Courting an Angel (9 page)

“Forget it, my lord.” Rob gave her attention to the road ahead as if it were the most interesting sight in the world.

“I’ll make amends somehow.”

“’Tisna necessary.”

“’Tis, I say.”

Without bothering to look at him, Rob inclined her head in deference to his wishes. Seeming to acquiesce was easier than arguing with a stone wall.

Suddenly, Rob remembered her ruby. After giving him a surreptitious glance to verify he wasn’t watching, she peeked inside her cloak. Much to her surprise, the ruby appeared as placid as when she’d donned it. There had to be some mistake. She was riding to London with a man bent on ruining her life. She peeked at the ruby again, just to be sure.

“What are ye doin’?” Gordon asked, startling her. “Checkin’ yer titties?”

Rob refused to rise to his outrageous bait. Every instinct she possessed demanded she fling back whatever he threw at her.

“Everyone in the Highlands knows the Campbells are born reivers,” Rob said, arching one ebony brow at him. “I wanted to be certain ye hadna lifted them off my chest.”

Gordon cast her a wry smile and countered, “I dinna need to steal what I already own, angel.”

“Ye dinna own me,” she snapped.

“A man is his wife’s lord and master,” Gordon told her. “The sooner ye learn that fact, the happier our married life will be.”

“We are na’ havin’ a married life together,” Rob informed him. “Remember, ye swore ye’d admit only to bein’ my childhood betrothed.”

“And ye promised to refrain from sullenness,” he shot back.

“I wasna sullen.”

“What do ye call yer attitude, then?”

The marquess was correct, Rob thought. And she couldn’t expect him to honor his promise if she failed to honor hers.

Rob quirked her lips into a sheepish smile. “Childishly insultin’?” she suggested.

Gordon grinned at the unexpected change for the better in her attitude. “I stand corrected, my lady. Childishly insultin’ isna anythin’ like bein’ sullen.”

“Great Bruce’s ghost, do my ears deceive me?” she teased. “I thought I heard ye admit to bein’ wrong.”

“Ye bring out the verra best in me, angel.” Gordon winked at her. “I believe I’ll keep ye around forever.”

Rob ignored his loaded comment, and as they rode down the length of the Strand, she pointed to its more interesting landmarks. On the left stood Leicester House, separated from Arundel House by the Milford Stairs. On their right sat Durham House where Edward VI had once lived. Up ahead rose Westminster Abbey where Henry Tudor and his beloved Jane Seymour lay together for all of eternity.

“’Tis Lennox House,” Rob said, pointing at one of the mansions they passed.

“Jamie’s late grandfather’s house?”

“Humph! I’m verra surprised Darnley even managed to sire one heir.”

“What ever can ye mean by that, lass?” Gordon asked.

“I’m no innocent,” Rob informed the marquess, making him smile. “I’ve heard the tales aboot Darnley’s preference for boys.”

“King James is partial to his father’s memory,” Gordon told her. “Ye willna be repeatin’ those tales if ye accompany me to court.”

“Jamie’s an unnatural brat,” she muttered.

“That royal brat is two years older than ye,” he reminded her, his voice stern.

Rob halted her mount unexpectedly. When the marquess reined in beside her, she lowered her voice and said, as if revealing a secret, “I met her last summer, ye know.”

“Who?”

“The queen.”

“Elizabeth?”

Rob shook her head and inched her horse closer to his, so close her leg teased the side of his thigh. She glanced around to verify that no passerby could hear and then whispered, “Mary Stuart.”

Gordon raised his brows and silently gestured for her to embellish her story.

“They were keepin’ her at Chartley House then,” Rob explained. “I was in Shropshire with Uncle Richard and persuaded him to stop there. My uncle is a verra important man in England and enjoys vast privileges that —”

“What did ye think of her?” the marquess interrupted.

“’Twas heartbreakin’,” Rob cried. “The puir lady seemed so alone in the world. He betrayed her, ye know.”

“Who betrayed her, lass?”

“That ungrateful whelp who sits upon the throne of Scotland.”

“Ye dare call the King of Scotland a whelp?”

Rob nodded. “Aye, and I’d call him worse if I wasna a lady.”

Gordon’s first instinct, which he successfully squelched, was to reprimand her for slandering their king. Cognizant of the fact that the Earl of Basildon was forcing him to court his own bride, Gordon decided to be reasonable. Though, he doubted logic would be effective with the beauty beside him.

“What makes ye think Jamie betrayed Mary?” he asked.

“I overheard a conversation between Uncle Richard and Duke Robert,” she told him. “Believin’ themselves alone in my uncle’s study, they mentioned Elizabeth’s offer to return Mary to Scotland. King James refused the offer.”

Gordon stared at her for a long moment while he digested this less-than-surprising information. He was the king’s man, but felt there was something unnatural about a son rejecting his own mother, especially since the woman — a queen anointed by God — would remain imprisoned in a foreign country.

“Ye canna expect the man to harbor tender feelin’s for a woman he’s never met,” Gordon said finally. He wanted no trouble from the chit when they returned to Edinburgh. Voicing such treasonous opinions would cause Clan Campbell infinite problems.

“Never met?” Rob countered. “The woman carried him within her body and gave him life.”

Without another word, Rob nudged her horse forward, and they continued down the Strand toward Charing Cross where they veered to the right and rode into London proper. Here the crowds of Londoners grew increasingly larger and forced them to pick their way carefully down the city’s narrow, twisting lanes.

“Are ye hungry, lass?” Gordon asked.

“Famished,” she answered. “I skipped breakfast.”

“’Cuz ye didna wish to keep me waitin’?”

“No, I am tired of the bland English fare. At the moment, I’d kill for a mug of Old Man’s milk.”

Gordon chuckled. Rob looked at him from beneath her fringe of sooty lashes and smiled.

Like a breath of fresh mountain air, speaking with someone who understood her habits and preferences felt good. The marquess wasn’t so bad after all. Too bad living in the Highlands was no option for her. She’d rather brave an eternity of bland breakfasts than see one more person make the sign of the cross as she walked by.

“Do ye know of a decent tavern where we can eat?” Gordon asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“Aye, and Uncle Richard told me an interestin’ tale that goes along with it.”

Rob led Gordon through Cheapside Market and past St. Paul’s Cathedral. Finally, they turned their horses up Friday Street and dismounted in front of the Royal Rooster Tavern.

The Rooster’s common room was surprisingly spacious, large enough for a hearth and a bar. On the left side of the chamber, near the narrow stairway that led to the second floor, stood the hearth. The bar sat in the corner on the opposite side of the room. Tables and chairs were positioned around the chamber.

Gordon escorted Rob to a secluded table in the corner near the hearth. Ever the courtier, he assisted her into her chair and then sat down.

“What’s the tale that goes along with the tavern?” Gordon asked, leaning close.

Beneath his amused gaze, Rob inched away from the danger his disturbing nearness presented. His clean masculine scent reminded her of mountain heather and made her senses reel. She flicked him a skittish, sidelong glance.

“What’ll it be, folks?” a voice beside the table asked loudly.

Both Gordon and Rob looked up at the proprietor’s wife, a handsome middle-aged woman. Shrewd intelligence shone from her hazel eyes. And then recognition.

“Robbie, ’tis a pleasure seein’ ya again,” the woman greeted her. “How’s yer ma? Nothin’s happened, has it?”

Rob shook her head. “My parents enjoy the best of health, Mistress Jacques.”

“I told ya before to call me Randi,” the woman chided her. “All my friends do, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Verra well, Randi.” Rob smiled. “I’d like ye to meet Gordon Campbell, a friend from Scotland.”

“A pleasure to meet ye,” Gordon said, inclining his head toward the older woman.

She stared hard at him for a long moment. “Gawd, ya look familiar.”

Rob giggled. “Gordon is Magnus Campbell’s son. Do ye remember Lord Magnus?”

“Do I ever!” Randi burst out laughing. “Gawd, I ain’t washed me right hand in the twenty-five years since that rascal kissed it . . . I’ll fetch ya some vittles right away,” she added when she heard her husband calling her.

“What was that aboot?” Gordon asked, a puzzled smile flirting with his lips.

“A verra long time ago, my mother ran away from my father,” Rob told him. “Along the road to England, she met your father who escorted her to London where she found employment as a servin’ wench at this verra tavern. Your father’s mission was to invite the Earl of Lennox and his son. Lord Darnley, to the Scots court. Queen Mary was in search of a husband.”

“I never knew aboot that,” Gordon said. “How excitin’ the times must’ve been with two bonny, rival queens rulin’ over virtually the same island kingdom.” He winked at her and dropped his voice to a husky whisper, adding, “See the heritage we share? I’d love to share ever so much more with ye.”

Rob felt the hot blush rising upon her cheeks. His oh-so-sensual voice made her tingle all over — in secret places she’d never imagined could tingle.

“Gawd, he’s as handsome as his father,” Mistress Jacques said, materializing with their stew and ale. “Grab him if ya can, Robbie-girl; I warrant ya’ll never shiver with the cold on those long, winter nights.”

Embarrassed almost beyond bearing, Rob suffered the powerful urge to slip beneath the table to hide. Her stricken expression and her telltale blush told them exactly how she felt because both Gordon and Randi chuckled at her apparent discomfort.

“Have ya taken him to see the queen’s menagerie?” Randi asked.

Rob shook her head, too embarrassed to look either of them directly in the eye.

“’Tis a startlin’ sight,” Randi said, winking at Gordon. “Them growlin’ lions always put me in the mood for a parcel of protection — if ya know what I mean.”

As soon as the woman left them to continue her duties, Rob lifted her spoon and began to eat. She reached for a hunk of brown bread; but without any warning, the marquess snaked his hand out and grasped her left hand. Rob froze and wished she’d kept her gloves on. She despised anyone looking at her evil deformity.

“Yer still wearin’ my weddin’ ring,” Gordon said, inspecting the scrolled band she now wore on her smallest finger. He planted a kiss on the stain and murmured, “Ye and No Other.”

Rob felt her stomach lurch at his words. The marquess remembered the ring’s inscription. That boded ill for her future with Henry Talbot.

“There’s a matter of importance we must discuss,” Rob said, giving him a nervous smile as she extracted her hand and hid it on her lap.

“Discuss away, angel.”

Rob hesitated. She knew the heartache of rejection better than most and felt reluctant to cause the marquess any unnecessary pain. On the other hand, she could never live happily with him in the Highlands. The choice was a smidgen of heartache for him now or a ton of heartache for herself later.

“Henry Talbot — the Marquess of Ludlow — and I love each other,” Rob blurted out. “We wish to marry.”

“The English marquess isna the man for ye,” Gordon said, his voice and his expression colder than a Highland blizzard. “Ye’ve already got yerself a husband.”

“Why are ye bein’ difficult?” Rob cried, determined in spite of his forbidding expression. “There must be dozens of women in Scotland who’d love to call ye husband.”

“Naturally. However, yer my wife and I want ye,” Gordon said. “Tell me, does Talbot usually run aboot courtin’ other men’s wives?”

Rob stared at the hands she was wringing in her lap and refused to meet his gaze. She peeked at her ruby and saw that its color remained surprisingly placid.

“And which popinjay was Talbot last night?” Gordon asked.

“Henry is away at Hampton Court,” Rob answered, summoning the courage to meet his gaze. “Can ye not be reasonable aboot this?”

“If I wasna a reasonable man, angel, I’d dispatch the dirty Sassenach.” His lips turned up into a ghost of a smile. “And ye too.”

Rob swallowed nervously and dropped her gaze. Though her demeanor appeared pathetically meek, her thoughts veered toward mutiny.

How dare the arrogant lout ride into England and threaten her! How dare he . . .
 

Gordon rose from his chair so abruptly its legs scraped the wooden floor. He tossed a few coins on the table and said, “I’ve had enough tourin’ for one day. Let’s go.”

In miserable silence, they retraced their path through London’s crowded streets toward the Strand. The marquess’s profile seemed chiseled in stone, frightening Rob too much to speak. She refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her voice quaver like a coward’s.