The Scottish Rose

by Jill Jones

  He carried Taylor to the bed and laid her down gently, then with equal tenderness, picked up the boy and moved him to the pallet by the fire. “He’ll be warmer there anyway,” he said, turning back to Taylor, who had finished the job with the pearls. She leaned back against the primitive bedclothes, her breasts freed from the confines of the handsome blue gown, an elegant present from Mrs. Ogilvy that replaced the coarse and begrudging gift of Greta Fraser.

  Duncan drew in his breath. She was exquisite, her smile evocative. He wondered if she knew her power of seduction. He suspected she did when next she slipped the dress away from her altogether, and unashamed at her nakedness, invited him with her eyes from where she reclined against the pillow. He tore free of his own clothing and joined her in bed. The firelight flickered over her pale skin, turning it to bronze. With his tongue, he traced the shadows of the flames across her belly and upward to her breasts, where with kisses gentle—then not so gentle—he reheated their passion that had been temporarily interrupted to attend to Pauley.

  He wanted to prolong this delicious pleasure, but oh, God, it had been so long. His body was now in control, and he had no rational mind. He felt himself become one with her, and they were together for the first time as the husband and wife they had pretended to be for these many long weeks. She moved against him with the rhythm of a wife who knows the measure of her husband’s needs, and her own. His body cried out for release as she tormented him, drawing him ever nearer, ever deeper into her essence.

  And then he felt her shudder and give out a low moan of pleasure, a sound that triggered his desperately needed release.

  Sometime in the night, the storm abated, but Duncan was aware only of Taylor’s body curled next to his and his sense that somehow, with her, his nightmares could come to an end.

  Taylor awoke before dawn, but Duncan was already gone. She saw that before leaving, he had added wood to the fire and moved Pauley back into the bed next to her. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms tightly around her nakedness, recalling the exquisite pleasure she had found in Duncan’s arms. She lay very still, relishing the new feelings that tingled throughout her. Her body was aglow, but not just from sexual fulfillment, she realized. There was something deeper about her feelings for Duncan.

  They were the feelings she had tried all her life to avoid having toward a man. Feelings of caring. And commitment. Of wanting a future with him. She knew better, fought the idea, but she couldn’t ignore that Duncan’s caresses last night had presented her with a summons to life, a mandate unlike anything she had ever experienced, a wake-up call to discover a more profound meaning of human existence.

  Sliding out of bed, she donned her sleeping gown to ward off the chill morning air, then snuggled back under the covers. She was sorry Duncan hadn’t awakened her to say goodbye, but in a way, she was glad, too. She treasured the intimacy they had shared in the night, but she needed some time to sort out her feelings.

  Disturbed by her earlier self-talk that included words like “caring” and “commitment,” she warned herself against reading more into their interlude than was there. It could have been but a moment of passion, a much-needed release for them both, and ironically, she was glad she didn’t have to worry about getting pregnant.

  Taylor was unsure whether she wanted something more between them than an occasional moment of passion, even if he returned safely from his pointless errand to France. It went against her carefully controlled life plan. She’d always been strong, committed to her career, certain that a loving relationship could only lead to eventual disappointment, since the family she would want from such intimacy could never be. The tender emotions that surrounded her at the moment left her feeling vulnerable, afraid even.

  And yet, a new awareness sang in her blood this morning. She felt more alive, more vital than at any time she could remember, and in her heart she knew that Duncan Fraser was a man who could make her reevaluate her priorities.

  And because of that, he was a very dangerous man.

  She wished she knew more about him. That he was a passionate lover there was no doubt. And Taylor knew from the way he treated Pauley, and the deep pain on his face when he’d told her about his own children’s deaths, that Duncan was a caring father. But how was he at being a partner?

  A life mate?

  A…husband?

  The “h” word scared her, and Taylor abruptly forced herself to rise and face the day, shaking off these and other troublesome thoughts. Her hair, she noted as she brushed it vigorously, had grown long and uneven. Fit for little other than a braid, Taylor managed with some difficulty to twist it into control, tying the end with a bit of ribbon given her by Mrs. Ogilvy. Her hairdresser on 43rd Street would be appalled. She wondered what Duncan thought of the way she looked, so crudely groomed in this harsh and rustic environment.

  She slipped into the blue wool gown, the cut of which revealed the white of her throat, the promise of her bosom. It was far from lovely, but elegant in comparison to the rank brown rag given her by Greta. The low neckline was edged with Belgian lace, which also graced the hem of the full skirt. Beneath it, she wore underwear that was fashionable for ladies of the day, but Taylor doubted that it would sell very well at Victoria’s Secret.

  She wished she could wash her clothing more often, but American-style hygiene was not the order of the day at Dunnottar Castle in 1651. In this time, she found reason to be grateful for the one advantage of her birth defect, that she didn’t have to suffer the monthly “flux,” as Mrs. Ogilvy called it. But this thought disturbingly led right back to her feelings toward Duncan.

  He had lost two sons. If he remarried, wouldn’t he want more children? She thought it likely.

  Despair and anger raged through her as she sank into one of the two small chairs in the room. Damn it, she had dealt with this disappointment twenty years ago. She’d thought she’d put it behind her once and for all. And now here it was again, reminding her why she’d vowed not to get involved with men. Taylor sighed. It likely didn’t matter anyway. Theirs was a fairy tale relationship at best, and when, if, they returned to their own time, nothing would be the same.

  Still, she reminded herself to dig the trenches a little deeper around her heart.

  The morning was freshly washed from the midnight storm when she and Pauley emerged from their quarters. Cool, brisk air stung her cheeks as they hurried across the flat green yard of the quadrangle toward the suite of rooms formerly used by the Earl and Countess but presently occupied by the Ogilvies. Unfortunately, unless she wanted to enter the Countess’ chambers through the secret passageway from the old church, Taylor had to pass the well and the stairs that led below to where Greta and many of the village women from Stonehaven were assigned as cooks and other menial servants. An encounter was usually unavoidable. She pulled Pauley beneath the protection of her arm and straightened her back when she saw Greta approach. She was certain the woman waited for her purposely every morning just to taunt her with her evil superstitions.

  “I prayed in th’ storm last night that th’ divil would take his child back,” the woman said, her words filled with both righteousness and rancor.

  “We thank ye for thy kindness, madam,” Janet Fraser replied with sarcasm that was lost on this rude, hate-filled woman. Taylor quickened her step, and together the woman and child hastened up the stone stairway. Behind her, she heard Greta hiss.

  Get us out of here, Taylor prayed silently to whatever gods happened to be in charge of this isolated mountaintop of superstition and grief. Oddly, however, she found a small place in her heart to forgive, even pity, the woman whose harsh life and times transfigured her from a human being to something almost animal.

  “Oh, there ye be, m’dear.” Mrs. Ogilvy’s voice was uncommonly bright this morning.

  “Janet” dipped a curtsey to her and ushered Pauley ahead of her into the room. “Aye, madam,” she replied in the manner she’d learned was proper of her station, “Sorry that I’m a bit late. The�
��uh…storm kept me up last night, and I overslept.”

  “I thought ye were goin’ t’ tell me ‘twas thy handsome husband kept ye up,” the other woman laughed, and Taylor’s face turned bright pink. “He’s a manly one, that,” Elizabeth continued. “He should be able t’ give ye many healthy bairns.”

  Her unexpected comment knocked Taylor completely off center. The blush drained from her cheeks, taking her normal color along with it. Bairns. He might be able to give them, but she would never be able to have them, she thought caustically, irritated to be facing the subject again so soon. Maybe it was just as well he was leaving for France. Their pretend marriage was resurrecting some painful old sorrows that were best left buried.

  Mrs. Ogilvy gave her a worried look. “Are ye all right, my dear? Ye look sorely pale of a sudden.”

  Taylor shrugged and nodded with a forced smile. “Yes. I am fine, madam.”

  Mrs. Ogilvy came to her and touched her face, raising her chin and forcing Taylor to look into her eyes. “Ye wouldn’t be with child now, would ye?”

  Get off it! she wanted to scream at this woman suddenly. But her momentary temper turned immediately to shame. Mrs. Ogilvy had no way of knowing that Taylor could never bear children, and Taylor shouldn’t get angry at the woman’s genuine concern. “No, madam,” she answered as calmly as possible. “That good fortune has not yet been visited upon me.”

  Mrs. Ogilvy sighed and turned to look out the east window at the early morning sun sparkling on the waters. “Perhaps ‘tis just as well, Janet, for who knows what fate shall befall us here?”

  A knock sounded at the door, and Taylor was glad for the interruption. Governor Ogilvy poked his head in. “Are ye available, ladies, t’ accept th’ company of Mr. Grainger, th’ minister from yon Kinneff Kirk, who hath come t’ call?”

  Elizabeth and Janet exchanged startled glances. “How did he get in?” Mrs. Ogilvy voiced Taylor’s question. “I thought we were under siege.”

  Her husband laughed. “Oh, but we are, my good wife. It is certain that Mr. Grainger brings more than th’ holy word with him. If Colonel Dutton has let him pass, ‘tis likely with still another demand for capitulation. However,” he added cheerfully, “Mr. Grainger is well-known t’ be a loyal Scotsman through and through. Come. Join us in the receiving room. Let us hear what news he brings.”

  Taylor signed to Pauley to remain in the room, and she left him sitting on a blanket on the floor, playing at a game much like marbles. She followed Mrs. Ogilvy through the Earl Marischal’s richly appointed chamber with its unique and surprisingly accurate timepiece built into the stone mantle. It was not yet eight o’clock. The minister must rise early to tend to his scattered flock, Taylor thought wryly.

  But the minister was not alone in the sitting room, she discovered to her consternation. Behind him, Duncan Fraser rested an arm on the stone window sill and stared out to sea. If the strength of his profile defined the strength of his character, Taylor thought in the fraction of a second in which she beheld him, he was a noble man indeed. His face was set, as if chiseled from stone, his broad brows thoughtful, his jaw firm. He stared intently, as if looking at the infinite, and she wondered what he was thinking. When he turned to the others, his brilliant blue eyes were fierce just before he cloaked his thoughts behind a collected demeanor and brought his attention to the moment.

  “Madam Ogilvy,” he said with a bow. Then his gaze met Taylor’s, and she felt her color rising again. He offered her an equally polite bow, but his greeting was distant, a formality and nothing more. Taylor’s earlier unsettling thoughts concerning a possible future with Duncan, based on last night’s intimacy, fled beneath the cool address, and suddenly she flushed again, but this time with anger. What had she done to deserve this?

  The minister stood and greeted the women and the governor effusively. “It is good t’ see ye well, madam,” he gushed, kissing Mrs. Ogilvy’s hand as if she were the queen. “We have been so worried t’ know thy state here at Dunnottar.”

  Governor Ogilvy motioned for everyone to be seated, and all found a chair except Duncan, who chose to remain behind the chair of the minister. Taylor wondered if he were serving as a guard at the moment. “Our state is a sorry one indeed,” the governor said. “I have little refreshment t’ offer ye, other than some bitter wine and th’ clear water of our well.”

  “Th’ only refreshment I need,” said Mr. Grainger, “is t’ know that ye and thy lady, and those in th’ castle, are well and sound.”

  Taylor’s mind flitted to the boy left playing on the floor of the Countess’s chamber. He was neither well nor sound. Nor safe from the others should he wander away from her protection.

  “Hath ye a word for us from our besiegers, kind Reverend?” Ogilvy got right to the point, to the slight embarrassment of the preacher.

  “They would not let me pass otherwise,” he replied with an apologetic smile. “Aye, here ‘tis.” He took a folded scrap of parchment from his coat pocket and handed it to Ogilvy, who read it, an amused look creeping over his countenance as he finished. “Th’ bloody English will never understand th’ mind of a Scotsman,” he said with forced good humor. “Do they not know that th’ Honours are t’ us symbols of Scotland itself? That t’ relinquish them t’ be destroyed by the ilk of Oliver Cromwell would be t’ send a message t’ every true Scot that th’ end is come?”

  Taylor’s head jerked up. The Honours?

  “So ‘tis true then,” the minister replied. “Th’ Honours are here. We had heard rumors.”

  “Would ye like t’ view them, Mr. Grainger? Then perhaps ye, and all in this room, in fact, will have more cheer for th’ challenge we have accepted.”

  Taylor’s gaze locked with Duncan’s and she forgot her earlier pique. His face was impassive, but she was unable to suppress a grin of excitement. They were to see the Honours at last! She had begun to believe that the royal regalia of Scotland was only another myth, and on her bad days, she’d silently accused Ogilvy of being a deranged megalomaniac in defending what appeared more and more to be a losing cause. But then she’d remembered the history lesson.

  And now they were about to see the Honours. She hoped they were worth the wait, and the struggle, and the starvation and everything else the people in Dunnottar Castle had suffered on their behalf…

  Chapter Seventeen

  The small party followed Governor Ogilvy’s stout but muscular form down the stairs, past the well and across the quadrangle where the refugees from Stonehaven and other neighboring villages milled about and watched them with open curiosity. Duncan reached for Taylor’s hand in a show, she supposed, of husbandly protection, performed for the benefit of his “kinsman.” Even though she was still confused by his earlier cold greeting, she dared not withdraw her hand in front of these people.

  They approached the ancient tower, and Ogilvy ordered the guard to stand aside and let them pass. They filed through a narrow, mildew-blackened passageway and up a circular stair, coming to a halt in a small exterior room with gun ports overlooking the south side. From his pocket the governor withdrew a large key with which he unlocked the door to a dark little room that looked to be no more than a closet. He stepped inside for a moment, then returned, carrying in one hand a slim golden scepter with an elaborate crystal and gold finial. In the other, he held a magnificent sword of impressive proportions, sheathed in an intricately embellished scabbard. Taylor was not the only one to draw in an audible breath.

  “Th’ scepter,” Ogilvy said solemnly, holding the emblem high, “has represented Scottish royalty for more than a hundred and fifty years.” He handed it to Mr. Grainger, whose eyes widened in veneration.

  Then Ogilvy drew the long blade of the sword away from its protective holder. “Th’ sword of state and its scabbard were gifts t’ King James by the ‘warrior pope,’ Julius II.” He ran his fingertips along the wide steel blade, obviously in awe of the responsibility that had been given him for its safekeeping. He handed the sword to Duncan, an
d Taylor read his excitement in spite of his stoic expression.

  Finally, Ogilvy went back into the cubicle and returned with the pièce de resistance, the royal crown of Scotland.

  “Oh, dear,” murmured his wife. “It’s so…splendid!”

  Splendid was an enormous understatement. The crown of Scotland gleamed even in the dim light, as if giving off an aura of its own. The circlet was bejeweled with rubies and pearls and other precious stones, set among golden fleurs de lis and crosses fleury and enameled circles that ringed the headpiece. Four arches of gold rose from the circlet to the apex, each richly ornamented with gold and red enamelled oak leaves. At the top, an orb of blue enamel studded with golden stars supported a cross that was decorated with eight huge pearls and bore an exquisite purple stone, probably an amethyst, Taylor guessed. The bonnet of the crown was of purple velvet, slightly faded but incredibly regal nonetheless.

  “‘Tis is not th’ original crown of Robert the Bruce,” Ogilvy continued, almost apologetically that the original circlet of gold had been lost over the ages. “‘Tis an adaptation of James V, who thought his father’s crown unsuitable for his royal head.”

  The Honours of Scotland did not disappoint Taylor. In fact, they far exceeded her hopes and expectations, both in their glory and in the reverence in which the people of Scotland obviously held them. She glanced at the tableau before her eyes, the small group gazing spellbound upon the regalia, and wished like hell she could capture this moment on film.

  Later, in the privacy of her quarters, Taylor removed the photocopied letter from its secret sanctuary in her zippered pouch and read it again. She’d seen the Honours. She knew that part of the letter was real. And now she was convinced that somewhere, very nearby, lay another, even more astonishing treasure.

  The Scottish Rose.