Courting an Angel (48 page)

When she nodded in agreement, Mungo crossed the chamber to the table. Ah, yes, he thought with an inward smile of supreme satisfaction. Events were progressing rather nicely. Perhaps his luck was about to take a turn for the better.

Mungo glanced over his shoulder to be certain his cousin wasn’t watching and then pulled a glass vial from inside his doublet. He stared at its contents for one brief moment. The apothecary had insisted that this amount of calcinated, fresh tree bark would reduce a person to a retching state within a few minutes. Though the illness wouldn’t be fatal, the nausea and the stomachache would last two or three days.

Without remorse, Mungo emptied the powdery tree bark into a goblet and poured the wine. After filling a second goblet, he carried them back across the chamber and then passed Lavinia the goblet of tainted wine.

“I salute yer fine actin’ ability,” Mungo said, raising his goblet and drinking.

“I wasna play actin’,” Lavinia told him, and sipped her wine. “Despisin’ that mouse comes easily.”

“I ken what ye mean,” Mungo replied, sitting down in the other chair and stretching his legs out.

For the next half hour, the two cousins drank their wine and spoke of inconsequential matters. Mungo kept a sharp eye on his cousin and her slowly paling complexion while he awaited the illness’ onslaught.

Suddenly, Lavinia placed a hand against her belly as if she felt uncomfortable. “Cousin, I dinna feel verra well,” she said. “Would ye call my tirin’ woman for me?”

Struggling against a smile, Mungo shot to his feet. “Of course, I will. I’ll also fetch the king’s physician.”

As he passed her, Lavinia grabbed his hand and looked up at him with an anxious expression. “Ye dinna think she really is a witch?” she asked.

“I dinna know,” Mungo answered with a shrug. “But I’m positive the king’s physician can make ye feel better.”

On the opposite side of the palace, down the winding maze of corridors from Lavinia’s chamber, Gordon sat in the chair in front of the hearth in his own chamber. Rob, dressed in her night shift and robe, cuddled in his lap and rested her head against his shoulder. She’d dropped into an exhausted sleep as they’d been speaking about their baby’s impending arrival only a few months from then, and Gordon was reluctant to awaken her just to put her to bed.

Gordon glanced down at her sweet expression. His wife was indeed an angel, no matter that she possessed the foolish habit of drawing her dagger at precisely the wrong moment. A Highland angel with an imp’s temperament. That’s exactly what she was. Despite the long years of personal sorrow, Rob had an enormous heart and more love to give than any ten women put together.

Without a doubt, Gordon knew that no other woman in God’s universe would have accepted Duncan and Gavin unconditionally as she had. He knew she’d been profoundly disappointed when he failed to profess his love for her. And he knew that he must tell her he loved her, even if she tried to manipulate him because of his tender regard for her.

His wife accepted his bastards, professed her love for him, and nurtured his heir inside her body. He owed her those three words she longed to hear . . . I love you.

Bang! Bang! Bang! came a pounding on the door.

Rob awakened in an instant and, though drowsy, peered up at him through emerald eyes that mirrored her alarm. Gordon shrugged and shook his head.

Again sounded the insistent pounding on their chamber door.

“Open up, Inverary,” a voice ordered. “By order of His Majesty, King James, I charge ye to open this door.”

“Give me a minute,” Gordon called as Rob rose from his lap.

“Am I to be arrested for drawin’ my dagger in the king’s presence?” she asked, worriedly rubbing a finger back and forth across her devil’s flower.

Gordon planted a kiss on her forehead and asked, “Would I let Jamie do that to ye?”

Rob gave him a wobbly smile and shook her head.

Gordon crossed the chamber, unbolted the door, and opened it a crack. Five men of the king’s personal guard stood there.

“What do ye want?” Gordon demanded.

“Ye and yer wife will accompany us to the audience chamber,” the man in charge answered.

Gordon glanced in his wife’s direction and then shifted his gaze back to the man. “My wife is already dressed for sleepin’,” he told him. “Will ye wait while she changes into a gown?”

“No.” The man stood his ground. “She’s to accompany us now.”

“I’ll fetch her,” Gordon said with a curt nod. When he turned around, he regretted ever leaving Argyll.

“Dinna fret,” Gordon said, noting her pale face and wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. “At times James is given to dramatics. ’Tis a trait he inherited from his mother. Do ye trust me to protect ye and handle him?”

Rob nodded once, but was unable to speak.

Putting his arm around her protectively, Gordon guided his wife toward the door. He felt the tremors of fear that shook her body and cursed himself for insisting she accompany him to Edinburgh. If he’d only known then what dangers awaited them at Holyrood. Ah, well, there was nothing to be done now. Even a blind man saw keenly through hindsight.

Gordon felt the first inkling of true apprehension when they walked into the audience chamber. With the exception of Lavinia Kerr, everyone who’d attended supper that evening was there, and Mungo MacKinnon stood near the king.

Gordon flicked a questioning glance at the Earl of Bothwell who almost imperceptibly shook his head in obvious disgust. Next his gaze slid to the English emissaries, Talbot and Debrett, who also appeared none too happy.

Though he felt the stirrings of unease in the pit of his stomach, Gordon forced himself to give his wife an encouraging squeeze. Together, they stepped forward toward the dais, but the king’s voice stopped them.

“Stay where ye are,” King James ordered, gesturing with his hand.

Gordon halted instantly. Noting the river of dribble emanating from the king’s mouth, he asked with a smile, “Yer Majesty, may I be heard?”

“No,” came the king’s bitterly cold reply. “MacKinnon, step forward and repeat yer accusation.”

Mungo MacKinnon walked forward until he stood only inches from Gordon and Rob, who shrank back from him. For the first time, Gordon recognized the unmasked hatred in his friend’s gaze when he looked at Rob.

“Gordy, I’m verra sorry aboot this,” Mungo said, flicking him an apologetic look. “Yer wife’s curse has sickened Livy. Even now, the king’s own physician is tendin’ her.”

“Dinna be ridiculous,” Gordon snapped, unable to credit what he was hearing. He shifted his gaze to the king to make an argument in his wife’s defense.

In that instant, Mungo snaked his hand out and grabbed Rob’s left wrist. She screamed and struggled to free herself.

“Rob MacArthur is a witch who wears Old Clootie’s mark,” Mungo shouted, holding her hand up for all to see.

Everyone in the chamber except Bothwell and the two English emissaries shrank back from the unholy sight. As if fear were contagious, each man and woman made a protective sign of the cross to ward the evil eye off.

“God’s balls, I’ll kill ye,” Gordon growled, lunging for Mungo. He tackled the blond man to the floor, and enraged beyond reason, he grabbed his throat and began squeezing the life’s breath from his body.

“Cease!” King James shouted, spitting saliva. “Stop, I say!” His royal command fell on deaf ears.

In the end, saving Mungo MacKinnon required the strength of three men. Lords Bothwell, Talbot, and Debrett pulled a struggling Gordon off the other man.

“Ye canna help yer lassie if he tosses ye in the Tolbooth for murder,” Bothwell whispered into his ear.

Gordon stilled instantly at the earl’s warning. He’d settle with MacKinnon at a later date. After all, revenge tasted best when served cold.

“MacKinnon, do ye actually believe Gordy’s wife is a witch?” King James asked.

“Aye, I do.” His answer came out in a breathless rasp.

“I dinna believe that the English queen’s Midas would harbor a witch in his household for more than a year,” the Earl of Bothwell spoke up, drawing his royal cousin’s attention.

Henry Talbot took his cue from the Border lord and remarked, “Aye, Rob is the Earl of Basildon’s favorite niece.”

“Why, Rob is as much his daughter as the six he sired,” Roger Debrett added.

“Basildon sired six daughters?” James echoed in apparent surprise.

The Earl of Bothwell forced himself to laugh loudly. “’Twould seem that Basildon knows much aboot fattenin’ England’s royal coffers but little aboot fuckin’ a woman.” Everyone in the chamber chuckled, relieving the tension, and he added, “The man should have done it with his boots on.”

Relaxing a bit because of the unexpected levity, King James shifted his gaze to Rob, who stood there trembling visibly. The cold speculation vanished from his eyes as he looked at her.

“Rob MacArthur is the daughter of a green-eyed witch,” Mungo MacKinnon cried, indignant. “The proof lies on the back of her left hand. Her Sassenach mother caused the deaths of my father and my aunt.”

“’Tis a lie!” Rob cried, speaking for the first time.

“I have proof enough and demand retribution,” Mungo called, ignoring her outburst.

“I’ll give ye retribution.” Gordon clenched his fist and struck the other man full on the face, sending him sprawling on the floor and a river of blood gushing from his nose.

“Enough!” the king shouted, his saliva spraying those closest to him, who dared not dry themselves in his presence.

King James slid his gaze from Mungo to Gordon to Rob while he debated the best action to take. Finally, he shifted his gaze to Mungo and said, “Verra well, MacKinnon, but yer retribution must be monetary. Name yer price, and Gordy will pay ye.” Or else was left unspoken.

“Fifty thousand gold pieces,” Mungo called, holding his handkerchief against his bleeding nose. “And if he canna raise it, will ye put the witch to death?”

“I’ll consider it.” King James looked at Gordon and said, “Ye’ve six weeks from tonight to deliver the gold. Until then, both Mungo and ye are banned from my court. Yer wife, however, will remain here as surety.”

“No,” Rob exclaimed, and then swooned.

Gordon caught her before she hit the floor and cradled her in his arms. Before turning away, he said in a low voice, “MacKinnon, yer a walkin’ dead man.”

“He’s goin’ to kill me,” Mungo whined in protest.

“Gordy, if MacKinnon meets with an untimely accident,” the king threatened, clearly irritated, “I’ll charge yer wife with witchcraft and hang her from yonder scaffold. Do ye understand?”

“I can guarantee Mungo’s safety,” Gordon replied, inclining his head. “For the next six weeks, at least.”

Without waiting for royal permission to leave, Gordon whirled away and carried Rob out of the audience chamber. The Earl of Bothwell cast his royal cousin a wholly disgusted look and followed him out, as did Henry Talbot and Roger Debrett.

* * *

There was a hole in her world where Gordon had once stood.

Those autumn days dawned depressingly overcast and rainy as if the angels on high sympathized with her plight. Utterly disheartened, Rob passed the first week of her lonely confinement in a blur of tears and a deep, dreamless sleep. Though Henry Talbot tried several times to gain admittance to her chamber, she saw no one but Gabby and refused to eat except for a bowl of broth each evening.

At the beginning of her second week of miserable isolation, Rob arose from her bed and passed the long hours each day sitting in front of the hearth and staring despondently into its mesmerizing flames. She refused to sew more baby clothes. Why go to all that trouble for a child that would never be born? Raising fifty thousand gold pieces would be impossible for Gordon. Who would pauper themselves for a woman they’d never accepted?

By the third week, Rob toyed with the idea of escaping but was uncertain of how that could be accomplished. Security at Holyrood was excellent. Besides, Gordon and she would forever be branded outlaws. No one thwarted the will of the king.

On the twenty-first evening of her confinement, Rob sat in the chair in front of the hearth. She stared at her devil’s flower and traced a finger across it. The skin on her left hand felt no different than on her right hand. How could such a tiny flaw bring her a lifetime of misery? The dark, delicate flower jeopardized her and her unborn child, but evil lurked within the heart, not the back of a hand. Unless . . .
 

Rob flicked a sidelong glance at Gabby who sat in the other chair and knitted a blanket for the baby that would never be born. “Do ye think I really could be a changelin’-witch?” she asked the other woman.

Gabby snapped her head round and stared at her incredulously.

“There might be such bein’s,” Rob went on. “Perhaps, the fairies stole the true MacArthur daughter and left me in her place. What d’ye think?”

Gabby grinned. “I think ye sound even stupider than my Dewey.”

“Well, ’tis possible,” Rob insisted, disgruntled by her insult.

“Fairies and changelin’-witches dinna exist,” Gabby replied, shaking her head.