Courting an Angel

by Grasso, Patricia;

  Reaching St. Paul’s Cathedral, Gordon and Rob turned right onto the Old Change, and at the end of that street, they went left onto Thames Street. The palace of White Tower loomed before them at the end of Thames Street.

  They rode through the Middle Tower, the castle’s main entrance, and halted their horses. When two scarlet-clad yeomen rushed forward to attend their mounts, Gordon tossed each man a coin for his trouble.

  Suddenly, an unearthly growl rent the air behind them, and Rob reacted instinctively. She threw herself into her husband’s arms and cried, “’Tis frightenin’.”

  “I’ll protect ye, hinny,” Gordon said, his arms encircling her. “’Tis perfectly safe. The lions live inside a pit.”

  Setting her back a pace, Gordon took her by the hand and led her toward the Lion Tower where the menagerie was kept. “Yer uncle told me the menagerie began when the King of France gifted Henry III with an elephant,” he said conversationally.

  “What’s that?” Rob asked.

  Gordon had never actually seen an elephant, but he wasn’t about to admit his ignorance to his young wife. “Why, an elephant is the largest of God’s creatures and has a long nose called a trunk.”

  The semicircular bastion just outside the Middle Tower was known as the Lion Tower. Cages, pits, and trapdoors filled the area.

  Here the crowd of spectators swelled to a crush of humanity. Apprehensive about stepping into that throng of strangers, Rob clutched her husband’s hand and mouthed a silent prayer of thanks that she’d worn her gloves that day.

  For his part, Gordon smiled down at her and mentally rubbed his hands together. As that tavern wench at the Royal Rooster had predicted, his wife would be ripe for a parcel of protection after this. Perhaps, crossing the border into Scotland before making her his wife in the truest sense would be unnecessary.

  “Dinna be scared,” he whispered in her ear as they wended their way through the milling crowds.

  Rob gaped in astonishment at the elephant and then the Norwegian bear, but the lions’ roars attracted her attention the most. Reaching the lions’ pit, Gordon paved a way for them through the crowd of commoners who parted for the nobleman and his lady, and then closed in behind them again.

  “Great Bruce’s ghost,” Rob exclaimed softly, catching her first glimpse of the iron bars across the top of the pit and hearing the loud roars from its shadowy depth.

  Closer and closer, Rob inched forward in an effort to see the ferocious beasts below. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she felt two hands on her back giving her a tremendous shove. At the same moment, a foot kicked her legs out from under her. Caught off balance, Rob slid legs-first toward the pit. One of her legs dangled through the pit’s iron bars.

  “Help!” she cried, desperately reaching for her husband.

  Gordon yanked her to safety just as one of the lions leaped for her dangling leg. Both landed on the ground as the shocked spectators surrounded them.

  “Are ye injured?” Gordon asked.

  Too frightened to speak, Rob shook her head and trembled like a woman afflicted with palsy. She pressed one hand to her breast in an effort to calm her pounding heart and bent her head to catch her breath.

  And that was when she saw it. The star ruby had darkened redder than pigeon’s blood.

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” Gordon said, standing. He helped her rise, put his arm around her shoulder, and drew her close against his body. “God’s balls, lass. What happened back there?” he asked, leading her toward the Middle Tower. “Did yer foot slip?”

  “Someone pushed me,” Rob answered in a quavering voice.

  Gordon stopped short and looked at her. “I canna credit that, hinny.”

  “I tell you, I felt two hands pushing me,” she insisted, her voice rising in direct proportion to her extreme agitation. His disbelief was adding insult to near-fatal injury.

  “Ye must be mistaken,” Gordon said. “The crowd merely jostled ye.”

  “I know what I felt,” Rob cried, becoming irritated. She’d nearly been devoured by a lion, and her husband was brushing her explanations aside as nonsense. “Someone tried to kill me. Yer my husband; find out who it is.”

  “Men dinna kill without motivation.” Gordon tried to reason with her as they mounted their horses. “Who, in God’s great universe, would gain by yer untimely death?”

  “If ye are na up to the task of protectin’ me, then ye are na up to bein’ my husband,” Rob said tartly. “Henry would find and punish the culprit.”

  “Henry — Henry — Henry!” Gordon roared as ferociously as the lions. “I am sick unto death of Henry. I’m surprised Ludlow canna walk across water.”

  “Well, he’d be more apt to do that than ye,” Rob shot back.

  Gordon snapped his head around and stared coldly at her. “Keep yer lips buttoned,” he warned, “or I’ll take ye across my knee and give ye the spankin’ ye deserve.”

  Instinctively, Rob reacted as her own mother did whenever her father behaved outrageously pigheadedly. She gave him a frosty glare and then lifted her upturned nose into the air in a defiant gesture of dismissal.

  Gordon ignored her silent tantrum.

  During the long ride through London to the Strand, Rob seethed in silence. She knew what she’d felt; someone had purposefully pushed her toward the lions’ pit. But, who could possibly want her dead? Did the culprit harbor a grudge against her family? Rob couldn’t credit that; no one in England knew them. That left her uncle’s enemies. But, why would this assassin choose to murder her? She was merely the earl’s niece.

  Rob flicked a glance at her lucky beggar beads. The farther they rode from the White Tower, the lighter the star ruby faded into its original color. At one point Rob peeked at Gordon, who was watching her. “And I amna checkin’ my titties,” she told him.

  Gordon’s expression was a mask of irritation. He turned his attention to the road again and said, “If ye truly think someone tried to kill ye, then I believe ye. We’ll be leavin’ for Argyll this afternoon.”

  “I willna be accompanyin’ ye anywhere, my lord,” Rob told him. “I willna debate this further.”

  “Aye, ye’ll be safe with my father at Inverary Castle,” Gordon went on, as if she hadn’t spoken.

  Rob ignored him, but fumed in aggravated silence. The Marquess of Inverary was an insufferable, pigheaded lout, and those were his good qualities. If he thought to force her to ride north before the first day of spring, then he’d better reconsider his position.

  “Pack yer bags, angel,” Gordon ordered as they rode down the private lane that led to Devereux House’s front courtyard. “We’re leavin’ for Scotland within the hour.”

  “Are ye deaf? I just told ye —” Rob broke off when she spied the two men exiting Devereux House. Spurring her horse forward, she shouted, “Dubh!”

  Rob reined her horse to an abrupt halt when she reached her brother and his companion. Before anyone could help her dismount, she leaped from her saddle and threw herself into her brother’s arms. “Oh, Dubh. I’m so happy to see ye,” she cried, hugging him as if she’d never let him go.

  “How are ye, sister?” Dubh asked.

  “Fine, now that yer here to protect me,” Rob answered, gazing into his dark eyes. She’d always felt safer with her oldest brother around because he resembled their father.

  “Protect ye from what?” Dubh asked with an amused smile. “Yer husband?”

  “Yer sister swears that someone tried to push her into the lions’ pit at the White Tower,” Gordon told him. “Did ye ever hear of anythin’ so ridiculous?”

  “There’s nothin’ ridiculous aboot bein’ a lion’s dinner,” Rob replied, turning within the circle of her brother’s arms to look at him. She flicked a glance at the slight, blond man and asked, “Who’s yer friend, Dubh? Ye havena introduced us.”

  “Meet Mungo MacKinnon, the Earl of Skye’s grandson,” her brother said. “Mungo is yer husband’s friend and also related to Cousin Glenda.”

&
nbsp; “Mungo, meet Rob MacArthur,” Gordon finished the introduction. “My wife, the Marchioness of Inverary.”

  “I’m verra pleased to make yer acquaintance,” Mungo said with a smile, bowing low over her hand.

  Out of politeness, Rob returned the blond man’s smile, but decided in that very instant that she didn’t like him. She recognized only too well the poorly masked hatred gleaming at her from his pale blue eyes. Neither her brother nor her husband seemed aware of the man’s sinister attitude toward her, but Rob had seen enough hatred cast in her direction to recognize it when she saw it.

  Why did this stranger whom she’d never met harbor a hatred for her? Rob wondered. Her riding gloves covered Old Clootie’s mark, so that could not be his reason.

  “Well, now, we’re all together,” Mungo said, turning to her brother. “Perhaps we can make plans for returnin’ to Scotland.”

  Watching his eyes, Rob sucked in her breath at the intense hatred leaping at her brother from the blond man. That Dubh failed to recognize it was understandable. As the earl’s heir and mirror image, her brother had always been the clan’s beloved prince. No man in clan MacArthur had ever looked at him with evil intent.

  “I wouldna want to be caught ridin’ north if this weather changes,” Dubh was saying. “Waiting another week or two would give me peace of mind, especially since my sister will be travelin’ with us. What do ye think, Gordy?”

  Rob watched Mungo turn to Gordon and saw the intense hatred fade from the blond man’s gaze. Why did MacKinnon harbor such a dislike for the MacArthurs whom he had never met? she wondered. Why, they even shared a cousin with him.

  “I carry missives for the king and shouldna delay deliverin’ them,” Mungo said.

  “Safety lies across the border,” Gordon said, flicking a glance at her. “Since my wife fears for her life, we’ll be ridin’ north this afternoon.”

  “I amna steppin’ a foot outside Devereux House until the first day of spring,” Rob insisted, then turned her back and started walking toward the house.

  “Get back here,” Gordon called.

  Rob quickened her pace and then broke into a run when she heard her brother’s deep rumble of laughter and her husband’s muttered curse. Slamming the door shut behind her, she leaned back against it and sighed in defeat. Rob knew she had no way to escape the inevitable if her husband insisted they leave England.

  And then an idea came to her, bringing the hint of a smile to her lips. She’d sit in her favorite hiding place inside her uncle’s study until the day aged into evening. No sane person began such a long journey at night. She’d be safe until the morning, at least.

  Praying her uncle’s study was empty, Rob hurried across the foyer and closed its door behind her. She crossed the study to her chair, but paused to peek out the window first. Gordon, Dubh, and Mungo were walking toward the Dowager House. Could her husband have changed his mind?

  Unwilling to risk being forced north, Rob plopped down in the chair and curled her legs up under herself. If her husband came searching for her now, he would believe the study was deserted.

  Rob leaned her head back against the chair and pondered her untenable predicament. Tears welled up in her eyes as she realized she was beginning to care for her arrogant husband.

  Her feelings defied logic. She could never live happily with him in the Highlands. Old Clootie’s mark prevented that. If she rode north with him, she’d be doomed forever to play the outcast.

  And then her aunt’s probing questions slammed into her consciousness. Did she want to remain in England because she loved Henry? Or did she love Henry because she wanted to remain in England?

  Now Rob knew the answer. She loved Gordon Campbell but could never be his wife.

  An imperfect world required that she compromise her dreams of love and acceptance. She would take the acceptance and learn to love Henry Talbot.

  A sudden swell of painful guilt surged through her. Henry Talbot deserved more than a wife who would learn to love him. Although, there were worse things in life than beginning a marriage without earth-moving love. Her own parents’ marriage had been arranged, but that didn’t count since her father and her mother had fallen madly in love at first sight of each other. Or so her mother said.

  Thinking wearied Rob and gave her a dull headache. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and tried to wipe the emotional clutter from her mind.

  That task proved difficult. A long hour passed before she drifted into a restless doze.

  The low sounds of men’s voices brought Rob slowly back to the reality other uncle’s study, but lethargy kept her from moving. She opened her eyes and stared in a drowsy daze outside the window at the rapidly advancing dusk. When she heard her uncle’s voice, Rob realized she hadn’t been dreaming. The talking men were inside the study with her.

  “Welcome to Devereux House, Lord Burghley,” Earl Richard greeted his visitors. “And welcome to you, Walsingham.”

  Those particular names jerked Rob into full alertness. Two of Queen Elizabeth’s most important counselors were conferring with her uncle. Lord Burghley was the queen’s most trusted minister, and Walsingham her secretary of state specializing in foreign affairs.

  Rob felt like a fool to be caught napping in her hiding chair. Should she stand up now and make her presence known or sit there until they left and pretend she’d never heard their conversation?

  “Henry, I told you to remain at court until the first day of spring,” her uncle was saying.

  Rob cursed her bad luck when she heard that remark. Her husband already suffered a mood foul enough to force her to ride north. If he spied Henry, Gordon wouldn’t even give her the chance to pack her belongings. Indecision about what to do kept Rob rooted to the chair.

  “As my father’s representative, I’ve been traveling with Lords Burghley and Walsingham,” Henry told her uncle.

  “Traveling at this season of the year can be difficult,” Earl Richard remarked. “So, I assume ’tis a matter of importance.”

  “We are en route from Fotheringhay Castle to Richmond Palace,” Burghley replied.

  “We decided to stop here on our way because you’d voiced such a negative opinion concerning possible actions against Mary Stuart,” Walsingham added.

  At that comment, Rob froze in her seat. Every nerve in her body tingled in a riot of expectation about what she was going to overhear. All thoughts of making her presence known vanished from her mind.

  “And what have you decided?” her uncle asked.

  Rob heard one of the men clear his throat as though in preparation for revealing a matter of utmost importance.

  “A panel of judges found Mary Stuart guilty of treason against the Crown,” Lord Burghley announced.

  Rob covered her mouth with both of her hands in order to keep from crying out. The punishment for treason was death. The English queen and her minions could not possibly be considering executing a queen, a woman whom God had anointed. That would be regicide.

  “Bloody Christ! Was this an impartial panel of judges?”

  Earl Richard exploded, his outrage apparent. “How convenient for you, Walsingham. Did you falsify evidence against her as you’ve falsified other various reports to Elizabeth in order to get your own way?”

  “Now, Richard —” Lord Burghley began.

  “Do not ‘now Richard’ me, Cecil,” her uncle snapped at his illustrious mentor. “Walsingham has been angling to catch Mary Stuart in a trap for years. Tell me, how can you possibly punish a queen found guilty of treason? Why, that pathetic woman has already been imprisoned for twenty years.”

  “What will be done has been done,” Walsingham announced, his voice harsh.

  Rob held her breath in anticipation. When he spoke, Lord Burghley nearly felled her with his shocking words.

  “Mary Stuart was beheaded at Fotheringhay Castle two days ago,” Burghley informed her uncle. “We three witnessed the execution.”

  “You idiots! Nothing now stands between Eng
land and Spain,” Uncle Richard exploded. “Mark my words, gentlemen. The Spanish Don will be threatening our shores before six months have passed.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Walsingham said. “Right now, ’tis imperative we keep Mary’s death a secret until Elizabeth sends official condolences to James.”

  Rob heard a loud defeated sigh, presumably her uncle’s, and then he asked, “How did it go at Fotheringhay?”

  “Mary Stuart redeemed herself in death by humiliating us with her dignity,” Burghley answered, his tone of voice quietly respectful. “Regicide is bad business, though.”

  Rob was unable to contain her raging fury another moment. She shot to her feet and rounded on the men, surprising them with her presence.

  “Ye wretched Sassenach swine! How dare ye murder my queen,” Rob cried. “We Highlanders will burn this England into a wasteland. Great Bruce’s ghost, we’ll —”

  “Shut up,” Uncle Richard snapped.

  Accustomed to obeying orders, Rob abruptly clamped her lips together. The fires of unreasoning fury leaped at the men from her gaze.

  “Who is this eavesdropper?” Walsingham demanded.

  “His niece from Scotland,” Henry told him.

  The queen’s secretary of state turned to Rob’s uncle and said, “Tell her to pack her bags. We’ll keep her in the Tower until Elizabeth deems the time is ripe for announcing Mary’s death to the world.”

  “I beg your pardon?” the earl said, his disbelief apparent in his voice.

  “Francis, ’tis unnecessary,” Lord Burghley said, after flicking a measuring glance at his former protégé. “If Richard can guarantee . . .”

  “You cannot lock Rob in the Tower,” Henry added his own opinion. “’Twould be unnecessarily cruel.”

  Ignoring their protests, Walsingham started across the study toward her, saying, “I promise you won’t be harmed in any way.”

  In a flash of movement, Rob reached down and pulled her last resort from its sheath strapped to her leg. She pointed the deadly little dagger in the general vicinity of the secretary of state’s throat.