Heaven and the Heather (6 page)

“I…I will not marry Campbell,” she blurted out.

Of course she would unless….

Niall held up her
sac
. “’Tis your choice,” he said, voice soft.

She stood in the moonlight, captivated by this Highland ruffian, one of the wild creatures of this vast wild land. His words could not have touched her bruised heart more. Choice. He was offering her hope in exchange for a simple request.

“
Oui
,” she whispered. “I will try to get you into the palace, but you must make me a promise.”

“Aye?”

“That you will not harm or disparage Her Majesty. She is my queen.”

“She is mine as well,” he said.

The moonlight captured the fire in his hair and the sapphire glint in his eyes. She had to remember to breathe.

“I shall help you,” was all she could say.

His grin widened as if he knew she would give in all along. He made a low bow to her and tucked her
sac
into a crude pouch he wore on his waist belt.
“Merci beaucoup.”

Sabine would ask him later how he knew French. She would have time to ask him a great number of things when he sat in the royal prison. He would never make his way into the royal court, into the masque—

She paused. Masque!

Perchance Niall MacGregor would greet the queen after all. And she would get her
sac
back. She silently thanked Saint Giles for returning hope even if the bearer was a Highland savage with eyes the hue of Heaven.

chapter 3

The Duck and the Vixen

T
his French nymph’s wiles surprised and intrigued Niall. She was doing his bidding in a most fascinating manner. His life was actually perfect for one bloody moment.

“’Tis about time,” he whispered from a burned-out recess of the once-grand and glorious Royal Abbey.

“What?” Rory asked into his ear.

“Wheesht!” Niall hissed. His friend was the master of shattering one’s concentration.

After one hard blink, he resumed his vigilance on the French lovely and the guard she appeared to be charming, seducing or both. He took a few silent steps forward and stopped in the shadow of a charred of timber. He felt the weight of his dirk, cold and heavy, inside the wool and fur wrapped about his calf. The temptation to unsheathe the knife gnawed at him.

“I apologize, Mademoiselle de Sainte Montagne,” the lanky guard said. “I thought you asked me to evacuate my post. That I canna do, even for
you
.”

So the guard was not a eunuch to the beauty before him. He was falling to the feminine subterfuge, the bloody Lowlander.

“
Non, Monsieur le guarde,
” she replied sweetly, and Niall hoped, without sincerity. “I was most concerned with something I saw in…in
le jardin
….”

Sabine’s coyness appeared to be working. Niall could not help but grin. Clever lass.

“I saw something
disturbing
,” she said with false drama.

“I dinna—,” the guard began.

She stepped back from the doorway into a yellow circle of torchlight. The guard followed, pike in hand, like a dog on the scent.

“Oy!” Rory whispered urgently. “Is she leading the guard toward us?” The unmistakable “swish” of him unsheathing his dirk brushed Niall’s ears.

“Stand down, lad. Stand down,” he whispered.

Sabine turned and glanced in Niall’s direction.

He stiffened in the shadows, instinctively reaching down for the handle of his dirk. He, like Rory, was Highlander to the core. Always prepared for the worst, always watching one’s back.

“What is it, Mademoiselle?” The guard stepped from the archway. “What is in Her Majesty’s garden?”

“A creature,” she replied. “Perhaps two.”

The guard stared into the darkness beyond the ruined abbey, squinting, craning his long neck forward, then shaking his head. “Sorry, Mademoiselle,” he said in his nauseating Lowland voice. “I dinna see anything.”

“Look,” she said gesturing urgently toward the night. “By the wall.”

Niall released the dirk. The lass knew exactly what she was doing. She did not appear to need his help.

The guard shrugged, gripped his pike with both fists, and took one long, reluctant step away from his post. “I’ll have a look.”

“
Oui
, we would not want the Queen to be in danger.”

Sabine took one step back, out of the torchlight, deeper into the archway.

The guard puffed out his hollow chest and aimed his pike at the dark. Niall watched him disappear into the garden, on a mission to save the queen from a bloody phantom.

He switched his gaze to Sabine. She stood beneath the torch twenty-odd paces away, not looking at him. Even from this distance he could see the details of her face. Flickers of torchlight defined her profile. Her rounded forehead met the determined slope of her nose, slightly upturned at the end. Niall traced his gaze over the soft swell of her lips, perfectly even, top and bottom, so very soft and pink. His journey ended at her jaw, a hard angle. He suspected that hard edge was cast closer to her true spirit than her other features.

Or perchance her eyes told her story? Taut wee jewels stared at him now. He had surely gone away in the head with such musings.

She beckoned him with a frustrated shift of her eyes. He slipped his glance to her twisted hand. It must tell another story one he was not sure he cared to know…at the moment anyway.

Staying close to the burned and ruined wall, Niall moved quickly toward her. His heart matched the rhythm of his footsteps. He was so close to the palace, nearer the queen, nearer Sabine…nearer the guard. Niall could smell the Lowlander’s approach in the damp night air.

Avoiding the fringes of torchlight, Niall slipped past Sabine, and stepped into a deep archway. Rory loped in behind him. They stood in the deep recess of an inner doorway, at one with the velvety shadows of this, the queen’s house. Niall held his breath once more. The guard returned to his post, several steps away.

“I’m quite sorry,
mademoiselle
,” the guard said. “There’s nothing in the garden. I should escort you back to the Great Hall…to ease your fears.”

“My fears would be eased all the more if you would kindly do your duty,
le guarde.
I am not the one to be protected. Search until you find the intruder or find evidence that it has left the garden.”

Such boldness! Niall could not help but grin.

After a long pause, the guard sighed, “At yer service,
mademoiselle
.”

Niall cocked an ear toward the archway and listened to the sad shuffle of the lowly guard’s footsteps. As that forlorn sound faded completely into the garden, the determined whisper of slippers on the stone landing grew.

“Give me my
sac
,” Sabine whispered flatly.

Niall looked into the hard eyes reflecting snatches of torchlight. He was not overly tall, unlike Rory who could rival the height of a Scotch pine, but this lassie should have been, intimidated by him, no matter his height. Her fierce gaze told him otherwise.

“I havenae seen Her Majesty yet,” he whispered.

“Sweet Saint Giles! You said my
sac
was the key to getting you and this other barbarian into the palace.”

“When we’re in, ye’ll get yer purse.”

Sabine huffed and grabbed at the latch with her damaged hand. After three unsuccessful tries, Niall reached for the latch, to help her.

She shot him a fiery stare. Niall immediately withdrew his hand. He had insulted her.

She turned away from him and, on the next try, opened the door. Niall pretended not to notice her rubbing her right hand with her good one.

He walked into the palace, into the longest corridor in Scotland.

Sabine walked beside him. Niall kept her in his periphery, realizing that she was leading him. She stopped abruptly before a large door set into the wall. Niall walked to it. He took the iron latch in his fist but it did not move. Rory stepped in to help, bracing his shoulder against the door. Niall just shook his head, giving his friend a withering look. He turned, and placed his back to the closed door.

He sniffed. What was that? Flowers? Very strong flowers.

“I still have the key,” he told Sabine. “Where is the queen?”

Sabine gave him a vacant stare. “Soon Highlander.” She reached around him and rapped on the door.

“What?—” Niall began, reaching up to grab her arm before she knocked again.

The door behind him shunted open. He stumbled backward, Rory fell with him, into something large and unyielding.

“
Vite! Vite!
” A voice with the timbre of thunder wrapped around him.

Before he could turn around, Niall was jerked back by the neck of his tunic, cutting off his wind. Helpless, he was pulled through the open doorway. Sabine followed him, a queer smile on her face.

There was no time to struggle, no time to escape. Niall cursed himself a hundred times over for being caught blind, for putting his vigilance down, for not being prepared. He reached for his dirk, held tight beneath the belt that cinched the plaid to his waist.

Before him stood a mammoth dressed in a crimson field of stocking, pantaloon, and doublet.

“
Ah! Mademoiselle de Sainte Montagne! Vous êtes trés belle cette nuit! Trés belle!
” the mammoth said.

“
Merci, Monsieur
Le Canard,” Sabine said with a smile. She curtsied briefly then closed the door behind her, sealing all of them, including herself, in this giant’s lair.

The stinging pall of the man’s perfume pinned Niall flat on his arse. The giant engulfed Sabine in crimson silk and kissed her on each cheek.

Niall scrambled away from the colossus.

“Och, bloody hell….” he breathed.

The giant turned his scouring gaze on Niall, grimaced, and shook his head. The waddles under his chin flapped to and fro. “
Non, non, non.
” And in English, probably for Niall’s benefit, he said, “This costume is too, how do you say,
ordinaire
? Common? It will not do.”

The giant regarded Rory briefly, before turning back to Niall, snatching a great fistful of the plaid. Niall bashed the giant’s hand away, sending sparks of pain up his own arm. He thrust his dirk up, inches from the man’s face.

The giant just smiled. “
Bon, bon.
So much like the Highland beast, you are.
Perfect!
”

“Out of my bloody way,” Niall snarled.

“
Imbecile!
” Sabine shouted. “This man can help you!”

She insinuated herself between Niall and the Goliath, standing so close to him that their noses almost touched.

“Dinnae ever call me an imbecile,” he ground out.

“I doubt you know what it means,” she replied, shaking her head in frustration. “
Monsieur
le Canard is the finest
costumier
in all of Paris,” she said proudly. “He has fashioned the most glorious costumes for all of the royal
comèdies
. He was a favorite of the Queen’s mother, Marie de Guise. Allow him to practice his art, and you will see Her Majesty.” Then under her breath, “Unless you have not the conviction.”

Niall narrowed his eyes. “
Mademoiselle
, I think ye’ve gone soft in the heid.” He cut his eyes to Le Canard, who stood over Rory. There was a shine in the giant’s piggy eyes. Niall looked back at Sabine. “That big
co-sheòrsach
would much rather have a go at what’s under my kilt than help me see the queen.”

“Your tongue is a guttural as your prejudices are unfounded,” she retorted. “Monsieur Le Canard can get you into Her Majesty’s masque and can give you the opportunity to let the queen know the
MacGregor
.”

This woman standing before him was more vixen than courtesan. And he was her hare. She had brought him into her den. How far could he trust her?

“Is this how ye honor our agreement?” he asked. “Putting me into some sort of drama, orchestrated by Goliath over there?”

“
Non
. It is not,” she said. Her eyes held a triumphant twinkle. “You said you have a key. I gave you the door. That’s what you wanted.”

Niall stared at her. MacGregors never had favorable coincidence nod their way. Nothing was easy.

“In
monsieur
Le Canard’s capable hands you will see the queen; would you still trust me?”

“Aye, but at what cost?”

“Do you care?”

Niall shook his head. “I dinnae.”

“Well, good, Niall MacGregor. You will have your wish.”

With that she took her leave. She only had to try once to open the latch with her deformed right hand.

“Vixen,” Niall whispered. He turned to
Le Canard
, the Duck, and suppressed a hard swallow.

He still had Sabine’s purse. She wanted it, and he had come this far.

For now, he had to trust her.

S
abine paused just inside the grand entrance to the Great Hall. Moments before she had been with that Highlander, and now she stood on the cusp of the most civilized gathering in Scotland. Before her a glittering, colorful crowd danced and engaged in animated conversation. The feathers on some of their masks bounced lightly with restrained nods of their heads. Sabine stared in wonder at the lavish costumes. If Heaven required adornment for its occupants, this is surely what they would wear. Gold, pearls, and shining gemstones matched the elaborate array of colorful silks and velvets on the fine gowns and doublets. Sabine was practically dizzied by the colors.