Highland Barbarian (Highlander Series) (5 page)

“Ah, yes. Agnes, his new bride. How do they fare?”

“At least he has someone other than me to bully.”

“Has it been terrible?” Brice’s tone was tinged with concern as he crossed the room and cuffed the hounds’ heads. “Off with you now.”

With a whimper the dogs moved away a few paces before renewing their sniffing at the armoire.

“Oh, Brice. The tales I could tell. The last days in France were worse than the torments of hell.”

“Poor Mary.” Meredith could hear the sound of footsteps and sensed that Brice had crossed the room to the woman’s side.

Peering through a crack in the door, Meredith watched as Brice drew the young woman into his arms.

“I know how much you miss Francis.”

“My darling Francois. Aye, I miss him terribly. But it is more than that. It is this place. It is so forbidding. All the gaiety, the laughter, seem to have died since I returned.” Her voice lowered. “And all because of that horrid little man who preaches fire and brimstone.”

“Ah. Knox. He has caught the ear of the people.”

“He watches and waits, Brice.”

“For what, madame?”

“For me to slip so that he can publicly humiliate me.”

There was silence in the room and Meredith watched as Brice and the young woman strolled to a window overlooking a vast expanse of forest.

The dogs did not follow their master. Instead, they continued sniffing at the armoire.

The heat in the tiny space was becoming unbearable. Soon, Meredith thought, she would suffocate.

“Be very careful not to offend him, Mary. He could cause you great harm.”

“I am only now learning that.” The young woman gave a deep sigh. “I long for the dancing, the singing, of France. I long to give elegant parties, to laugh, to—flirt. Oh, Brice. I am eighteen years old and no longer have a husband, nor any sort of life. It is terrible. Terrible.”

Meredith detected a note of unspoken laughter in Brice’s tone. “You are too beautiful, Mary, too full of life and laughter, to be condemned to a life alone. What man in his right mind would not lose his heart to you?”

“Did you?” It was the voice of a coquette, warm, inviting.

“You know I did. We all did while we were with you in France.”

“Oh, you. I know better. Brice Campbell, you were the only Scotsman who never let himself be swept away by the charm of France.”

“Only because I yearned for the Highlands. I feared it would be too easy to be seduced by the life you offered us.”

“Is that why you left so abruptly?”

“Aye. I had to return to my home. Or be lost.”

“Poor Brice. Has it all been worth it?”

There was silence. For long minutes the only sound Meredith could hear was the hiss of the fire. She staggered and leaned heavily against the door to the armoire. If she did not slip out of this heavy cloak soon she would faint from the heat. While she listened to the growing silence she wriggled out of the cloak. When she had managed to free one arm she sighed and began the struggle to free the other.

She was so engrossed in her struggle to free herself from the cloak she did not hear the sound of footsteps.

“So.”

The door to the armoire was yanked open, causing Meredith to fall forward into Brice’s arms. She would have slumped to the floor if he had not held her firmly.

Instantly the dogs circled around, yelping and baying.

“Why are you spying on us?” Brice’s tone was low, menacing.

Meredith’s cheeks reddened. She was mortified as she faced the haughty young woman who stared at her as if she could not believe her eyes. How she must look. Like some sort of ragged beggar. The cloak hung from one arm, dragging behind her on the floor. The fur throw was caught about her feet, threatening to trip her. Jagged scraps of bread and meat spilled from the pockets of the cloak. The hounds leaped up, snatching at the scraps and dragging them from her pockets.

At the sight Brice’s eyes narrowed. “Are you ready to explain what this is all about?”

She swallowed. She was caught. There would be no use trying to lie. “I—intended to run off while you were occupied with your guest.”

“Run off?” The young woman took a step closer, studying Meredith with open curiosity. “And why would you do that?”

“Because I’m being held here against my will,” Meredith cried.

“Brice.” The young woman turned wide eyes toward her host. “Is this lass telling the truth?”

Meredith’s heart soared. Surely this young woman would insist that Brice return her to her clan at once.

Brice continued to hold Meredith by the arm. His fingers tightened their grip. He could feel his temper rising.

“She is. This is Meredith MacAlpin.”

“Oh, how exciting. I heard about the—incident at the cathedral. You must tell me everything.” The young woman’s eyes danced with mischief. “This is so...” She spoke in rapid French for several minutes, while Brice’s eyes darkened with anger. Then, reverting to English, the young woman continued, “Such a dashing, romantic adventure. My heart fairly bursts with the thought of it. You are a devil, Brice Campbell. A rogue and a devil. And you, Meredith MacAlpin. What a thrilling story you will one day tell your grandchildren.”

“You are daft.” Meredith kicked the fur throw from her feet and shrugged out of the confining cloak. Around her feet the dogs slathered after the last of the food scraps. “I am being held captive by a barbarian and you suggest that I should faint for joy.”

At her insulting words the young woman’s laughter faded. She tilted her head at a regal angle and regarded Meredith with a look of contempt.

“You do not have permission to speak to me in that tone. Kneel at once and beg my pardon.”

Meredith’s mouth dropped open. For a moment she could scarcely believe her ears. She turned toward Brice and found him grinning. That only served to further enrage her.

“Of all the vain, arrogant, pigheaded...”

Brice’s fingers fastened upon her arm. In a tone tinged with laughter he said, “Hold your tongue, woman. Have you not yet realized who our visitor is?”

Meredith gazed upon the haughty young woman who continued to watch her through narrowed eyes.

“Kneel, Meredith,” he murmured. “And pay homage to your queen.”

“Queen?” Meredith’s throat went dry. For long moments she studied the woman. Then, with a gasp, she fell to her knees. “Oh, Majesty. Forgive me.”

She had heard the stories, of course. All of Scotland had heard that the young queen, having recently buried her husband, Francis, the Dauphin of France, had been returned to her birthplace to assume the throne.

She was kneeling before Mary, Queen of Scots.

“V
ain? Arrogant? Pigheaded?” The queen enunciated each word with great care.

Meredith, kneeling before her, flinched as though lashed by a whip.

“She goes too far. This time, Brice,” the queen said haughtily, “you have found a woman with a temper to match your own.”

“Aye.” He seemed not at all concerned that the queen continued to glare at the lass who knelt abjectly at her feet.

“I could have you publicly flogged for your disrespect of the queen’s person.”

Meredith lowered her head, afraid to meet the queen’s eyes.

“Would you like the flogging to take place here?” Brice inquired, struggling to hold back his laughter. He knew that the queen was far too tenderhearted to ever follow through on her threat. “Or will you have her dragged back to Edinburgh?”

“You mock your queen?” Mary arched an eyebrow and glowered at Brice.

“Nay. In fact, I will send Angus to fetch a whip from the stables.”

As Brice turned away the queen caught his arm. “Wait. You are too eager. I have thought of a better punishment for this disrespectful subject.”

Meredith braced herself for what was to come. Whatever punishment was meted out by the queen, she had certainly earned it. How could she have been so foolish as to express herself in such forceful language?

“Rise, Meredith MacAlpin, and face your queen as you learn the consequences of your actions.”

Meredith stood on trembling legs. She glanced at Brice’s face but could read nothing in his hooded gaze.

“I will give you a choice,” Queen Mary said. “A public flogging or...” She bit back the smile that twitched at the corners of her lips. “An opportunity to entertain your queen. You must relate to me and my ladies-in-waiting every detail of your—encounter with this rogue, Brice Campbell. From the first moment you saw him.”

The queen burst into laughter at the look of astonishment on Meredith’s face. Even Brice could not contain his laughter.

“That is all that you require, Majesty? A simple narrative?”

“Not simple,” the queen corrected. “Every little detail must be included. I want to know everything.” She turned to Brice. “And you, scoundrel, must leave us alone for at least an hour. This is woman’s talk, you understand. And when she has finished, your servants can provide us with a banquet before we return to Falkland.”

The queen clapped her hands, summoning the women of her hunting party. “Oh, Brice, this will be better entertainment than any poet or musician. I am greatly in need of such excitement. My life has been so drab since returning from the gaiety of France.”

Brice lifted the queen’s hand to his lips before departing the room. “Your loyal subjects are most happy to oblige.” He shot Meredith a warning look. “Beware what you say in the presence of your queen. The next time you might not fare as well.”

Within minutes Meredith found herself surrounded by five women named Mary. The young monarch introduced her four closest friends, Mary Beaton, Mary Fleming, Mary Seton and Mary Livingstone. The four Maries had been with the queen since early childhood. And like all best friends, they shared everything, even their most intimate secrets.

While servants poured tea and passed around biscuits, the women arranged themselves in chairs and settles in front of the fireplace. When the servants left the room, the queen commanded Meredith to begin her story.

While the others listened in awe, Meredith detailed her father’s tragic murder and her agreement to marry Desmond MacKenzie in order to assure protection for her people.

“Those of us who live on the Border know the danger of invasion by the English.”

“My beloved cousin, Elizabeth of England,” Mary said through clenched teeth, “assures us that she is doing all she can to protect our land and people. And while she sends us messages of assurance, her soldiers continue to plunder.”

Meredith was surprised at the queen’s outburst. Was the young monarch always so outspoken? Was she not aware that even in the presence of her friends her words would not be kept secret? A queen, more than any other, must guard her thoughts carefully.

“Go on with your story,” the queen commanded.

“Did you love Desmond MacKenzie?” Mary Fleming interrupted.

“What nonsense, Flem,” the queen interjected. “What woman has ever been allowed to marry a man for love?”

Stunned by the queen’s comment, Meredith openly studied the young monarch. It was common knowledge that Mary Stuart had been betrothed to Prince Edward of England when both had been mere children. But his death had released her from that bondage. The rumors had been that she was fairly happy with the young, fragile dauphin, whom she had married at the age of fifteen. But his mother, Catherine de’ Medici, had been more than happy to be rid of the headstrong Queen of Scotland upon his untimely death.

“Well? Did you love him?”

Meredith studied the toe of her kid slipper. “We were friends when we were children.”

“Were you eager to wed him?” Mary Seton asked.

“Or bed him?” Mary Fleming added.

Meredith’s face flooded with color.

It was the queen who came to her rescue. “This lass has not been exposed to such bold discourse. Hold your tongues and allow her to tell the story.”

“I—was reluctant to wed Desmond. I do not think I would have ever loved him the way a woman wants to love a man. But I knew that the union would assure my people the protection of the MacKenzie armies. I would do anything for my people.”

“Spoken like a true Scot.” The queen smiled warmly at Meredith. Despite her earlier insult, the queen admired the girl’s spirit.

“So you were willing to wed him though you did not love him. Was he as handsome as Brice Campbell?”

Meredith felt her cheeks growing warmer by the minute. “He was fair of face and hair. Not much more than a lad.”

“Brice Campbell,” the queen said with a smile of appreciation, “is no lad. He is all man.” Seeing Meredith’s embarrassed flush she said with an impatient sigh, “Pray go on with your tale.”

When Meredith described the murder of her husband at the altar, and the deception by his brother, Gareth MacKenzie, the women gasped.

“Did Gareth not realize that he was placing your life in danger by defying Brice Campbell’s orders?”

“I had not thought about it,” Meredith said. “It all happened so quickly. When Gareth fired the arrow I saw this giant glide through the air and take hold of me. And then I was in his arms and soaring over the heads of the people in the cathedral.”

“How exciting.”

“How terrifying.”

“How romantic.”

“Did you cry?”

“Nay.” Meredith lifted her chin, nearly overwhelmed by these outspoken women. “I would not give Brice Campbell the pleasure of seeing me cry.”

“Oh, how wonderful.” Queen Mary clapped her hands and urged the others to silence. “That would infuriate a man like Brice. Now you must tell us everything that happened to you since your momentous meeting with Brice Campbell.”

“Aye. Momentous.” Meredith described her abduction, the tedious journey to the Highlands, and her attempt to kill Brice in his bed. During the entire narrative the queen’s eyes glittered with a feverish light, as though she were living each incident in her mind.

“Brice Campbell is the strongest man I have ever met,” the queen said with a trace of awe. “It is known throughout Scotland that there are few men who can best him in a fight or a duel. I have heard many a man declare that he would wish to have Brice on his side in a battle. And yet you dared to attack him.”

“In his own bed,” Mary Fleming said with a knowing wink.

“I was desperate to return to my own people, Majesty. In my place, would you not have done the same?”

The queen nodded her head. “How did you get into his room while he slept?”

Meredith looked away, too ashamed to meet the queen’s eyes. “I was being held prisoner in his room.”

The queen turned toward her friend, Mary Fleming, who was watching in silence. “What say you, Flem?”

“Pray, continue with the tale,” Mary Fleming said without much enthusiasm. She seemed distracted. While Meredith proceeded to struggle through the story of her abduction, Fleming studied the queen and then allowed her gaze to scan the young woman seated beside her.

Suddenly she blurted, “What a remarkable similarity.”

“What are you babbling about, Flem?” The queen arched one brow in a regal manner.

“You and Meredith MacAlpin bear a strong resemblance. You could be sisters.”

Meredith felt herself flushing as the others began to study her with great interest.

The queen stood and walked a few paces, then turned and watched the others. “Do you think so?”

“Why, of course,” Beaton said. “Look at the hair.”

The three women caught at strands of Meredith’s hair, lifting it and examining it in the sunlight.

“It is the same color as Your Majesty’s. If we were to plait Meredith’s, or brush Your Majesty’s loose, they would be the same,” Seton said.

Queen Mary was obviously intrigued by this unexpected turn of events.

“And both are small of stature, delicate in appearance.” Fleming caught Meredith by the hand and led her to the center of the room while the others circled about her.

While the others laughed, the queen stood apart. On her face was a look of intense concentration. Suddenly she took a step closer. “The gown you are wearing. Is it your wedding gown?”

Meredith nodded. There was an inflection in the queen’s tone, of guarded excitement, that puzzled her.

“Have you no others?”

“I had no time to choose a wardrobe, Majesty. You will recall that I was abducted at the altar.”

“So Brice and the others have seen you only in this?” Meredith waited, knowing that the queen was leading to something.

“Fleming and Beaton. Help me out of my clothes.”

The women stared at the queen without moving.

“And Seton and Livingstone, you will help Meredith off with her gown. Oh, what a fine joke we shall play,” the queen said, twirling about like a little girl.

“I do not understand.”

“It is the sort of game we could have enjoyed in France,” Mary said, her face animated. “We will change clothes and see who discovers our little deception first.”

When Meredith began to shake her head the queen said, “How many people really look at others? If they expect you to be in the clothes you have been wearing since your arrival, they will expect that the woman at the table wearing a white gown is you. And since I arrived in this hunting outfit, they will believe that the woman wearing it is the queen.”

When Meredith continued to shake her head the queen motioned to the others. “Hurry. Brice promised us an hour. It will soon be time to sup with the others.”

In a daze Meredith stood helplessly as the women, caught up in the queen’s plan, removed her gown and kid slippers and replaced them with the queen’s jeweled burgundy velvet hunting outfit and high kid boots. While Mary Seton laced the boots, Mary Livingstone brushed Meredith’s hair and dressed it in the identical fashion to the queen’s.

Meanwhile the queen was dressed in Meredith’s white gown and kid slippers. Her plaited hair was brushed loose, falling in crimped waves to her waist.

When both women were ready, they walked to a looking glass, where they stood side by side and examined their appearance.

“Something is wrong,” Mary Fleming said softly.

“It is the eyes. Anyone seeing Meredith’s green eyes would know that she was not the queen.”

“A veil,” the queen muttered.

“Of course.” Fleming removed her veiled hunting toque and placed it upon Meredith’s head.

The dark weblike netting veiled her eyes and most of her upper face.

“Perfect.” The queen studied the girl beside her, then stared at her own reflection. “Do you not feel regal in my garb, Meredith?”

It took the young woman a moment to respond. “Aye. It is a strange feeling to know that my queen is wearing my clothes and that I am wearing hers.”

At a knock on the door they turned. Cara entered and curtsied before Meredith. “My lord Campbell announces that a banquet has been prepared for Your Majesty.”

Meredith was so stunned by the servant’s reaction that she gave a little gasp and stepped back in surprise. The women around her giggled. Beside her the queen, dressed in the wilted wedding gown, was nearly doubled over with spasms of laughter. The poor girl, confused by the unexpected response to her announcement, bowed her way from the room, keeping her gaze lowered.

“You see,” cried the queen. “She never even looked up at you. She saw the gown, the auburn tresses, and believed that she was in the presence of the queen. Come,” she called to Meredith and the others. “We will enjoy Brice’s feast and see who discovers our little joke first. Seton,” she said suddenly. “I am betting a gold sovereign that our deception will not be discovered until after the first course of our banquet.”

“Aye, Majesty,” Mary Seton said softly. “I will take your bet.”

“Majesty,” Mary Fleming said discreetly. “If you are to be believable, you must stand back and allow Meredith to lead the way. And you must assume the mannerisms of a hostage and set aside your usual strong will.”

“Dear Flem. How clever of you.” The queen stifled a laugh and stepped aside, allowing Meredith to take the lead.

~ ~ ~

Brice frowned, deep in thought, as he changed into clothes more appropriate for entertaining the queen. He had planned on returning to the Borders this day to search for Gareth MacKenzie. Once he rid the land of that villain, he would be free to return Meredith to her people. The sooner that was accomplished the better. She was proving to be a stronger distraction than he had anticipated.

It was odd how his plans were constantly being changed by the whims of others.

At a summons from a servant he strode from the room.

The women were already assembled in the great hall along with Brice’s men and the men from the queen’s hunting party.

When Brice entered, Mary Fleming nudged Meredith. “Your Majesty will want to lead us to the banquet tables.