by Mary Wine
The dress they’d found for her was a sturdy wool one. It was a fine, soft weave that was dyed a dark blue. As she’d come through the court, she’d passed ladies in full court fashion, with farthingales, face paint, and even wigs. Some of them wore a fortune in pearls and gold.
Morton himself was turned out in a fine doublet made of brocade. His buttons were solid gold and his fingernails buffed from being attended. He looked down at her from his throne and contemplated her in exactly the way she’d remembered. As if he was gauging her value.
“Ye can have yer master back,” Morton declared. “And he can go home and tell his father why he is no’ gaining the title I promised. That will be the price for his son’s disobedience.”
Adwin started to argue, but the earl slapped the arm of the chair. “That is the only offer I will make. Take him and go, before I decide to keep them both.”
Adwin made a show of wrestling with the earl’s warning. He reached up and tugged on the corner of his bonnet at last, earning a grunt from Morton.
“And tell yer fellow Highlanders what happens to ye when ye try to dupe me.”
Relief moved through her. Katherine looked at the floor to hide the feeling. She didn’t dare allow it to be seen. She heard the outer doors opening, and there was a moment when Adwin and Diocail hesitated to leave her. It endeared them to her, but she couldn’t allow it, so she lifted her face and wrinkled her nose at them.
“At last, I am free of you.”
She made sure to enunciate her words. Beyond the doors, her English accent was clearly noted, earning her as many scowls as curious looks. It was nothing new; neither was being in the Earl of Morton’s power. The doors closed, leaving her facing the man.
“Well, now, mistress, ye are no’ too young any longer.” His gaze lingered on her breasts. “No’ a bit.”
* * *
“Are ye daft, Adwin?” Rolfe was seething. They’d barely made it off the street and into the boardinghouse before he let loose.“How could ye give Kat to that man?”
“Truth was, it was her idea.”
Rolfe growled, his temper darkening his complexion.
“The best idea we had at hand,” Diocail Gordon added as he placed a bowl on the table. “Ye could no’ have done better.”
“I would never take me freedom at the cost of me wife’s,” Rolfe sneered.
“Thing is,” Adwin replied, “she was right about one thing. The earl will no’ be putting her in chains.”
“And there was no other way, short of divine intervention, that we were going to get ye out of that dungeon,” Diocail added. “So we listened to the lass. It was sound thinking.”
Rolfe wanted to argue more, but his belly was knotted with hunger. While his will was raging, his flesh was needy. Two days without food, and the scent of the stew being served to him was making his mouth water, reducing him to little better than a hound.
He mopped up the last of the bowl’s contents with a hunk of bread. Diocail and Adwin had settled down beside him, the rest of the tables in the boardinghouse empty after they had tossed some silver on the tables to encourage the occupants to leave.
“The lass will be abovestairs somewhere.” Adwin spoke softly. “The earl does nae suspect she is anything except a biddable female.”
“It was the reasonable choice,” Diocail said.
“Perhaps for ye it was,” Rolfe growled at him. “She is me wife. I am duty bound to protect her, no’ cower behind her. Morton tried to wed her when she was but fourteen. Do ye have any idea what he might plot now that she is woman enough to no’ cause a commotion with his actions?”
“He’ll want to get a good amount for her,” Diocail said. “So it will take him some time.”
“And she played the part well, wrinkling up her nose as if she hated us,” Adwin said. “Morton has no reason to suspect she is no’ happier here.”
“Unless one of his spies has told him of the MacPherson hellion,” Rolfe countered. “He has spies all over the Highlands.” He snorted. “Morton would put her in chains in an instant if he suspected he had need of them to keep his prize.”
All three men went silent with the gravity of the situation.
“In that case”—Diocail stood—“we’d best get on with rescuing the lass.”
* * *
“She’s tight.”
Katherine felt her cheeks burning as she glared at the physician. The man paid her no mind as he continued to speak with Morton. She knotted the tie around her dressing robe and pulled it tight, but that didn’t remove the feeling of having the man’s hands on her intimate person.
“Perhaps not a virgin; it’s very hard to tell for sure.” He looked over at her. “The mortification proves a certain level of innocence.”
“The prospective groom is only interested in a maiden,” Morton said.
“Give her a knife to cut herself and bloody the sheet,” the physician remarked as though it was far from the first time he’d been called upon to offer such advice. “And impress upon her how dire her circumstances will be if she fails to make the union binding.”
Morton slowly smiled before he nodded and waved the man out of the chamber. That left her alone with him, which made her belly knot with apprehension. Two of his retainers stood nearby, the same two men who had been instructed to hold her down while she was inspected.
The shame was theirs.
She repeated that a few more times, trying to force herself to believe it.
“Ye think I am a monster.”
Katherine turned to look behind her and discovered she was alone with the Earl of Morton. He was a huge man, one who hadn’t allowed himself to run to fat. It was a telling fact that should be noted, because he wasn’t the sort who sat around talking about things he never did with his own hands.
“Scotland was in the grip of a civil war when I took the regency,” he continued. “The Church was split, and the Highlanders, well, they were doing their best to kill each other. If Mary had her way, she’d have taken this country into a holy war, first with our own people and then on to England.”
Still caught in the grip of mortification, Katherine wanted to loathe him, but the truth sliced through her temper. The earl nodded slowly.
“It’s good to see that ye have a bit of sense, madam.” He considered her. There was a way he looked at people that reminded her of Rolfe, so very intense, as though he approached life more seriously than some people. “Ye were a child the last time we met.”
“And yet you considered me ready for marriage.”
“An alliance with England would end two hundred years of wars,” Morton cut back. “Alliances made through marriage. Fate decided that ye would be born with blue blood.”
“So what now?” she asked. “Now that you have had me prodded by your physician, which I suspect was merely to impress upon me how much power you have over me.”
His lips curled up into a grin. “The groom’s family insisted on the physician. I am the one who paid him enough to ensure he will never let it be known he isn’t sure if ye are a virgin.”
“So now,” she said softly, “you are here to impress my circumstances upon me?”
The earl’s grin grew wider. “As a child, ye would have bent to whatever situation I put ye in. Now, though, ye are grown.”
And the earl was attempting to gauge what manner of will she had. It surprised her because it meant the man was not simply dismissing her as an object to be bartered at his whim. No, he was more calculating than that, and she was impressed with his dedication to ending wars. She would be the monster if she failed to recognize the value of that.
“Yes, grown.” She tempered her tone. “Old enough to understand that a good marriage is important.”
It was the sort of thing little girls were taught to say. Even little boys earned such lectures from the Church when
they came back from the playhouses with fanciful ideas about wedding the woman of their heart’s delight. Such was fine and good for an afternoon’s entertainment, but not very practical.
“Are ye wed to Rolfe McTavish?”
“I’d be a fool to admit it,” she countered. “You can make a much finer match for me.”
The earl’s grin became menacing. “The Bedfords are rumored to have more money than the queen. It appears ye are yer father’s daughter.”
“I could be.” It was a risk, being so bold.
The earl drew in a stiff breath. “If I made it worthwhile to ye?”
“Nothing quite so…lacking in feminine grace,” Katherine answered.
“Explain yerself, woman.”
“I am simply suggesting that I might be so…much more than a prisoner.” She flipped her hand in the air. “Consider this. If I were to apply myself to my union, with grace and…happiness.”
“Ye’d be a fool to do otherwise,” the earl said. “No man suffers a shrew.”
There was a thick warning in his tone. He followed it with a stern look before he quit the room. She gained a quick glance at the men beyond the outer door. They tugged on the corner of their bonnets as the earl passed them and firmly closed the door behind him.
She’d heard their boots on the stone floor the night before. Not so very unlike the sound of the stake being readied in the Gordons’ yard.
Well, you escaped that fate. So you will not abandon hope now.
She’d escaped with Rolfe’s help.
And once more, she was in dire straits because she had helped him.
Star-crossed lovers.
Truly, the phrase described them well. She just hoped they didn’t end up as a tragedy, as so many lovers did in theatrical plays.
However, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from acknowledging it was very, very possible.
* * *
“Ye’re playing a dangerous game.”
Rolfe cut Diocail a side glance. “As are ye.”
He nodded and continued to watch who was arriving and exiting from the court. “A pair of Highlanders willingly staying at court. That will raise a few eyebrows.”
“Why do ye think I’m wearing breeks?”
Diocail shifted in his own set of breeches. “I do nae fancy them meself.”
Diocail snorted and slapped Rolfe on the shoulder. “Men have done worse in the interest of claiming the lady they desire.”
“She is me wife,” Rolfe growled back.
Diocail wasn’t impressed. “Are ye saying ye do nae desire her?” He slowly shook his head. “Now that is a shame. One I think I may have to remedy by stealing her from ye.”
Rolfe sent him a grin that made it clear he’d enjoy the attempt. “Careful, Diocail, I’m in need of a good fight, and a Gordon and a McTavish going at it… Well now, that will no’ be anything to take notice of.”
Rolfe turned back to watching the main entrance to the court.
“What are ye waiting to see?”
“The Earl of Bedford’s secretary arrived this morning.” Rolfe sent Diocail a satisfied smirk. “If Morton has a mind to wed Katherine to someone for an alliance, well, he’ll be needing her father’s agreement or—”
“It would be worthless because the union was made in Scotland.” Diocail slowly laughed. “Ye’ve a fine head on yer shoulders, Rolfe. Of course, ye’ll be needing all of yer wits when ye get the lass back home. I hear yer father is nae too fond of the English.”
“An English heiress would be a bit more welcome.”
Diocail didn’t answer right away. Rolfe knew the man was thinking the facts through. It didn’t take him long to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. “And ye’ll likely be asking for less than the Earl of Morton.”
“Almost certainly.”
Diocail nodded slowly. “Unless the Earl of Bedford wants an alliance. I hear the Bedfords support the troops in the Netherlands. Morton has been raising the king as a Protestant. Bedford would approve.”
“There he is.” Rolfe caught sight of the man wearing the pin of the Earl of Bedford. The man looked enraged as he came out of the gate with his attendants hurrying to keep pace. Rolfe moved along the street, following the man until he ducked into a town house.
Rolfe stayed out of sight. Morton wouldn’t forget to have the entrance of the place watched, and there were too many people on the street during the day.
* * *
“The earl has sent a bath for ye, mistress.”
A young maid came through the door and happily informed Katherine of what Morton had sent to her. The girl smiled as two men carried a fine copper tub into the room. They were followed by a line of boys, all laden with yokes and buckets of fresh water.
But what Katherine was focused on was the way the guards at her door kept their eyes on her, their expressions tight. They might have no liking for their duty, but they were devoted to it nonetheless.
There was a splash as the maid poured hot water into the tub. Another maid had arrived, carrying a silver tray with a cloth over its contents.
“Fine French soap, mistress,” the maid exclaimed with a happy smile. “And lavender oil. The earl has been most generous in providing all of the things a lady might wish for.”
“I believe you mean to say, all the things my groom might expect me to make use of before a wedding.”
The maids both lowered themselves and clapped their hands together gleefully. “Yes, yes, it is all here. We will have you…perfect in no time at all.”
There was a distinctly French manner about the maids. French women were considered the most beautiful in the world, but Katherine soon discovered that they had some very odd preferences about their bodies. Once she’d risen from the tub and dried off, the maids refused to give her a dressing robe, but instead came toward her intending to bare her mons.
“Come, come, mistress…” One of the maids cajoled her like a frightened child. “You do not need all of that hair.”
“Barbaric,” the other insisted. “You want your lover to kiss you there? Yes? So, the hair must go.”
Their words sparked a memory that heated her cheeks. The maids laughed and pulled her back toward the chair they had been using.
By the time they left her, there wasn’t a single hair left anywhere except on her head. Katherine wandered over to the mirror and untied the tie of her dressing gown. She let it slip from her shoulders, refusing to cower away from the sight of her own body.
Was she pretty?
She didn’t know.
Now, though, every bit of her was on display, the little bush of hair that had hidden her cleft gone.
She missed Rolfe.
Alone with her thoughts, she realized she was a wanton indeed. Her clitoris was throbbing gently as she recalled their time together. As she looked at her reflection, her nipples drew tight.
“Good.” The Earl of Morton announced his presence with a snicker. “Ye are ready to be wed.”
Katherine hissed and sank to where her robe was puddled around her ankles. Morton didn’t look away as she struggled to pull it up and over her shoulders to cover herself.
“The French do know a thing or two about preparing a bride,” he offered in a tone that made her temper flare. He tossed a small knife on the table near the hearth and sent her a warning look. “Ye’ll be the one to suffer if ye displease yer husband. Think on that before ye defy me.”
“I am wed to Rolfe McTavish.” The words burst out of her. Desperation was clawing at her insides as she looked at how confident Morton was of his plans for her.
The earl moved closer to her. There was a flicker of something in his eyes that reminded her of Colum Gordon. A moment later, she was reeling from a vicious slap.
“Do nae ever say such again.”
The earl was standi
ng still, watching her absorb how easily he struck her. She knew what that flicker was now. It was confidence, absolute confidence in his plans.
“James will inherit England because Elizabeth Tudor is unwed,” the earl explained. “She’s also wise enough to know that the only way she will keep her crown is to never choose a groom, because the moment she does, the rest of the countries of the world will send their armies to try to take her kingdom from her. As long as she keeps them dancing to the tune of courting her, they will not risk the cost of a war.”
The earl paused for a moment and offered her a satisfied grin. “Ye will wed tonight to secure yer father’s devotion to making certain James remains Elizabeth’s heir by keeping Catherine Grey’s sons illegitimate.”
He was so very different from Rolfe.
Perhaps the thought was misplaced just then, but Katherine really didn’t care. She found herself absorbed by how straightforward Rolfe was, while Morton was as twisted as the plots he devised.
Of course, that opened the gates she had been using to hold back hopelessness. It flooded her now, dragging her down as the earl sent her a satisfied look before leaving her to a new group of maids who brought her wedding dress with them.
* * *
“What?” the Earl of Bedford’s man exclaimed. “What is this?”
The shadows shifted, and Rolfe emerged from them. Adwin still clung to them but made sure the man caught a glimpse of him to drive home that Rolfe wasn’t alone.
“I’ve come on business,” Rolfe said.
“These are my private chambers, sir!”
“Aye.” Rolfe moved farther into the room and sat down. “I believe ye’ll understand why I do nae care to have any of Morton’s spies reporting our meeting back to the man.”
The Earl of Bedford’s man clamped his teeth together as his expression became one of disgruntlement. “I should enjoy never pleasing that man myself, so who are you?”
“Rolfe McTavish.”
The man perked up. “Now I have heard that name.”
