Courting an Angel (43 page)

“We’re verra pleased to meet Gordy’s bride,” Lady Armstrong said.

“Ye know my husband personally then?” Rob asked.

“Verra well,” Lady Elliott answered.

“Intimately,” Lady Armstrong said, flicking a sidelong glance at her companion.

Rob noted the byplay between them and realized that one or both had bedded Gordon. Determined to put a brave face on the matter, she lifted her chin a notch and gifted them with an insincere smile.

“Any friend of my husband’s is a friend of mine,” Rob said. “Ye must call me by my given name, Rob.” Seeing their surprised reactions to her boy’s name, she added, “My father named me in honor of Robert the Bruce, and Gordy thinks ’tis adorable.”

“Call me Catherine,” said Lady Elliott.

“I’m Jean,” the blonde added.

“We couldna help noticin’ the unusual gloves yer wearin’,” Lady Elliott remarked.

“Why, Catherine, ’tis all the latest rage at the Tudor court,” Rob informed them as if the two sophisticated beauties before her were country milkmaids. She hoped the Lord would forgive her lies. “All the English ladies at court are wearin’ them. I’ve recently passed a year visitin’ Uncle Richard, the English Earl of Basildon.”

That bit of unsolicited information surprised the two beauties.

“Yer uncle is the English queen’s Midas?” Lady Elliott asked.

“Why, his fame has even reached us here in Scotland,” Lady Armstrong added.

“Dearest Uncle Richard is as wonderful and kind as he is rich and influential,” Rob replied, pasting an insincere smile on her face. Behaving obnoxiously was incredibly easy.

“Oh, dear. Here comes trouble,” Lady Elliott said, gesturing to the right.

Rob glanced in that direction. Mungo MacKinnon and the red-haired woman were advancing on them.

“Good day to ye,” Mungo greeted them, and then turned to Rob. “May I make known to ye my cousin, Lady Kerr.”

Rob looked at the voluptuous, fiery-haired beauty and managed a faint smile. “I’m pleased to make yer acquaintance,” she said.

“And I’m pleased to meet Gordy’s bride,” the redhead returned. She wasted no time in perusing her rival’s charms.

Rob knew the other woman was searching for flaws. When the redhead’s gaze dropped to her thickened middle, Rob placed one hand over her belly and announced, “I’m afraid yer discernin’ eye has discovered my little secret. I carry Inverary’s heir.”

Lady Kerr lost her smile. “Congratulations are in order then.”

Rob nodded, satisfied that she’d managed to drop the other woman’s composure several notches.

“I’m certain we’ll be seein’ a great deal of each other,” Lady Kerr drawled, recovering herself. “Call me Livy.”

Rob froze, but willed her expression to remain passive. “Did ye say Livy?” she asked.

“Yes. Is there somethin’ wrong?”

Before Rob could reply, another voice spoke, “Lady Campbell, is it really ye?”

Rob turned toward the voice and saw the Earl of Bothwell standing there. A tall, well-built man, Francis Hepburn-Stuart possessed auburn hair and heavenly blue eyes and an unlimited supply of charm.

“I’m pleased to see ye’ve fully recovered from yer long journey from England,” the earl said, bowing over her gloved hand. “Have ye brought that Sassenach dog of yers to court?”

Rob grinned and shook her head, saying, “We left Smooches at Inverary.”

“Come and walk aboot with me,” the earl said, offering his hand. “We must renew our acquaintance.”

“I’d be delighted, my lord,” Rob said, placing her hand in his.

Escorting her away from the others, Bothwell whispered, “I thought ye needed an escape route from that group.”

“My Lord Bothwell, how perceptive ye are,” Rob replied, making him smile. “I suppose yer intervention puts me in yer debt.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said. “And how goes the married life?”

“I’m expecting Inverary’s heir,” she told him.

“The verra best to ye, then.” The earl smiled at her. “Ye know, lass. When I met ye at Hermitage, I had my doubts aboot yer survivin’ here at court.”

“But why would ye think that?”

“Ye appeared such a pathetic creature when ye sat at my table.”

Rob gave him a sidelong glance and warned, “My lord, I’m wearin’ my last resort. If ye ever again refer to me as pathetic, I’ll be forced to end yer life.”

Bothwell threw back his head and shouted with laughter. He stopped walking and turned to face her. “I’m verra glad to hear that because ye’ll need spunk to survive the pretty vultures at court,” he said. “Now, suppose ye tell me why ye drew yer blade on the English queen’s minister.”

“Suppose ye tell me where my brother is,” Rob countered.

“Dubh took to the heather after he snatched the Debrett chit,” the earl told her. “I believe they’re hidin’ somewhere in the Highlands.”

“So he did abduct her,” Rob said.

“Well, Dubh thought he was abductin’ her,” the earl replied, “but the lady insists he rescued her from an unwanted marriage.”

“’Tis a relief,” Rob said with a smile. “And, for yer information, I drew my dagger on Walsingham because I’d overheard him speaking aboot Queen Mary’s execution. We needed to keep the secret for fear he’d toss my uncle into the Tower.”

“Gordon Campbell has chosen his bride well,” Bothwell complimented her. “Yer a braw lassie.”

“My lord, do ye think my father and my father-in-law are endangered by what they did today?” Rob asked abruptly.

Bothwell shook his head. “Jamie favors Gordon and will listen to reason. Ye, however, look a little peaked. Why dinna ye retire to yer chamber and rest until yer husband returns.”

“I dinna know the way,” Rob admitted, and then felt the heated blush rising upon her cheeks.

Bothwell smiled. “All ye need do is ask a page to escort ye there.”

Feeling foolish, Rob returned his smile and said, “Thank ye, my lord. I believe I’ll do that.”

Once inside her chamber, Rob lay down on the bed. Her stomach churned with worry for her father’s well-being, and her head pounded with another, equally troubling thought.

Lady Lavinia Kerr had recently been Gordon’s mistress and wished to resume her affair with him. Rob knew that as surely as she knew her own name.

But, for what did Gordon wish? That was the most disturbing thought of all.

Chapter 16

God’s balls, but the king’s dribbling boded ill for his success.

Alone with the angry king in the privy chamber, Gordon knew he needed a strategy that would put James in a kinder, more merciful frame of mind.

Gordon lifted two crystal goblets off the desk and then cast the pacing king a lopsided smile. After laying them down on their sides on the floor, he reached into the royal golf bag to withdraw two putters and a handful of golf balls.

“We may as well practice while we confer,” Gordon said, offering the king one of the putters.

James relaxed visibly, and a slow smile stole across his face, banishing his irritated expression. Nothing in the whole wide world soothed him more than golfing and hunting.

Taking the putter out of his friend’s hand, James waited for Gordon to set the golf ball down on the floor.

Then he sidled up to the ball and aimed for the goblet. His face split into a broad grin when the ball hit its mark.

“Yer kin are intent on incitin’ war with England,” James said as his friend set his own golf ball down on the floor.

Gordon flicked a glance at the young monarch, aimed for the goblet, and hit his mark. “My father and his kinsmen are nothin’ but old warriors livin’ in the past,” he disagreed. “Their agein’ minds canna see beyond vengeance to the ultimate prize, bein’ named Elizabeth’s successor. The old girl canna live forever, ye know.”

“’Twas a particularly good shot ye just made,” the king complimented him.

“Thank ye, sire.” Gordon set another golf ball down in front of the king.

“I’m a lovin’ son,” James said, and then aimed for the goblet. “Horrified outrage was my initial reaction to my mother’s death, and my own inclination was toward declarin’ war. After all, Elizabeth could have sent her home instead of executin’ her.”

Jamie betrayed her, Gordon recalled his wife’s words. The English offered to return her to Scotland, but her own son refused her sanctuary because he feared sharing his crown with her.

James putted the golf ball into the goblet and added, “War wouldna honor her cherished memory, but would only serve to eliminate any chance I have of bein’ Elizabeth’s successor. After all, what’s more fittin’ to my mother’s memory than havin’ her only son wear the crown that she coveted.”

“I agree with ye on that point,” Gordon said, hitting his ball into the goblet.

“To that end, yer rebellious relatives should be punished for disturbin’ the peace.”

“With all due respect, I disagree with ye on that point,” Gordon said. “My father and his kinsmen are na beyond reasonin’. Besides, the Earl of Basildon is MacArthur’s brother-in-law and one of the most influential men in England, not to mention the richest . . . Care to place a small wager on our game here?”

James nodded. “A gold piece?”

Gordon smiled and tossed a gold piece onto the desk. Then he set a golf ball down on the floor in front of the king.

James took careful aim and hit the ball into the goblet. Gordon also hit his mark.

“Another good shot,” the king complimented him. “Yer game is improvin’.”

“If my game is improvin’, ’tis because I’m learnin’ from the verra best, namely yerself,” Gordon said smoothly.

James smiled, obviously pleased by the flattery, and hit his next ball into the goblet. Gordon followed suit.

“As I was sayin’, Basildon favors ye to be Elizabeth’s successor,” Gordon continued. “He also possesses the uncanny talent to fatten yer coffers. God’s balls, but everything the man touches turns to gold.”

Always in need of coin, King James brightened at that. Gordon tossed another gold piece onto the desk and then set a golf ball down in front of the king. Flicking a sidelong glance at him, Gordon felt relieved to see that the king’s dribbling had slowed considerably.

“Tell me more,” James ordered after sinking the ball into the goblet.

“My wife is Basildon’s niece,” Gordon went on, setting his own golf ball down on the floor. “I was a guest at his home while in England. Many times during my stay there, Basildon spoke of when ye would succeed Elizabeth. However, if ye harm his Scottish kin, I dinna know if he’ll back ye when the moment comes to name a successor. He does enjoy considerable influence with Elizabeth. Perhaps, ye should exhibit those noble qualities for which ye’ve become renowned.”

Giving the king time to digest his words, Gordon took careful aim and hit the ball. He hid a satisfied smile when the golf ball veered to the right at the last possible moment and missed its mark.

“Aha! I’ve beat ye,” James said. He confiscated the gold pieces and then leaned against his desk. “To which of my noble qualities do ye refer?”

“Patience and mercy, Yer Majesty.” Gordon looked at the king and felt immensely relieved that the royal dribbling had almost stopped.

“Verra well, my friend,” James said. “But Campbell and MacArthur must apologize now and again in public at the memorial service. Elizabeth’s emissary is scheduled to arrive tomorrow. Because of yer relatives, I must keep him waitin’ an extra day.”

“So?” Gordon cocked a brow at the king. “Ye control this unfortunate situation with England. Ye dinna need to give Elizabeth yer attention at the verra moment she demands it. She’s the one who’s squirmin’ on her throne.” Gordon held a golf ball up and asked, “Are ye goin’ to give me the chance to win my gold back?”

King James grinned. “We’ll go golfin’ after the service tomorrow, and in the evenin’ ye can present yer bride to me at supper.”

“Sire, we’d be honored to attend,” Gordon replied, inclining his head. “I’ll fetch those stubborn old war horses to ye.”

Gordon stepped into the corridor outside the privy chamber. His father and his in-laws had removed their rusty armor and stood with his uncle, the Earl of Huntly.

Before speaking, Gordon removed his handkerchief from his pocket and made an exaggerated show of wiping the nervous sweat from his brow and his upper lip. Finally, he cast them a wholly disgusted look and said, “I had to do some fancy talkin’. Now, get in there and grovel.”

“I grovel to no man,” Duke Magnus announced.

“Neither do I,” Iain MacArthur said.

“Nor I,” Percy MacArthur added.

The Earl of Huntly chuckled. Gordon ran his hand across his face in exasperation.

“Inverary’s heir is risin’ in my wife’s belly,” Gordon told them, giving each of them a cold stare. “Would ye spoil his future with yer prideful pigheadedness?”

All three instantly appeared shamefaced.

“Gettin’ the Campbells and the MacArthurs attainted willna bring Queen Mary back from the dead,” Gordon added for good measure.