what he could to protect Vivian. Her future was now in Dugald Campbell’s hands.

  Chapter One

  Kilkerran, Scotland

  June 1591

  As early morning light filtered into the laird’s bedchamber, Vivian Sinclair Campbell took her dying husband’s hand in her own, wrapping her youthful fingers around his gnarled ones. Their half-year-old marriage was one of convenience, and by tomorrow even that would come to an end if the sound of his labored breathing were any indication.

  Laird Dugald Campbell had had a good life. A long life. This moment should not be a mournful one, yet she was sad. Sad that she was the only one who would sit at his bedside as he drew each agonizing breath. Sad that she could do nothing more for him with her herbs and poultices. Sad that once he took his final breath she would have no further protection from the once-great Laird Campbell or even his clan. She would be back to where she started—a woman alone in a world of manipulative men.

  Her current situation was proof as to why it was important to keep herself free of entanglements such as marriage and children. How could she shield an innocent child from the horrors of this world when she could not secure her own safety?

  It had been six long months since King James sent her to Kilkerran to marry his old friend. Despite the fact the match was more advantageous to Dugald, the king had promised the old laird would protect her. In his own way, he had. But confined to his bed as he’d been for the past fortnight, he did not see or hear the growing hysteria his own son Rupert—known across the land as the Witch Hunter of Scotland—caused throughout the country in his search for the unnatural.

  Vivian’s stomach knotted at the thought Rupert might return home soon as news reached him of his father’s impending death. When he did, any illusion of safety her current situation had created would be gone.

  Dugald stirred, suddenly restless in his sleep. He tossed his head back and forth. Vivian brought a cool compress to his templ
e. “I’m here,” she said softly as she smoothed the cloth across his brow.

  He turned toward her and opened his eyes. Six months ago, when she’d first arrived at Kilkerran, those eyes had been filled with not only compassion but also strength. Over the months, that strength had faded. There were some at the castle who blamed her for that change. They didn’t trust the tisanes she mixed for their laird to drink each morning.

  The truth was, without her medicines Dugald would have died months ago. His heart was failing and fluid filled his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. They’d all expected a miracle from her upon her arrival. What she’d been able to offer her new husband had been relief from his symptoms, but there was no cure for the damage to such vital organs. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

  He offered her the hint of a smile. “Ye did yer best, Wife. Now there’s nothin’ either of us can do but wait fer the end.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “’Tis not yer fault. I’m the one who’s failed ye, my dear. I was tae protect ye from everyone, including my own people. They do nae understand and I fear Rupert will nae arrive in time to set things right before—” A spasmodic cough racked Dugald’s body.

  Rupert. Dugald either did not want to acknowledge or truly did not know about his son’s reputation. Vivian feared she would never receive the protection her husband wanted from his son. “Do not concern yourself with me. I’ll find a way forward.” Vivian lifted her husband’s torso into a more upright position, trying to make it easier for him to fill his lungs with air.

  He took the cloth from her hands and coughed into it, spotting the white linen with a deep red.

  The end was close.

  Vivian’s eyes burned and her throat tightened. She did not love her husband as a wife should, but she did care for him. He had not been as overpowering as her own father had been to her mother, giving evidence that not all marriages were as theirs had been. And yet, her husband’s son had added deadly complications to Dugald’s past three marriages.

  Vivian had never met Dugald’s only child, but she’d heard rumors among the castle residents that Rupert was responsible for his father’s previous wives’ demises, even that of his own mother. Vivian felt a cold touch on her neck, made from dire whispers and haunted eyes when those who knew Rupert spoke of the man.

  When Dugald’s coughing fit ended, he collapsed back against the pillows. “My last and final wish was tae see Rupert and beg him tae protect ye.”

  Chances were Rupert would do nothing to assist his father’s fourth wife. “I’m sure he will make every effort to come home, Dugald,” she said, the words at odds with her own worries. “Why not rest for a while, build up your strength for when he arrives?”

  With a weak nod, Dugald closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. Vivian settled back in her chair, determined to wait beside her husband until the old laird simply slipped away.

  Vivian must have drifted off to sleep herself because a steady knock on the chamber door startled her awake. “Enter,” she said, straightening her gown.

  Gillis, her maid, slipped into the chamber, shutting the door softly behind her. Worry etched into every line on the older woman’s face. “Milady, I’ve come tae warn ye. Rupert’s here. He’ll be up any moment tae see his father. What should we do?”

  “Nothing,” Vivian replied, coming to her feet, quelling the surge of fear that tightened her chest. “He ought to come up.”

  “I’m worried fer yer safety, milady. Rupert’s not a kind man.” Gillis moved to the bedside and took Vivian’s hands in her own. The woman had been hired to the castle especially for Vivian at her marriage to Dugald. In the last six months, the two had grown very close, close enough to speak their minds without reserve. “The other servants have nae love fer the master’s son. Some of the things they say about him—”

  “At the moment we must think of Dugald and his needs. Rupert is his son and he wishes to make his peace there. That is more important than anything else,” Vivian interrupted, trying to reassure the worried maid.

  Gillis frowned. “M’lady, have a care. The man is nae good.”

  Before Vivian could reply, the door to the chamber opened.

  “Where is he?”

  A tall man with dark red hair and a hawk-like gaze stepped into the chamber. She’d heard Rupert was a commanding figure, but the reality of the man was far more imposing than she’d imagined. Vivian curtsied. “Welcome home, Rupert. Your father has been asking for you.”

  He came to a sudden stop at the sight of his father, lying almost lifeless in the bed. Rupert brought a hand up to cover his mouth. “Is it consumption? Is he contagious?”

  As Gillis retreated to the shadows of the chamber, Vivian shook her head, wishing she, too, could remove herself from Rupert’s overpowering presence. “I do not believe so on either account. Many of us have been in direct contact with him and none have fallen ill,” Vivian replied.

  Rupert’s eyes narrowed on her. “Then what have you done to him? Last I saw my father he was hale and hearty.”

  “That was five years ago by your father’s account. His illness has taken a toll on him over the years.”

  “Nay. This advance into illness is too swift. It can’t be natural.” Rupert dropped onto the bed at his father’s side. “If my father knew he was failing, he would have sent me a message.”

  Dugald’s eyes fluttered open. “As I recall, I sent ye several.” He stared at his son for a long moment before a faint smile came to his lips. “Ye came this time. That’s what matters.”

  Instead of expressing remorse, Rupert’s face darkened with anger. “My work keeps me busy. In the last two weeks alone I’ve detained fourteen witches for the tribunal.” His gaze shifted to Vivian.

  She flinched at the palpable hatred in his dark eyes.

  Triumph lit his features. “I sense something of the dark arts at work here, through the efforts of this witch whom you call wife.”

  Dugald frowned. In a sudden surge of strength, he clasped his gnarled fingers around his son’s arm. “There is nae truth tae that. Mark my words, Son. Vivian has helped me more than ye can know in these last few months. I’ll die in peace instead of agony thanks tae her.”

  “She’s bewitched you.” Rupert shook off his father’s grip as he stood, pacing back and forth at the bedside. “You have no idea what sorcery is at work here.”

  “Nae, Son,” Dugald wheezed. “’Tis ye who are mistaken. Vivian is kind and generous. I’ll nae have ye malign her in such a way.” He started coughing—long, protracted hacking that shook his entire frame.

  The sight of his father suffering seemed to defuse Rupert’s anger. His shoulders slumped. “I did not come here to fight.”

  Vivian sat beside her husband and poured him a cup of the ivy leaf tisane she had brewed earlier. She offered Dugald a small sip, then another. The liquid soothed his coughing and he settled back against the bed once more.

  “I need . . . a promise . . . from ye,” Dugald forced out.

  Rupert’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll hear you out, but with no guarantees.”

  “As ye become the head of the Campbell clan, I need ye tae care for Vivian as I have cared for her. Protect her with yer life. Accept her as a Campbell, then the others will too,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice. He met his son’s steely gaze with his own.

  “You ask the impossible.”

  Vivian shivered at the hardness in Rupert’s voice.

  “Why?” Dugald asked as his strength suddenly faltered. “I canna go tae my maker . . . in peace without yer word.”

  Rupert stopped pacing, his look incredulous. “You, more than anyone, know why I do what I do.”

  “Yer mother was nae a witch. She was . . . misguided.”

  “Misguided?” Rupert spat the word. “I believe you mean evil. She wanted us both dead.”

  “Being unhappy . . . doesn’t make a person evil.”

  Rupert turned away, glancing abou
t the chamber. From her position on the bed Vivian could see his profile. The muscles of his jaw clenched then released. Finally, he turned back to look at her. “I’m both unhappy and determined, and I’ll continue to be so until every witch in this country is dead. If that includes your current wife, then so be it.”

  “Rupert, nay—” Dugald’s words cut off as a fit of coughing seized his lungs.

  Instead of tending her husband, Vivian stood and approached Rupert. She whispered, “Please, I beg you to lie to him. Say whatever he wants you to say to ease his way from this world.”

  Menace darkened his features. “Tell an untruth?”

  Vivian refused to back down. “Have some respect for your father. The truth matters little. Let his soul leave this world in peace.”

  “And after he dies?” Rupert asked, his gaze intensifying on her.

  She cast a glance back at Dugald as spasmodic coughing rattled his frame. “Then you and I can come to terms of our own.”

  “My terms will be when you burn at the stake,” Rupert said, his voice rough and sharp.

  She held back a shiver as she turned to face him once more. “I am the king’s ward. He’ll never allow you to harm me.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “Whatever happens after your father is gone will be between the two of us. For now, please put his mind at rest. He needs your compliance, truthful or not.”

  The corner of Rupert’s mouth lifted. “If that is what you wish, then that is what I shall do,” he said, stepping past her toward his father.

  With their two heads close, their whispers could not reach her ears, but she hoped Rupert would be true to his word for his father’s sake. Even though he had done as she’d asked, Vivian’s stomach heaved. She wished she could have had a vision of this moment, something, anything to prepare her for what was to come. But her visions were never that convenient.

  Gillis emerged from the shadows. She grasped Vivian by the arms. “What did ye do, m’lady?”