by Dianna Love
She’d been appalled learning Duncan had stolen the Bruce’s heir, a lad of only eight, and had done everything in her power to comfort the boy until his father could claim him. That Duncan had also been kind to the child, had played darts and read to the boy, helped little in eradicating her guilt over being the cause of such vengeful feuding. Had she been more alert, less gullible, Flora never would have had the opportunity to lead her into a trap and set Duncan on this path of revenge.
The fires the MacDougall clan started on Bruce land she refused to think about. She couldn’t imagine the angst the Bruce women felt watching their lives’ work—-their homes, handmade furniture, and crops—going up in smoke. She thanked God nightly that no lives were lost. That the Bruce clan still had some resources to get through the upcoming winter—-but just barely—-brought little comfort. She was sure possessions were lost in the fires that could never be replaced.
She heaved a heavy sigh and brushed away her tears. “Since there’s nothing I can do to stop my idiotic husband, I suppose I should start getting ready for the Campbell’s arrival.”
“Take heart, mon ami. You have a courageous and strong man who’ll not take any unnecessary chances.”
Beth snorted. Everything Duncan planned for the next week was—to her mind—totally unnecessary and chancy.
~ # ~
In the gallery, wedged between the Campbell and her best friend, Beth prayed. Her heart tripped as Duncan, decked out in his finest armor—-carrying his gleaming red and gold shield with his family coat of arms on his left arm and his red lance with its potentially fatal steel tip glistening in his right—rode into the long makeshift arena to face his enemy.
Her gaze instinctively flew to the opposite end of the lists, her heart hoping to find the Bruce smaller—-frailer—than she recalled. But the man was as she remembered; only more lethal-looking dressed in dark armor. To her dismay, she saw the Bruce’s mount was dressed not in trapper—chain mail—from head to tail as Duncan’s horse was, but in metal plate. The enormous black warhorse looked like something out of a futuristic movie.
Rachael tugged on her hand and Beth turned to find Duncan smiling at her. As the Bruce’s herald started touting his lord’s prowess, Rachael whispered, “Blow your husband a kiss, mon ami. ‘Tis what his heart needs.”
“Aye.” With tears in her eyes and a pounding heart, Beth brought shaking fingers to her lips and blew Duncan a kiss. She then whispered, “I love you. God’s speed.”
To her monumental relief he understood and mouthed, “I love ye,” in return.
In what seemed like only the time between two heartbeats, trumpet blasted. The crowd roared as the warring titan’s dropped their visors, and the horses reared, and then charged.
Beth held her breath as their lances struck wood. Her heart nearly stopped when Duncan’s shield, absorbing the impact of the Bruce’s strike, split in two. Her worries multiplied as Duncan shucked the steel band that once held his shield and turned his mount at the opposite end of the arena.
Beth leaned over the rail. At the opposite end of the field, the Bruce’s shield, though severely damaged, still clung to his left arm.
She frantically scoured the crowd for MacDougall men. “Where’s Angus? Why isn’t he bringing Duncan another shield?”
Duncan’s shoulder had barely healed. He couldn’t take a hit to that shoulder. She desperately wished she could see his face, read his expression, know if he was in pain.
The Campbell pulled her back to her seat. “Lady Beth, ‘tis aught his men can do. Duncan must continue as armed or forfeit.”
“NAY!”
Blood drained from her head and the world began to spin. She felt Rachael’s hand grab her waist.
“Beth, can you hear me?”
She opened her eyes. “Ya.” She pushed away the chalice the Campbell held to her lips and blinked repeatedly. “I’m okay—well.” She straightened in her chair. As the field became clearer, she began to make out the faces within the crowd before her. They all stood and roared once again.
~ # ~
“To win or die!” Duncan roared as he kicked Ramsom’s flanks. His warhorse snorted, his blood as fired as his master’s. He let loose the reins and braced his legs in the stirrups.
He had little doubt the Bruce would strike low this time, hoping to gut him with a blow under the breastplate. He rode upright, waiting until the last possible moment—-until it would be nigh onto impossible for the Bruce to alter his aim—-then dropped over his horse’s neck.
Driving his mount to the rail with his legs, Duncan gritted his teeth and raised his lance.
The impact, squarely hitting the Bruce’s right shoulder, nearly unseated Duncan. The crowd’s roar made it impossible for him to hear—-to know if the Bruce had remained seated. As his mount slowed, he twisted in the saddle to find the Bruce on his back in the middle of the list, covered in dust and with two feet of lance sticking out of his chest. Immeasurable joy flooded him. The bastard was completely at his mercy.
Immediately, he threw down the remains of his lance, reined in and turned his horse around. When his agitated mount finally stopped prancing, Duncan swung his right leg over the high pommel and slid to the ground. He landed with an ungainly thud, drew his short broadsword, and approached the Bruce.
Standing over his enemy, Duncan placed his sword tip on his enemy’s throat. The crowd roared.
Beneath the Bruce’s slotted helmet, Duncan saw fear then resignation register within his enemy’s clear blue eyes. He smiled. Using his sword point, he raised the Bruce’s faceplate.
“Aye, ye bloody bastard, now ye pay.”
Chest heaving, Duncan glanced at the blood seeping around the wooden staff impaling the Bruce’s armor. He’d struck well and deep.
Duncan, having been challenged, now had the right to end his enemy’s life. John the Bruce, had he had the advantage, would certainly have pressed his sword against Duncan’s throat without a moment’s hesitation, yet Duncan did hesitate.
He looked at Albany, draped in the finest his taxes could buy, and found him smirking. He scanned the crowd, all now standing and screaming for blood. He then searched of Beth. He found her—staring wide-eyed and white-faced at him, with one hand on her lips and the other on their unborn child. His lips tightened into a hard line, his anger renewed.
The crowd erupted again, roaring, “To the death! To the death!”
He had to act. Fulfill his need for revenge and destroy his enemy once and for all, earning the admiration of his clansmen and his allies or drop his sword. He looked at Beth once again wanting her admiration and respect more.
He prayed he wasn’t making a monumental mistake as he pressed his blade’s tip into the hollow of John’s neck. “I spare ye, Bruce, and only for yer sons, but should ye or any of yer sept ever again dare step foot uninvited onto MacDougall land, I promise ye, they and ye will regret it. Do we ken one another?”
When John nodded, Duncan dropped his sword. Many in the crowd hissed and booed but others cheered as he knelt on one knee and closed his fingers over John’s right hand. “‘Tis done then. The past is past.”
His blood lust now drained away, Duncan looked up to find Angus racing toward him. He accepted Angus’s help and struggled to his feet. As he made his way to his horse, Bruce clansmen raced onto the field to retrieve their fallen leader.
Over the roaring, Angus yelled, “Ye did well, Duncan.”
Unsure, he muttered, “Tell that to my ladywife.”
~ # ~
Entering Sterling Castle’s touchier lit great hall, Beth began praying in earnest that Duncan and Isaac were right; that Albany wouldn’t know Katherine LeBeau Demont—his great niece and the King’s cousin—from a hole in the ground. To keep from turning tale and running, she ran sweating palms down the front of her gown while Duncan assessed the crowd.
“This way, my lady,” Duncan murmured, drawing her to the right and keeping to the back of the hall. “We should be able to hover
unnoticed.”
Beth’s eyes rolled. “You can’t be serious? You stand a full head taller than most in the room. The minute Albany looks this way, he’ll spy you.” And with you, me, she thought dejectedly. God help us all.
Having won the final prizes, Duncan had no choice but to be present at Albany’s evening entertainments. When Beth had also been summoned, Duncan, Isaac, and Rachael had done their hurried best to prepare her for the inquisition she was sure to face. But would it be enough? Could she pass Albany’s scrutiny? Hoping Albany would be well into his cup by the time she had to stand before him, she mentally rehearsed all Rachael’s edicts; when to curtsey, when to smile, which two fingers she was to use when eating meat, which two for eating fruit, and most importantly her three well-rehearsed responses to any questions.
They’d decided she should appear excessively shy and dependent on Duncan. Under those circumstances, it would appear more natural for him to deflect questions and answer for her. Should Albany question her directly, she would then depend on Duncan to cue her into the appropriate response by winking, squeezing her hand, elbow or waist. Their survival depended on remaining in contact, never separating. That and keeping as low a profile as possible until they could escape.
No easy task considering Duncan’s height and the ten pounds of headgear and the voluminous peacock colored gown she wore. Rachael had really gone over the top getting her ready for her first royal audience.
“Ah, here ye be!” a redheaded man greeted them. “His grace has been asking after ye.” Smiling at Beth, he said, “Ye must be Lady MacDougall.”
Duncan introduced the man as Robbie Stewart. Mutely, Beth smiled, curtseyed, and held out her right hand. As Stewart bowed over her hand, Duncan asked, “Is he in a fair mindset?”
“Aye, very. The Campbell was not only routed but ye came out the winner. Too, there were few squabbles amongst the septs. None, at least, that caused disruption. And ye? How are ye feeling after winning?”
Duncan grinned. “Relieved and a few pounds wealthier.”
“More than a few, my friend. Have ye seen the chalice?” When Duncan shook his head, Robbie said, “Come.”
“Aye, but let me settle my ladywife first. I will join ye later.”
“Nonsense! His Grace has been anxious to see yer lady as well. Come, the pair of ye.”
As Robbie made a path for them through the milling chieftains and their ladies, Duncan clasped Beth’s shaking hand and whispered, “Remember, Albany has not seen his niece since childhood.”
Swallowing down a sudden swell of nausea, Beth nodded. By the time she stood before the ruler of Scotland, she couldn’t keep her knees from knocking together. Keeping one hand on Duncan’s arm, Beth dropped into a deep curtsey. She would have gladly stayed in that position—-with her face averted—-for the rest of the night had she been given the option, but Albany chuckled and took her hand. Rising, she did her best to smile.
Albany said something—-what, she hadn’t a clue—-and Duncan responded for her. When Albany said something else, Duncan squeezed her hand. She felt heat rising in her face as she mumbled in French that she was pleased to see him again, as well, after all these years.
Duncan chuckled as Albany again addressed her. She looked to Duncan for help and he winked. She took a deep breath, tucked her chin, and murmured “Oui, tres honoree oncle.”
Albany laughed.
Relieved her response apparently pleased Albany, Beth dared to glance up and study the man who held their lives in his hands.
Not a large man, Albany was handsome and clean-shaven. Had he been dressed in a three-piece suit and dropped onto Wall Street, anyone passing Albany would assume from his piercing blue eyes, bearing, and gestures that he was a man of importance. Dressed as he was in an ermine lined coat of red and green silk with its dagges—-an irregular pointed hem with all the requisite little brass bells—a tall ermine trimmed hat, heavy brass girdle, and long pointed shoes, he looked for all the world to Beth like a court jester. But then, so did most of the men surrounding her.
Thank heaven her husband had better sense. Though it may have simply been his lack of funds that curbed his desire to dress as the other men did, she found his simpler garb and the drape of MacDougall plaid far more appealing.
Her thoughts of how handsome she found her husband must have shown on her face for Duncan, smiling, leaned down and whispered in her ear, “He says you find marriage to your liking.”
Beth cast her gaze to the floor as heat flashed across her cheeks. She didn’t dare look at her supposed uncle.
Duncan whispered, “Shall I tell him of our glad tidings and that ye be tiring, so we can escape?”
Beth cast a quick glance toward Albany before shyly turning her face into Duncan’s sleeve. She nodded.
The news of their impeding child was greeted with more laughter and congratulatory backslapping before Albany reached for her hand. He surprised her by kissing her cheek. She hoped it was her imagination when she saw his eyes narrow slightly. He then murmured something in Gael. Clueless, Beth bit her bottom lip and tried to smile.
When Duncan squeezed her elbow and waist, she froze. Two responses were required. God help her. She dipped into a curtsey and decided to say thank you before reciting—in French—it was a pleasure speaking with him and to wish him good night. As she straightened, she saw Albany no longer smiled. Staring at her beneath furrowed brows, he asked her a pointed question in Gael.
Duncan jerked her to his sided with a possessive arm. Startled, she looked up and found his eyes narrowed, his jaw muscles twitching, and his lips compressed into a thin hard line. The blood immediately drained from her head.
Oh God! What did I do wrong?
Just as her knees began to give way and as Duncan’s chest expanded and his free hand reached for the hilt of his dirk, John the Campbell, laughing and backslapping, stepped into the breach.
She couldn’t hear what he said, what with the blood pounding in her ears. As John continued to speak, Duncan scooped her into his arms and carried her out of the great hall and into Sterling Castle’s torch lit bailey.
“Be ye well, Beth?” Duncan features had taken on sharp edges as he settled on a low stonewall. “Ye look about to pass dead away.”
John Campbell and Angus rushed toward them as she nodded. “Aye...but what happened in there?”
John Campbell answered. “His Grace asked why ye dinna ken Gael and no longer had blue eyes.”
Beth’s stomach heaved. “Oh.”
“Dinna fash, love. ‘Tis well, now.” Duncan looked at his old liege lord. “Why did ye lie to Albany for us, John? Why did ye say ye kenned Beth from the past?”
The Campbell cast a wary glance about the bailey. “Three years past I was sent to check on Lady Katherine’s holdings. Albany feared she—being only three and ten at the time, couldna keep that lowlander Demont in hand.” He grinned. “I discovered a shrew. The lady was of fair visage but had a wasp’s tail for a tongue. Demont, on the other hand, was ill, cowered, and oft times sotted.
“‘Twasna long after I made my report to Albany that Demont conveniently died and Lady Katherine was shipped off to France until a new husband could be found for her. One who could control her, her dowered lands, and now those of her husband’s estate.” John clapped Duncan on the shoulder. “The moment I saw fair Lady Beth in yon tent, I kenned she was not the woman ye were ordered to marry.”
“So why did ye tell Albany Beth was the Stuart lass?”
The laird of Dunstaffnage shrugged. “Who is alive to naysay me? Her parents are dead. She had so siblings. No one of import—save myself and her departed spouse—has even seen her since the age of six.”
Angus murmured, “So one of the women we buried that night was Lady Katherine Demont.”
Seeing the Campbell’s eyes widen, Duncan told the Campbell about the night he found Beth. He then made a mental note to write to the abbess as soon as possible and reassure her he had the names of the dead women
with Lady Katherine. “John, ye’ll hang if—”
“Ssh!” The Campbell clamped a firm hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “Just keep ye ladywife away from Stewart holdings where they might kenned Lady Katherine.”
“But why—”
“Mayhap I did it because ye’ve been like a son to me, Duncan. Ye treated my Mary fair, and ye didna smote Flora, though ye had every right.” The Campbell then brought Beth’s hand to his lips and winked. “Or mayhap I did it because I am most smitten with yer ladywife’s odd ways.”
Chapter 31
“Take it off,” Beth pleaded, tightening the death grip she already had on his hand. “Now, damn it!”
“Aye, my love, my pet, in a wee minute.”
Sick to his stomach, Duncan cast worried glances toward Rachael and the mid-wife. ‘Twas the tenth time his ladywife had demanded he slip the ring from her finger in as many minutes.
“Is all well?” he demanded of the women tending Beth.
Both women nodded. Rachael placed a cool compress on Beth’s brow. “Aye, my lord. Actually, she is doing verra well. The babe should be here momentarily.”
“Don’t believe them,” Beth hissed through clenched teeth. She tried to roll onto her back again, but he gently held her on her side as the mid-wife had ordered.
“Hush, dearest, hush, ‘tis almost over.” Leastwise, he prayed it so.
Why in God’s name had he allowed Beth to talk him into this? A husband’s place during a birthing was pacing the great hall or out on the lists. Not here, where her every tear and cry rent his heart to shreds. ‘Tis barbaric, this custom of hers!
Watching Beth grimace yet again, he wanted out so badly he would have given his sword arm to escape. But he’d promised to see her through, and so he would. “Ye are the bravest, lass.”
“Duncan, if you ever want to see the light of day again, you’ll take...OOOW!” Beth’s face contorted into a frightful grimace.
The midwife popped up from between Beth’s legs. “That’s right, my lady, push!”
