The Spellbinder: Highland Eyes

by Marissa St. James

  Matthew turned sharply to face her, keeping his features bland. If she knew how truly angry he was, she would be in fear of him. Then again, seeing his anger would probably not deter her from her goal. He had learned the hard way that she thrived on danger and his temper only served as a catalyst to that need. Stepping closer to her reclining figure, he grabbed up his cloak and gave her one more look. He placed one knee on the feather filled bedding and leaned toward her, forcing her back. “What did you do to get Edward to sign that? Did you sleep with him?” Matthew backed away, satisfied with the telltale blush on her not so delicate features. The blush turned crimson with her growing anger.

  "How dare you?” she screamed at him and threw a pillow as hard as she could. The lumpy pillow landed on the edge of the wide bed and dropped to the floor. She clutched the bedcovers to her as if trying to hide something he had not seen before.

  "I have business to attend. Be gone from here before I return. I do not wish to see you again.” Matthew glanced over his shoulder. “Do not force me to humiliate you any more than you have already done to yourself.” His hand rested on the door latch.

  "You can not do this! We are betrothed by the king's decree!” she screeched.

  "Are we?” he asked. His voice remained soft and dangerous. His dark eyes narrowed in challenge. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway, then closed the door quietly behind him. Her answering scream and the pitcher breaking against the door gave him no satisfaction.

  Matthew strode along the hall and down the steep stair, angry that Edward would command him to marry. He had no need to wed for the sake of property or income. Matthew had been acknowledged as his father's only heir, just before the older man died. It was little more than an empty title, but Matthew was content. Being perceived as the accepted heir had its advantages, but not now. He had another problem to deal with. When his ‘dear’ stepmother had written to him about his father's death, she suggested that a union between them would be to his advantage; his birthright would be secure and they would embark on a marriage that should have taken place years before. Matthew snorted with disgust. She could tell the world about him if she so desired. He didn't care. That thought brought him back to Eleanor once again.

  What gold he had now, he earned as Edward's first knight and champion. Why would Eleanor want to marry a lowly baron's bastard son when she could have her pick of Edward's noblemen? Acknowledgement couldn't change the circumstances of his birth. He had no intention of ever again entangling himself with self-seeking women. King's champion or no, Edward might claim Matthew's loyalty and obedience, but he had no intention of letting Edward dictate his private life.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Graeme shifted his position again. The hard bench hurt his backside and the small room grew stuffier by the moment. The empty trenchers from dinner lay stacked to one side of the rough-hewn table. They had ordered the servants not to disturb them. Graeme knew his three companions only as Matthew, Mark and Luke. They either ignored or didn't feel the same discomfort as he did and continued their joking.

  "You have done well.” Matthew, the eldest of the three, got up and clapped Graeme on the shoulder in a comradely gesture. He grinned and leaned forward while he refilled Graeme's cup. He held up the flagon in silent question and his companions held out their cups to be refilled. Matthew replenished his own last of all, then set the flagon to one side and returned to his seat at the other side of the table. “There is one less Scottish rebel to deal with and we have you to thank. Without your information, he would have escaped again. Tell us, now, what would you have as your reward?"

  Graeme took a deep draught of his wine before answering, “I want your support to gain the Scots throne."

  Mark and Luke stared at him for a moment, then at each other and guffawed. Mark choked on his laughter and reached for his cup of wine. “That is a grand joke,” he declared after he had swallowed the watered down liquid. He smiled at the flush of anger on Graeme's face.

  "Do you truly believe you can succeed where we have failed?” Matthew asked him.

  "Failed?” Graeme's attention riveted on that single word. He studied each man's features and sensed Matthew had not meant to speak of this matter. The man's fleeting expression was one of self-disgust. Now that the matter was in the open he wanted to know more.

  Mark carefully placed his cup on the table and sat back, leaning against the wall. He gave a deep sigh. “Not long ago, we tried to arrange a meeting between Robert Bruce and Red Comyn. With every attempt we found, for one reason or another, we could not manage to get them to the same place at the same time.” He shrugged. “We will find another way."

  Matthew nodded in agreement. “We do not wish to see a union between Edward and Bruce. But, it would be to our benefit to have Bruce betrayed by one of his own. Better still would be the demise of both men.” Matthew's eyes narrowed, “What makes you think you would have a chance at the throne?"

  Graeme gave them a twisted smile. “Perhaps I didn't mention ... I too, am a Comyn."

  His three companions started and half rose. Chair legs scraped the floor. Graeme gestured for them to remain seated. “No fear. I have no love for Red Comyn."

  Matthew shook his head. “Scotland is filled with Comyns. You would need more than that to convince us of your ‘worthiness'.” The word had a sarcastic undertone to it.

  "I do. I know how to unite the clans and make them more amenable to England.” Graeme gulped down the remainder of his wine. “A legend, a woman of unusual power. I will have her by my side."

  "A woman, you say? And a legend.” Matthew's sarcasm was evident. There was no place in his plans for any woman. “Pray tell, what is so special about her that in your mind she stands above other women?” He and his two companions sat forward, leaning on the table, intent on Graeme's next words.

  Graeme knew before he met with them that they wouldn't believe him. Despite their cynicism he hoped they had enough curiosity that they would be unwilling to miss any opportunity to further their own cause. Their features betrayed their thoughts. They had more than politics on their minds. “There is a legend in the Highlands which tells of a woman with unusual power. She will help Highlanders put aside their differences and unite them against the enemy to win Scotland's freedom."

  "What makes you think we would want a free Scotland?” Luke laughed. “All highlanders are wild and need taming."

  Graeme met his gaze. “Because a friendly ruler, working with Edward, achieves all you want, and keeps the Scots satisfied and quiet."

  Matthew smiled. “Well thought. And you would be this ‘friendly’ ruler?"

  "Indeed. Scotland is enough for me.” His eyes took on a faraway look and he stared into his empty cup. “And beside me, a dark haired woman with moonbeam eyes."

  "A poet,” Luke exclaimed and he and Mark laughed again. “He is in love with a legend."

  Matthew leaned back and stroked his beard. “If this be a true telling and this woman exists, you are to find her and bring her to us. We will convince her of the rightness of allying with us. Think you she could use this power to influence Edward?"

  Graeme didn't appreciate the way they belittled him, but he shrugged and hid his disgust. He hadn't told them of the Legend so they could take advantage of her. He had no intention of sharing this source of power with anyone, let alone these Englishmen who didn't trust him with their true identities. They might be dressed as merchants, but he'd had enough dealings with the ruling class to recognize nobility when he saw them. He wasn't the fool they thought him to be.

  Graeme rose from his seat, and stretched to ease his stiff body. He moved to the window for a breath of air. A hot breeze stirred the late afternoon heat. Unpleasant odors of waste and sweaty bodies rose from the courtyard.

  The sun sat low in the western sky, casting deep shadows in the narrow alleys between buildings. Thank the heavens he didn't live here! He much preferred his highland home, with its clean fresh air, rather than the crowded st
ench of the city. Tomorrow, after the execution, he would be on his way back to breathable air and open space. Tomorrow could not come quickly enough to suit him.

  Voices drifted from the courtyard below, drawing his attention. One of the stableboys held a stallion's reins while the rider helped a dark haired woman dismount. The man, tall and straight with a soldier's bearing, gave instructions to the boy, then stepped aside to allow his mount to be led away. He watched the hound walk leisurely beside the horse toward the stable, then glanced about the courtyard, as if to assess the lingering activity. The setting sun glared against stone, creating deeper, cooler shadows.

  "Jeannie,” Graeme whispered, shocked, when he saw the woman looking around the courtyard. “It can't be. Jeannie is dead.” He continued to watch the woman more carefully.

  She said nothing while waiting patiently, and looked up to study the inn's two floors. A shadow fell across her face but Graeme could see how fair she was. She reached up, using both hands to draw her hair away from her neck for a moment, before letting it again fall against her back. She gazed directly at the window where he stood, as if sensing his presence there. Graeme moved to one side of the window, out of sight, and continued to watch her. A trick of lighting gave her eyes a strange glow. He held his breath. Never had he seen a woman with her exotic features; she was beautiful. She definitely wasn't Jeannie.

  Graeme looked out the window again, careful not to be seen by anyone below. The woman's companion joined her and said something, making her frown. She nodded a reply, then a moment later nodded again. The man said something else to her; she punched his arm in response, but still said nothing. Graeme paid little attention to the man, but concentrated his attention on the woman.

  So, she was mute, Graeme thought when she nodded once more. How convenient that could prove to be, and yet, such a pity. Still, she might be entertaining, and he would like to know her; she might have arrived with a companion, but she kept a distance between them. The man glanced up and, despite the failing light, Graeme recognized him. Tristan. The dark haired Scot had no reason to be here in London when he was supposed to be searching for...

  Graeme glanced at the dark haired woman again, then turned away from the window and leaned against the wall, his features drained and his breath caught. His heartbeat quickened. Could this be the Legend?

  Matthew looked from his companions and stared at the Scot. “Is something wrong? Is someone out there?” He stepped closer to the window and scanned the courtyard. The remaining laborers were already making their way home, leaving the courtyard and street deserted. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones.

  "No.” Graeme regained control, hoping Matthew would ask no further questions. “Just a passing ill. A bit too much wine with this heat. It's fair soured my stomach.” He quickly revised his plans. I would have to leave the inn and ride all night to gain some time. He couldn't afford to have Tristan find him in London. If he intended to avoid uncomfortable questions, it would be better if he were in the village when Tristan returned.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Meryl stared ahead, astonished at the change of scenery, wondering where they were. There were no roads to speak of; mules plodded along a rutted path, pulling heavily laden carts toward the city gates. Several women carried woven baskets filled with goods and walked beside the carts. Small children were perched on some of the more durable goods, watching other people approach the gates and wait patiently to enter the town.

  Laoch continued his slow, leisurely pace toward the town. Famhair had wandered off, following his nose. Guards were stationed at the entrance and travelers slowly passed through inspection. A guard grabbed one peasant by his tunic and shoved the old man away from the others, knocking him down. Tristan and Meryl were too far away from the guard to hear the words he spat at the old man. Tristan gently pulled on Laoch's reins and brought the stallion to a standstill, then turned his full attention to Meryl.

  "There is something I want you to do."

  "I'm here against my will and you want me to do something for you?” Meryl sighed at the stern expression on his features. “What is it?"

  "While we're in London, you must remain silent."

  "You are joking...” Her silver eyes flashed and she glared up at him.

  "Are you familiar with the English spoken here?"

  "Well, no but..."

  "I don't have time to teach you sufficient words to get by and we won't be here long enough to justify the time. You've been quick to learn, but we can't use Gaelic.” He brushed silky strands of hair away from her face. “They would question your speech and we wouldn't be able to explain it. We don't want to draw any more attention to ourselves than is absolutely necessary."

  "Since you put it that way...” she grimaced. “All right. I don't suppose I have much choice.” Meryl turned away from him. The situation was going from bad to worse, as far as she was concerned. Maybe someone in the town could help her get away. She had to try something, anything to return to the mansion before anyone worried about her. Yet, despite her determination to escape him, Meryl knew, deep down, her efforts were only half hearted. Curiosity could be a strong factor when faced with the opportunity to relive history.

  Peasants drove small carts up to the gates, then waited for the goods to be inspected. The guards used their swords to poke through items, unconcerned with any damage they caused. The slow process of inspecting each cart before it was allowed to pass through the gates caused grumbling among the impatient travelers. Meryl turned to speak to Tristan and caught the warning gleam in his eye. They were too close to the guards to dare say anything now. She frowned, then quickly assumed a bland expression. If Tristan wanted her to be mute, then mute she would be.

  "State your business,” the guard demanded as Laoch stood before him. He watched Meryl while she leaned forward slightly to pat the stallion's neck. The guard's gaze glided over her slim figure, but he quickly lost interest after appraising the man staring down at him from astride the stallion.

  Meryl stared at the guard with an uncomprehending expression; Tristan was right. She'd have given herself away if she'd breathed a word. What the guard spoke wasn't any English she had ever heard. She listened intently while Tristan answered the questions. Somewhere in this town, there had to be someone willing to help her escape. The guard grunted, then let them pass. Meryl could still feel his eyes on her when Laoch passed through the gate.

  She waited until they were well out of his hearing. “What did he ask you?"

  "He wanted to know about you. I told him you were mute and more than a little touched in the head."

  Meryl jabbed him with her elbow. “Thank you so much for that. Touched am I?"

  She didn't appreciate his laughter after he'd apparently insulted her. She felt his arms tightened about her for a moment. If she weren't so determined to get away from him, she could learn to like him. The Scots had no idea what they were in for, if they expected her to use her inheritance to help them. It must be very valuable and she wondered how much they were talking about. The couple rode into the inn courtyard where late afternoon shadows made the surroundings dim and indistinct. Meryl waited impatiently while Tristan dismounted, then helped her down. He stepped away from her and handed over Laoch's reins to the waiting stableboy who listened carefully to Tristan's instructions before leading the stallion away, with the dog following.

  Meryl gazed about the courtyard and up at the inn, waiting patiently in the hot, still enclosure. She stood partially in shadow and felt a welcome breeze, light as it was. She reached up and drew her hair away from her neck, letting the cooler air touch her skin. With a reluctant sigh, she let her long locks fall. A moving shadow at an upper window caught her eye, then quickly disappeared. She shuddered in spite of the heat—or was it a premonition?

  Tristan returned. “Don't forget what I told you,” he quietly reminded her. “You're not to speak a word while we're here. Well, at least not until we're alone.” Meryl nod
ded.

  "Are you ready?"

  She nodded again.

  "I think I like you this way ... silent and submissive,” he commented, sounding serious.

  Meryl glared at him and punched his shoulder. Tristan laughed and rubbed at the sore spot.

  Meryl followed him into a common room filled with noisy, drunken patrons and their boisterous laughter. Many of them fell silent at sight of the strangers. The men eyed the demure, silver eyed, raven-haired girl. She stayed close to her companion's side, all thoughts of escape gone. More than one man stared at her, intrigued by her quiet beauty. Meryl stepped back, wanting to put distance between herself and their unwelcome leers.

  While Tristan stepped away from her to speak with the landlord, one of the leering men, bolder than his companions, approached her. He held his tankard in one hand and reached with the other to touch her hair.

  "Well, what's we got ‘ere?"

  Meryl's nose wrinkled in disgust. He smelled like a brewery, one that hadn't been cleaned in a year. His words sounded strange, but she understood enough; some things didn't need translating. She pushed his hand away and remained silent, although it took some effort.

  "Too good to talk to us?” he sneered and reached out to touch her more intimately. His head jerked up when a hand clamped tightly about his wrist. Strong fingers bit between the bone and slowly squeezed. He was forced to step backward and the hand released its agonizing grip.

  "My wife isn't in the habit of talking to strangers, or anyone else for that matter.” Tristan glared down at the fellow. His green eyes flashed with warning.

  "No ‘arm done, just bein’ friendly is all."

  "She doesn't need friends. She's got me.” Tristan hoped the subtle warning would suffice. He glared at the man before grasping Meryl's arm and pushed her before him, steering her toward the narrow stairs leading to their room.