The Queen's Lady (13 page)

He caught up with her, grabbing her arm, the vise of his fingers very strong. She stared at him, forcing herself not to fight in any way.

“My Laird?” she said.

Any pretense fell from his features. “This may be sweet and easy, m'lady, or more difficult. The choice be y'ers.”

“This…?”

“The MacLeods owe me,” he said softly.

“Ye've a feud with Angus?” she demanded, still pretending innocence.

“Aye. Y'er uncle caused a bitter fight that led to the loss of Hawk Isle, taken by y'er own kin, lady. Ye owe me. Ye owe me the income of that land, and of Islington.”

“If an injustice has been committed by my uncle, I will rectify it,” she said.

“Indeed, you will.”

He was done talking and started to pull her to him.

Despite the ice in her veins, she bided her time, listening to her instinct for self-preservation.

Only when he was certain that she was cowed, pliant in his arms…

Only then did she strike.

She kneed him ferociously. When he doubled over, she struck him atop his head with her doubled fists, using all her strength. When he fell, screeching in agony, she knew it was time to run again.

She tore through the forest, ruing the fact that Bryce MacIvey was making enough noise to wake the dead as far away as York.

No matter. It was done. And now, if she was caught again, she would be tortured, she was certain. That left escape as her only option.

So, despite the darkness and the unknown trails, she kept moving as quickly as she could. She ran and ran. At last she heard the sound of a brook ahead and made her way there, paused, drank deeply of the cool water, then hesitated.

She was stunned when the sound of rock against rock suddenly split the night and light burst to life in the darkness.

Fergus was there, lit by the glow of a torch.

She backed away, aware that Bryce MacIvey was still somewhere behind her.

“Aye, y'er a MacLeod, all right!” Fergus lashed out furiously as he started toward her, his face a distorted mask of fury.

She turned to run and, to her horror, plowed straight into a body.

Even in the shadows, her heart sank. She had landed in the arms of a fiercely scowling Bryce MacIvey, and Michael was coming up beside him, moving to flank her.

She backed away, wrenching free. She was surrounded on three sides, and still, there was nothing to do but run.

This time Fergus was ready, leaping toward her with speed and fury. Just as he would have grabbed her, he suddenly went still, an odd look on his face.

Then, to her absolute amazement, he fell face forward at her feet.

A voice rang out in the darkness from beyond, harsh and filled with such authority that it seemed as if the very forest went still.

“Touch her again, MacIvey, and I vow upon my late wife's soul, you and your kin will all be dead men!”

R
OWAN'S FURY HADN'T
abated a whit.

Perhaps his anger was something he needed desperately, something he was clinging to because it was vital to feel something…
anything.

His fury was further fueled now by the scene he had come upon.

The MacIveys were a crude and vicious lot, ever ambitious, ready to sell their souls for any improvement to their land or income. Working their hereditary lands with greater care had never occurred to a one of them. They were known to strike up ridiculous feuds, challenging their neighbors.

They were prone to losing.

Thus far, James, acting on behalf of the Crown, had tried to keep some form of peace in the Highlands, but men such as these had done everything possible to undermine his efforts. Not that the Highlanders couldn't feud easily enough on their own. But equally, they tended to be of proud moral character; they had laws unto themselves and, though there had certainly been abductions throughout the ages, rape was something they despised among invaders and did not practice themselves.

Gwenyth had walked right into this. And on this night of all nights! She had gone still, staring at him, heaving for breath, her eyes wide with shock, her hair tumbled about her shoulders. She was indeed a rare beauty, far too tempting for men such as these to have ignored. And there remained the feud with Angus to spur them on. She was a little fool!

“Ye've killed him, Rowan. Ye've killed me man, Fergus!” Bryce raged.

“He's not dead, more's the pity, merely unconscious. I try not to kill men for stupidity. I will report your crimes to the Crown,” he said coldly.

“What crimes?” Bryce demanded. “We were trying to help the lady, nothing more. She feared us, and I feared for her in the dark.”

“You liar!” Gwenyth exploded.

It looked as if Bryce were about to set his hands on Gwenyth again. Rowan urged his mount just slightly forward, and Bryce apparently thought better of it, though he could not stop himself from speaking.

“She is mistaken.”

“She is not,” Gwenyth snapped icily.

Bryce's eyes narrowed. “If she thinks something other, it is because she is a witch, one who sought us out, found us somehow in the forest, where she cast the evil eye upon us.”

“Good God, what a ridiculous excuse for idiocy!” Rowan thundered.

“What is your anger for? The lady stumbled upon us. Unless, of course…” Bryce smiled, a slow and nasty smile. “I hear that your lady is scarcely cold yet, but perhaps you are already planning for the future. Y'er claim has been…laid, and thus y'er fury with me,” he announced, laughing.

“I should kill you now,” Rowan said quietly. “But murder can be so complicated, though I doubt I'd pay much of a price. Still, I would be compelled to kill both Fergus and Michael, as well, and they should not have to die for the folly of following their laird, who ought to know better. You'd best get Fergus to care. He's been given a good thump upon the head with yonder rock. My aim has always been impeccable, as you know.”

“Y'er on me land!” Bryce cried, but he made no move to step forward.

“Which borders my own. You had only to set the lady upon the path yonder, and she would have reached the wall,” Rowan said. “Gwenyth, come here now,” he said.

She realized then that he wasn't alone. There were a number of horsemen behind him. She obeyed the command without hesitation.

He reached a hand down to her and lifted her up before him on his own mount.

“Wife barely dead,” Bryce dared to mutter.

“Because of that fact, I will let you live,” Rowan said softly, and yet with more menace and promise than might have been in the loudest shout.

There were no more exchanges as Rowan turned his horse toward home. She saw then that he had been accompanied by Tristan, the guards who had ridden with them from Edinburgh and three more men from Castle Grey. They didn't follow until Rowan had cleared the copse with her, and she realized that Rowan hadn't trusted Bryce and his companions. He had dared to offer his back to them only because of his trust in his own men.

Gwenyth wanted to say something, anything, a thank-you…an apology. But when she would have begun, he warned her sharply, “Don't speak, Lady MacLeod.”

And so she rode back to the castle before him, painfully aware of him, humiliated, and too shaken to fight against the feeling.

At the castle, Annie and Liza were waiting for their return.

Rowan did not speak to her, just as he had not spoken on the ride, as he set her down in front of Annie.

“See to your lady,” he said brusquely.

She turned quickly enough to see his face. It was a stern mask, his eyes cold.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

“Don't ride out alone again,” he returned.

“Wait, please,” she said. But he did not.

“My poor, poor dear,” Annie crooned, then chastised her. “What were you doing, m'lady? God knows, you must take care. You serve the queen, and you are a lady in your own right. Ah, mistress, that ye can be so sheltered as not to know the minds of men…”

Annie didn't even know half of what had happened, Gwenyth thought wearily.

“I'm fine,” she murmured uneasily.

Tristan returned quickly from the stables. “'Twill be a hard day, come the morning,” he said, smiling gently at Gwenyth. “No harm done, lady, though there might have been. But ye're safe now, so best ye get some sleep.”

“Aye, sleep,” Liza, who had stood silently by, watching, said, as she slipped a supportive arm around Gwenyth's waist. “Come, all will be better in the morning.”

It wouldn't be better. Gwenyth knew it.

 

T
HE WOMEN HAD TENDED
to Catherine's body, using spices, vinegar and acqua vitae, so that she might remain beautiful, looking as if she were only sleeping, while she lay in the great hall in the fine wooden coffin that had been so carefully carved for her.

Rowan stood unmoving for most of the day, as the people of his holding came through the castle, saying their prayers, wishing her Godspeed to heaven, where surely such an angel would dwell. The numbness had settled upon him again, except whenever he noticed Gwenyth, who had taken up a position nearby. He felt the same wealth of passionate fury stir within him each time his eyes fell upon her, although he could not fault her behavior that day. She managed to walk a thin line, appearing regal, yet greeting the mourners as if they were all friends, and making certain they were all offered wine or ale as she thanked them for their love for their lady.

Many of the villagers looked at her with curiosity and speculation, and he realized that his own people were wondering just as the MacIveys had if she were not the object of his affection—his mistress.

That thought stirred his wrath to a further degree, despite the fact it was not such a wild stretch of the imagination. She was young; she was beautiful; she was titled. She would make a proper wife for a laird.

Not this laird, he thought angrily, all the more so because he could not deny finding her attractive.

He wanted to send her far from him, for she disturbed him beyond reason.

He tried to tell himself it was only because Catherine had held her so dear, because his wife had wanted Gwenyth's presence, when she had not even known his face.

He needed his distance from her, he thought. The expression of sweet gravity on her perfectly sculpted features as she spoke to those who came through made him long to roar out a denial, to stride out, to find his horse and ride…

Ride into oblivion.

Late in the day, Tristan urged him to break his vigil, to eat, but he could not. He knew that Gwenyth was only a few feet away, with nothing to do once they had closed the great hall to the mourners, and that she would overhear him, but he could not bring himself to care.

“Leave me be with my lady through the night,” he commanded.

“Me good laird—” Tristan began.

“Leave me be,” he repeated.

Tristan knew him well and obeyed. Rowan was only dimly aware when his steward led Gwenyth from the hall.

He did not stand throughout the night but pulled one of the great brocade chairs from the fireplace, set it by the coffin and slept thereon.

No one disturbed him until morning. When Tristan came to check on him, Rowan told him, “Do not leave her alone, Tristan. She wouldn't want to be alone.”

“I'll be here, m'laird, watching, until you return.” Tristan cleared his throat. “We will bear the Lady Catherine to the chapel for services at ten, if that meets your desire.”

Rowan nodded. “Aye,” he said, and left.

In his chambers, he felt the keen sense of it being a far different place. He had not slept in here since Catherine had become so ill, sleeping by her side when he was home—or not sleeping at all. His life had changed in the blink of an eye when Catherine had suffered her accident. Until then, he had been a happy man, but he had quickly become a hollow one. He had chosen to give his all to the Crown, even before the queen had returned. Every man needed a passion, and with the loss of Catherine as she had once been, he had made his country his passion.

It was odd; he could scarcely remember when he'd had a wife—a real wife. Still, with her passing, he felt the hollowness all the more.

There was not much that could be said for fairness in life, he thought bitterly. Catherine had been nothing but kind, had looked for nothing but good for all men, yet her fate had been cruel, while idiots, madmen and butchers seemed to live long and well.

He called for a tub and water to bathe, then dressed slowly and with care; it seemed important that he be at his best to afford Catherine her last honors. Finally, when he was clad in his tartan and clan brooches, he hesitated. It was so final, to say the last prayers, but he could tarry no longer.

When he reached the great hall, his men were ready. Catherine's coffin was lifted as tenderly and carefully as if she but slept, and Reverend Keogh stood at the front of the coffin, Rowan's household assembled around him. At Rowan's nod, the reverend began his prayers. The procession moved across the hall and out to the light, and from there to the chapel that flanked the castle walls.

The words said for her soul seemed to blend together. Rowan knew that he didn't think it necessary for any man to ask God to accept Catherine; indeed, if there was a God, she was already in His keeping.

He was grateful that Reverend Keogh was a good man who spoke only the words that were proper for a funeral rite; he made no mention of the world at large, the good or evil therein, or the proper way for any man or woman to worship. He spoke eloquently about Catherine, and when he was done, all present passed by once again, kissing the coffin, or setting wild flowers upon and around it. At last the service was over.

Rowan strode from the chapel, aware that his workmen were already waiting to see that her coffin was set properly in the family crypt, in the niche below the one that held his parents, and in company with those who had come before them.

Somewhere, stonemasons were already preparing a magnificent plaque to cover the tomb that would be her silent memorial now.

He was expected, he knew, to welcome the local thanes and the villagers into his castle once again, but he could not. He left that task to Tristan—and his unwanted guest, Lady Gwenyth—and strode to the stables, mounted his horse and rode out, just as he had earlier longed to do.

He couldn't help but wonder if his restlessness was like that which must have seized Gwenyth two days before. The suggestion angered him, and he did not want to know why.

But he did know, even without any thought at all.

Those who believed he hungered after her were not so far astray in their thoughts.

And that he
could
want her, with Catherine so recently dead, appalled him.

If she were a whore, a loose woman, a courtesan with no reputation to lose, it would be one thing. But she was not. She was a lady born. The queen's lady.

He could not forgive himself for the desire he felt, and it angered him further to remember that Bryce MacIvey had coveted her, had nearly taken her for his own.

He reined in on the high tor where he had brought Catherine to breathe her last.

Gwenyth would be leaving come the morning, or as soon as he could arrange it. And leaving with orders that she be guarded like a jewel, that no man be allowed to upset or make free with her, no matter what Angus's intentions to control her might be. She needed to be taken away from his own fury, Rowan thought. In fact, she needed to be wedded to a laird in some distant place, where she could be temptation for no other.

He simply wanted her gone.

“Catherine,” he said aloud softly, and bowed his head. It had been more than two years since they had visited Catherine's home in England and she had nearly died in the accident, more than two years since his son had been stillborn, a secret he had shared with no one, and Catherine had lost all sense of the world. He lowered his head, glad that at least he had been there with her at the end. Glad that she had known his face one last time, that she had touched him.