Deeper Than Roses

by Charlene Cross

  The stallion crumpled beneath Logan. Lithe of body, he landed on his feet. In a second’s time he gauged the oncoming Edward, turned and ran from the site.

  Edward’s laughter tracked him as he headed toward the hill’s crest and the small stone. “Run you, coward!” came Edward’s call. When Logan reached the marker, the area around it free of fighting, he stopped; spinning around, he took a stand. At full gallop MacHugh’s horse bore down on him, yet Logan stood fast.

  Aimed directly at the Raven, Edward was confident his steed would trample the man into the ground, but he did not move, and Edward believed the legend was frozen in fear. A cold smile crossed Edward’s lips as the yards dwindled into mere feet. Forthwith the Raven leapt aside, his blade slicing the horse’s throat. The steed traveled onward several strides, then tumbled to its knees; Edward rolled over its head, landing forcefully on his back. Stunned, he lay there a moment, then swiftly pulled himself to his feet. Spinning around, he saw the Raven met him squarely.

  Fingers wrapped around the leather thong at Logan’s neck, and he gave it a hard tug. The thing snapped; the mask jerked from his head. Throwing it aside, Logan shook the sweat from his brow. “It is best you see the face of your executioner,” he said, both hands now claiming the hilt of his sword. “Make yourself ready to die.”

  Across the hillside Sebastian found himself surrounded. Most of Logan’s men lay dead or wounded. All was lost, he thought, vowing to take another half dozen with him before he died.

  “It is over, Fox,” Richard Black said, moving his steed forward.

  “Not yet,” Sebastian replied. “Come get me, ye craven bastard.”

  A cry went up below him; Sebastian glanced toward the sound. Torches held high, a hundred villagers surged up the hill. Hoes, scythes, clubs, brooms, shovels, and other items that could be used as weapons were clutched in their hands. Before anyone could react the crowd was upon them.

  Frightened by the quick flow of bodies, horses reared, unseating their riders. A half dozen villagers were instantly upon each, beating the fallen foes unmercifully.

  With his own mount kept under control, Richard swung his blade at the riffraff who’d overtaken him. A rapid blow felled one. For a brief instant silence reigned. Then, with an angry cry, fifty villagers surrounded the man who had slain one of their own. His sword was knocked from his hand while his horse was pulled to the ground. Issuing a strangled yell Richard felt the force of their fury. Their meager weapons rose and fell, and his cries finally ceased.

  Sebastian urged his mount forward. In the torchlight he surveyed the gruesome sight. Bludgeoned beyond recognition, Richard Black had met his due. “Come,” the burly man called, and as the villagers swept across the hill Edward’s men dropped their arms, surrendering in defeat.

  Staring through the darkness at the unmasked Raven, Edward heard the throng coming his way. Torchlight fast surrounded the pair. Upon Sebastian’s orders the villagers held back.

  Certain Edward was defeated, Kristiana broke from the wood; the other women rushed after her. Sliding through the crowd, she stood at the front of the circle with Mala, Penelope, and Letitia at her side. Edward glanced around him and, seeing the hostile stares upon him, threw down his sword.

  “Pick it up,” Logan said, hard gold eyes upon him.

  “You want my blood, then kill me,” Edward replied.

  “I want your blood, but we shall face each other like men.”

  In the orange glow Edward suddenly recognized the man he faced. “So, the Gypsy bastard lives,” he said with a curl of his lip. “I should have done the deed myself.”

  “You tried once but failed. The second time your men failed.”

  “What do you mean I tried once and failed?”

  “You do not recognize me, do you, Edward?”

  MacHugh’s eyes centered on the stranger. He shook his head.

  “I’m no bastard, Edward. And I’m only half Gypsy.” Logan called for a torch. One was handed to him, and he stepped forward. “Look into my eyes, Edward, and tell me what you see.” Fiery gold met startled blue; Edward stumbled back. “Aye, stepbrother, I have come back from the dead to seek my revenge. Now stand and fight. Otherwise I’ll have you tortured for days—weeks!—before I end your wretched life.”

  Edward lunged for his blade. The torch tossed aside, Logan met him. Angry swords struck with force; hard steel clanged, then sliced. Wide-eyed Kristiana watched, her teeth biting into her lip. The two were well matched, warriors both, and she prayed Logan would be the victor. At once the man in her thoughts tripped over the small gravestone, and Kristiana gasped.

  Edward saw his chance. A harsh growl surged from his throat as he drove forward, his sword aimed at Logan’s heart. Quick of foot, Logan righted himself, and with a fast roll of his own blade he deflected the oncoming sword. Then, with a hard thrust, he skewered Edward through the gut.

  Eyes wide, Edward gasped. His sword fell from his fingers. Shaky hands encircled the steel protruding from his body. Gazing at Logan, Edward regarded the gleam in his stepbrother’s eyes. His jaw worked twice, but no words came forth. Then, with an upward cut, the blade sluiced from him, as did his life’s blood. His spiritless eyes staring, Edward MacHugh fell over backward, his head landing near the gravestone.

  A joyous shout rose upward, and like ancient Druids rejoicing over a sacrifice the villagers began to dance. At the same time Logan was hit full force by Kristiana’s body. Her arms encircled his neck as her kisses rained over his face. The sword fell from his hand, and his own arms surrounded her waist, holding her close. With a groan his mouth sought hers in an ever-enduring kiss. Another shout rose. Hearing it, the two pulled apart. “It is over,” Logan said, his loving gaze upon her.

  “If he isn’t the Raven,” Letitia whined near them, “then who is he? And why all this destruction?”

  Releasing Kristiana from his body, he held her at his side. “I am Logan Elliot Chandler, third Earl of Muircairn,” he said, smiling. “I came here, Letitia, to reclaim my birthright—but mainly to reclaim my wife.”

  Stunned, Letitia blinked and looked to her cousin. “Y-you are his wife?”

  “I am, cousin, so temper your desires. He belongs to me.”

  “But—”

  “Daughter,” Penelope said sternly, “it is time we find our way back to the castle.”

  As mother and daughter walked over the hill, sidestepping bodies as they went, Letitia’s whiny voice could be heard. Another smack echoed loudly, and Logan chuckled. “Should we send her back to Harcourt Castle?” he asked.

  “A wonderful idea,” Kristiana replied.

  Abruptly Sebastian stood before him. Releasing his wife’s waist, Logan gave the man a friendly hug. “It is good to see you survived.”

  “Aye, the same with ye.”

  Words were whispered, then the burly man walked away, searching out Alain. Turning back to his wife, Logan accepted a torch from one of the villagers, then urged her forward. “Let us go home.”

  Kristiana nodded. Then, from the corner of her eye, she noted Edward lay atop her son’s grave. “Get him from that spot,” she said, her hard gaze turning to Logan. “Our son lies buried there. MacHugh’s body defiles the site.”

  “It is where he belongs,” Logan said, holding the torch over the marker.

  Confused, Kristiana read the words scratched on the stone. “‘Thy treachery is met’?” she questioned.

  “Aye,” Logan said, refusing to elaborate. Seeing that the villagers tended the wounded, he led his frowning wife down the hill.

  By Logan’s orders the laird’s chambers had been swept clean of any remembrance of Edward MacHugh.

  Kristiana sat atop the fresh linens on the massive bed, her arms crossed over her chest. Green eyes narrowed, she watched her husband pace the floor.

  “Yes, I deceived you more than once,” he said, his hand raking through his thick hair. “But I have already explained why. I had come here intending to free you, but when I saw you
with child I went mad. You were small, Kristiana. Too small, I thought, for the child to be mine. God forgive me, but I wanted to make you suffer. I was hurt—I felt betrayed.” He turned to look at her. No forgiveness showed on her face, so he grabbed the quillon dagger that lay atop the table. “Here,” he said, striding toward the bed. He knelt before her, the hilt of the dagger presented to her over his arm. “Take it, goddess, and plunge it into my heart. Without your forgiveness I might as well die.”

  Kristiana stared down at him. She searched his eyes. Like golden sunshine, she thought. And only under their warm glow was she able to survive. Her hand took the hilt; the point met his chest. “I should have run you through the night we first met,” she said, a smile sliding across her lips.

  “But you didn’t,” Logan countered with a grin.

  As Kristiana watched, his gaze turned to a deep amber, the dagger was thrust aside onto the bed. His hands claiming her hips, Logan rose, his lips climbing ever closer to his wife’s. A light knock sounded on the door. “We’ll continue this later,” he said huskily. “Enter,” he called, rising fully to his feet.

  The door opened, and Sebastian strode into the room. “Have the laird and his lady found comfort in their new chamber?”

  “Not yet,” Logan returned, sounding perturbed. Gazes locked as a message passed between the two men. Logan turned back to Kristiana. “There is one more deception, sweet, that you need to know about.”

  What else? she wondered, her jaw set. “Hasn’t there been enough between us?” she asked, leaping from the bed. He didn’t answer. “What is it, then?”

  At Logan’s nod Sebastian strode to the partially closed door. Pulling it wide, he ushered Mala into the room. Her arms were weighted with a swathed bundle. Kristiana first looked to Logan, then to her nurse. Her gaze shot back to Logan.

  “A gift,” he said, his voice low, “from Mala and myself, especially for you.”

  Her nurse came forward. “Hold out your arms, child.”

  A confused Kristiana did as bade. When the bundle settled into her mistress’s arms, Mala drew back the cover. A tiny face greeted Kristiana’s surprised gaze. A wealth of black hair covered its head. Eyes open, its gaze was blue, yet large chips of gold ringed each center.

  “Your son,” Mala said, her dark eyes bright with tears.

  Kristiana looked to Logan. “But…”

  “He is ours, love,” he said, coming to her side. “The only reason he was taken from you was to make certain Edward didn’t murder him.” He went on to tell her the whole story, Mala helping him along the way.

  “The laird breathed life into his son,” she said, noticing how Kristiana’s eyes sought Logan’s. Gratitude shone in her liquid green gaze as well as love, and Mala smiled.

  “Then the peasant on the hill—the man was actually you.”

  “Aye,” Logan said. “Edward wanted the babe buried. Since I had planned to draw him to that same hill to fight, I thought the mock grave a perfect site. Of course, a marker was in order. Indeed, his treachery is met. He will harm no one again.”

  Kristiana frowned. “You were all convinced I couldn’t act as though I was grieving. You had to let me truly suffer.”

  “Your eyes, Kristiana, tell all,” Logan said, smiling gently. “Edward would never have believed otherwise.”

  She thought to rant and rave, to send her anger down on each of them. But the babe in her arms let forth a small whimper, and her fury fled. He was alive. That was all that mattered. And her son’s father was alive as well. Smiling, she looked to Logan. “You are forgiven, but this had better be the last deception—ever.”

  “It will be, sweet. I promise.”

  The babe began to cry—loudly. “What should I do?” she inquired of her nurse. She bounced the wee thing in her arms. “Is he hungry?”

  “Aye,” Mala said. “It is time you fed him.”

  Kristiana blinked. “Me?”

  Mala turned toward the men. “If you’ll allow us some privacy.”

  The babe’s wail sounding even louder, Logan and Sebastian scrambled over each other while exiting the room. Shortly Kristiana’s son suckled at her breast.

  “You kept the milk flowing, didn’t you?” she asked Mala, remembering how the woman told her to gently squeeze her breasts until all the liquid had left them. At first, Kristiana thought it was meant to give her relief, but the milk had never dried up. Now she knew why. “You’re a sly one, Mala.”

  “Aren’t all Gypsies?” she asked, a crooked grin on her aged face.

  When the babe had been fed he was placed in a cradle that Logan and Sebastian had carried into the room. Saying their farewells, Mala and Sebastian left Kristiana and Logan alone.

  As the two stared down at their son Kristiana asked, “What shall we call him?”

  “I’d like to name him Doyle, after Sebastian.” In low tones, so as not to wake his son, Logan told Kristiana how he and Sebastian had first met. “And had he not found me at the cave, I’d not be here today.”

  Her heart ached, for she wished she had never left him. “I’m thankful he did.” She looked to her son. “Doyle it shall be.”

  “Doyle Henry Robert Harcourt Chandler—my heir.”

  A thought struck Kristiana. “Are we truly married? I mean—will the Church and our king accept our son as legitimate?”

  “I plan to ask an audience with James. Once he learns the truth, I have no doubt he’ll restore my title and lands, and that Doyle will be proclaimed my legitimate heir.” He drew his wife into his arms. “Right now, though, I’d truly enjoy seeing to the others.”

  “Others?”

  “Yes. He needs a brother and a sister. Or perhaps two or three of each.”

  Kristiana smiled up at him. “Considering how quickly he was conceived, he might already have a sibling on the way.”

  Logan frowned. “You certainly don’t expect me to leave something like that to chance.” He swept her up into his arms and grinned. “No, goddess, we simply cannot allow fortune to dictate all we do. We’ll try until we know my seed has not erred.” He chuckled. “Then we’ll try some more.”

  His beloved Kristiana held close in his arms, her green eyes shining with love, the third Earl of Muircairn strode toward what was now rightfully his bed.

  Epilogue

  4 June 1541

  Near sunset Logan strode through the doors of Muircairn Castle, Sebastian Doyle at his side. Logan smiled at Penelope, who he knew was there to greet Sebastian. Excusing himself, he passed through the great hall, noting its superb cleanliness, and loped up the stairs, heading for his chamber. Entering the large room, he saw Mala attending Doyle. “Where’s Kristiana?” he asked, surprised not to see his wife.

  Mala observed his frown. The laird had been gone for over a week. Knowing he was eager to see his wife—virile man that he was—she smiled. “She has a surprise for you. She told me to send you to the wood near the stream. You’ll know where she means.”

  Indeed he did, for he and Kristiana had made love there several times. In fact, there weren’t too many places they hadn’t made love. Feeling a sudden ache in his loins, he straightened his clothing and cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mala.” Chucking Doyle’s chin and planting a kiss on his son’s small head, he turned and left the room.

  In the dim light golden eyes watched the nymph in the stream, water lapping at the soft curve of her hips and the slight roundness of her belly, where a new babe grew. She came toward him, her firm breasts taut, moisture dripping from their tips. A smile lit her face as she beckoned him toward her, then she backed away. In a matter of seconds Logan had stripped off his clothing; he met her in the stream.

  “All is well, sweet,” he told her after they’d shared a heated kiss. “James has restored my lands and titles.” Kristiana’s lips moved across his chest. “B-because of the writ with the Gypsies, he considers us legally married.”

  “Good,” she whispered, then her tongue swirled his tiny nipple.

  �
��Doyle is my legal heir,” he said on a groan. “Of course, James is pleased we were again married by the Chur—” Her tongue licked along the scar at his side while gentle fingers caressed the one on his back. “God, woman! What are you trying to do to me?”

  Then Kristiana ducked beneath the surface of the water. Logan’s head jerked back, his eyes closed, and his breath hissed between his teeth. When she came up for air Logan’s hot gaze met hers. “You want to play, so we shall.” He swept her up into his arms and carried her to a bed of soft furs spread along the forest floor. “I missed you, sweet,” he said huskily, kneeling between her spread thighs. “God, how I missed you.” At once he was in heaven.

  Satiated, Kristiana lay gazing at the frosting of stars in the ebony sky. As Logan’s head rested upon her breast, her fingers ran through the thickness of his hair. He slept like a babe, she thought, smiling. By the light of the moon she gazed at his handsome face. He belonged here, out in the open, just as much as he belonged in the castle. It was the same with her.

  Sidi had told her true love came only once in a lifetime for those who were fortunate enough to find it. But to find it, sometimes one had to endure much pain. Yes, there had been pain. But there had also been exceptional joy, especially these last several months.

  Kristiana was grateful that she had found her true love, and that he lay there in her arms. Whether Gypsy or earl, she would love him forever. The truth be known, it wasn’t so very hard to do.

  Author’s Note

  On February 15, 1540, James V, king of Scots, entered into a treaty with one John Faw, Lord and Earl of Little Egypt, that in effect gave the Gypsies the right to practice their own laws and customs within the kingdom of Scotland. For nearly sixteen months the Gypsies were protected from persecution. However, on June 6, 1541, James rescinded his writ, apparently in anger. What made him do so no one seems to know. But legend has it that James, a known womanizer, had made advances toward a Gypsy woman. Furious, the woman’s husband struck James over the head with a bottle. Afterward the king was made to carry their possessions on his back until he collapsed from fatigue. Whether the tale is myth or truth, the treaty was in fact withdrawn, and the Gypsies were given thirty days to leave Scotland or face death.