In the Bed of a Duke

by Cathy Maxwell

  “MacKenna was keen to meet this Maddox,” Tavis said. “He would not want him ripped to shreds.”

  “You may be right. Then, again, he may be concerned his blacksmith is taking on airs above his station.”

  “He chose me for this task,” Tavis reminded him. “I’m here at his express order.”

  “And none of us can understand why.” Bruce ensured he had the last word by kicking his horse forward. Setting off at a trot, he raised his hand, a signal they should all follow him.

  Charlotte should not be here. She was not a player in this drama. The knowledge kept Phillip’s back straight. He had a purpose and that was to protect her.

  The man Dougal had tied her hands together so that even if she did escape, it would be difficult for her to run.

  Phillip knew he was the reason MacKenna had invited her. What he couldn’t understand was why? All of London knew that he and the Cameron girls were enemies—

  He was stunned by the thought. Could that be MacKenna’s purpose? Was she here as a witness to whatever MacKenna had planned? He glanced over to her.

  She might be frightened out of her wits, but no fear showed in her face. Her pride wouldn’t let it. He now knew her character well enough to understand that she wouldn’t have let him in so close to her if she’d meant to betray him. That wasn’t how Charlotte Cameron behaved.

  Of course, that didn’t mean she hadn’t wanted to wring his neck a time or two, and rightfully so.

  Once they’d made it through this and returned to London, Phillip vowed he would make all amends possible—which included offering her his complete protection.

  He’d also set her up as his mistress. She could have anything her heart desired. She’d never have to worry about her sisters again. He’d take care of all of them.

  But first, he had to see the two of them through this situation.

  Phillip studied each of the riders, searching for an ally. The man Tavis intrigued him. He was the outsider. The others didn’t accept him, especially in the face of Bruce’s open antagonism toward him.

  He was about Phillip’s height and a year maybe two older or younger. It was hard to pinpoint his exact age with that beard.

  It had been Phillip’s experience that, in every group, there was always one person who could be persuaded to do the right thing. Tavis had already demonstrated he had a conscience and the courage to act upon it. It was unfortunate he didn’t have more power in this small group.

  They were coming closer to the sea. The forest disappeared. Rolling moors, green from the recent rain, stretched out before them. The sky seemed to touch the earth here in a way Phillip had not noticed anyplace else in Britain, while gulls and terns rode the wind currents overhead, curious about the riders.

  The road went up and over a knoll, bringing them to a windswept moor and his first sight of a medieval tower surrounded by a walled fortress sitting on a cliff overlooking the sea.

  A chill of recognition went through Phillip. He’d seen this tower before. It had been a figure in his dreams, one he’d never understood. It now filled him with a sense of foreboding. Soon, he may learn the answers to not only Nanny Frye’s letter, but also to disquieting questions he’d sensed in his own soul.

  This section of Scotland was believed to be sparsely populated. Phillip could almost hear his peers laughing about nothing living up here but puffins, kittiwakes, and barking seals.

  They were wrong.

  A busy village of crofters’ huts, daub buildings, and tents surrounded the perimeter of the fortress. He’d guess there may be as many as a thousand of them in the shadow of Nathraichean’s tower. Sheep roamed freely across the moor along with goats, dogs, and children.

  A shepherd noticed them and put out a cry, which set the dogs to barking. Men, women, and children came pouring from the direction of the makeshift village to watch their party ride by.

  The sound of military drumming came from inside the fortress. A flag was raised above the tower, its colors a swath of green, red, and blue. The MacKenna colors.

  Bruce signaled for his men to halt. “Here’s a sight you will want to see,” he bragged to Phillip.

  At his words, the tower’s gates slowly swung open, and Phillip watched in amazement as men streamed out of the fortress to take their position in regimental formation. They were a straggly lot, with long hair and beards, makeshift uniforms in the MacKenna colors and rifles at their shoulders. Their faces reflected the fierce pride of men with a cause.

  They flowed through the gates like water, and just when Phillip thought there couldn’t be more, they kept coming until a good two thousand strong stood before Nathraichean’s walls. Here, in the most isolated reaches of Scotland, MacKenna had amassed an army, and there was no one in England the wiser.

  This was what MacKenna had wanted him to see. Phillip knew that now all the way to his bones. Nanny Frye’s letter had been a ruse, a contemptible trick to lure him up here.

  As if confirming his worst suspicions, Bruce said, “Here are the men forced out by the Clearances and English policies, Maddox. Men who share your ancestry but whom you and yours have turned their backs on. The time of reckoning has arrived, and there is many a good Scot who is glad for it.”

  With those words, he put heels to horse and led the way toward the waiting crowd.

  Phillip had no choice but to follow.

  Chapter 8

  Charlotte glanced over her shoulder to Colster. He watched the growing force of men with sharp concern in his eyes—and then his gaze switched to her. Responsibility sat heavy on his shoulders, and she knew he blamed himself for not sending her back earlier.

  He shouldn’t.

  She wasn’t afraid. After all, Colster had called her his woman. And he’d meant the words. He had declared himself in front of all these men.

  The sense of wonder, of oneness she’d felt in his arms, had not been completely on her part. He’d shared it, too. On that knowledge alone, she would have ridden into the fires of hell.

  Ever since her mother’s violent murder, a fear of death had dogged her life. She’d longed for a safe place. She’d torn up her roots and dragged her sisters half a world away to find it.

  Now, confronted by what had to be the most dangerous situation of her life, she was not afraid. She couldn’t be—she’d found love.

  Love was far, far different than what she’d imagined it.

  Years ago, she’d thought she’d loved Thomas Grimshaw, but when he’d forced her to choose between her sisters or himself, she’d chosen her family.

  Looking at Colster, she wasn’t certain what her choice would be. Overnight, he’d come to be a part of her soul. Her destiny had always been to come to this place, to meet him, and to fall madly, irreparably in love with him.

  At last, she understood why her mother had tossed aside family, heritage, and title to marry a penniless soldier. She’d chosen love. All those times when she’d claimed her children were her fortune, she hadn’t been lying. She’d been content in her husband’s arms…as content as Charlotte had been sleeping beside Colster in a hayrick.

  Colster managed to push his horse close to hers. He dared to lean close to her, whispering, “Save yourself. Say I forced you, that I was a bloody brute.”

  There was no time for more. Dougal growled at him to get back while Robbie viciously yanked Homer’s lead rope, pulling Colster away from her even as Bruce kicked his horse into a gallop. The rest of the party followed, and she was forced to hold on to Dougal or go tumbling off the horse in front of the solemn crowd of Scots gathered to watch her humiliation.

  Save yourself.

  Didn’t Colster realize she couldn’t? Her fate was intertwined with his. She’d proudly die at his side.

  The crowd fell into step behind them. Small boys and dogs ran alongside. Charlotte could have sworn she caught a glimpse of Fergus, Klem, and their cousin Malcolm slinking amongst the crofters.

  Bruce led them through the tower’s gates into a huge cou
rtyard teeming with people. Here, the atmosphere was that of a country fair, and one for the more genteel classes. Those who lived within Nathraichean walls dressed better than those outside, and here and there was a glint of jewels.

  Many called out to the riders and shouted good-naturedly at Bruce and his men. More than a few called Tavis by name.

  Three pipers with their bagpipes on their shoulders met them at the head of a street. They saluted Bruce, put their instruments to their lips, and turned smartly on their heels. They began leading the way toward the center of the castle keep while playing a sprightly military march. Charlotte had heard the bagpipes play only once before in her life, and that had been in an open field. Their music now bounced off the walls of the houses lining the narrow streets, magnifying the sound tenfold until it drowned out even the drummers who marched behind them and reverberated in the air.

  It wasn’t easy being the focus of so much gawking and rude stares. Charlotte could hear them talk about her. But who they truly saved their animosity for was Colster. One would have thought him the devil incarnate by the stares and crude gestures he received.

  Colster carried himself well. Knowing his sharp mind as she did, Charlotte was certain he was busy thinking of how he would turn this to his own advantage—and he would. She had great faith in him.

  And then Charlotte caught Tavis watching Colster. He was not like the others. His companions may belittle him, but Charlotte sensed he was no one’s fool. He had his own mind and the courage to stand up for his sense of justice.

  He would either be their enemy or their friend. If he was the former, he was the one person here who couldn’t be bought.

  The street ended at a village green large enough for training militia and performing maneuvers. At the far side of the green was a three-story house made of limestone and detailed in the style of Palladian. The Duke of Marlborough, or Colster, would have been proud to own such a home.

  A banner hung over the entrance. In colors of blue, green, and red was the depiction of a fist holding a sword while a stag leaped the blade.

  As their party came to a halt, the pipers stopped playing, and the doors to the house opened.

  Gordon Lachlan came out first, his expression somber, his hand on the hilt of his sword at his side. Charlotte realized he’d been tricked from the glory of this moment. He’d successfully led the search for Colster, but having found him, had been ordered to report directly to Laird MacKenna. She wondered if the laird had done this on purpose.

  And then the laird himself came walking through the door, followed by several retainers.

  In London, Laird MacKenna had been the epitome of an English gentleman.

  Here, he dressed in gray kilt and leather leggings. His hair stuck up in all different angles as if he’d just risen from bed, and his face was ruddy from the salt air and the wind. He also appeared far older now than his square shoulders and straight back had led her to believe in Town and his salt-and-pepper hair was in need of a cut.

  Bruce dismounted and fell upon one knee in front of the laird while hitting his chest with his first, a gesture of feudal servility.

  Laird MacKenna didn’t even pay attention. His gaze had gone straight to Colster. He took an unsteady step down the front stair. Gordon was right there to offer an arm for assistance, but Laird MacKenna waved him away. He studied Colster as if he were memorizing every detail about him.

  “Amazing,” he said at last in his soft, elegant burr. “You are the image of your father. I can’t shake my amazement.”

  “You knew exactly what I looked like,” Colster returned pointedly.

  Laird MacKenna laughed. “Aye, I did. Our paths crossed in the House of Lords last month, Your Grace. You were too preoccupied with yourself to notice anyone beneath you. You reminded me then of your father. He was much the same way. He even refused to acknowledge those who trusted him for their livelihood. He was one of the first to sell,” the laird said, raising his voice so that all gathered hear. “He was one of the first to betray heritage and country and send people from their homes.”

  Several heads in the crowd nodded. They’d come for justice, the sort they understood. Charlotte prayed Colster was careful.

  He wasn’t. He was a duke and accustomed to commanding the world. His response was to agree coolly, “My father was a bastard. What does that have to do with me?”

  Laird MacKenna raised his hands in the air as if he were a prophet. “The sins of the father always visit the sons.”

  Colster’s attention caught on one word of what he’d said. “Sons?” He leaned forward, his brows drawn sharply together. “Is the letter true?”

  His response delighted Laird MacKenna. “The letter?” he repeated, lowering his arms. “I know nothing of a letter, Your Grace.” The mockery in his voice belied his innocence.

  Fury flared in Colster’s eyes, and Charlotte feared he might lunge at Laird MacKenna, but at that moment, they were interrupted by the appearance of two women coming out of the house onto the step. One woman was Charlotte’s age, with hair the blue-black of a crow’s wing and skin so fair it looked like cream. She’d caught her hair in a net woven with pearls, and her dress was made of the finest purple velvet.

  The other woman was much, much older. She was so petite she was no taller than the laird’s shoulder. At one time, she’d been a spectacular beauty. Her hair piled regally on her head still held traces of the red-gold and her blue-green eyes radiated an intensity that age could never dull.

  “He’s here,” the woman said with great satisfaction. “Has he asked after Nanny Frye?” she demanded, her fingers grasping the sleeve of Laird MacKenna’s shirt—and Charlotte knew this must be Lady Rowena.

  “He had just mentioned her, sister,” Laird MacKenna answered.

  Lady Rowena turned and her gaze unerringly singled out Colster. Her eyes grew alive with anger. “She’s dead.” She practically spit the words out at him. “The letter is years old. She thought I’d send it. I have. Yes, I have. Finally.” She punctuated her words with a maniacal cackle of laughter that was unsettling.

  Laird MacKenna spoke to the younger woman. “Moira, take my sister away.”

  Moira nodded to two female attendants who stood inside the door. They hurried out while she cooed to her mistress, “Come, my lady. It is time for our rest, and I’ve had something special prepared for your luncheon.”

  “Not the lamb. I don’t like lamb,” Lady Rowena complained.

  “No, not lamb,” Moira assured her.

  “Go with Moira,” Laird MacKenna gently urged his sister. “You need rest. We’ll have the trial tonight. You want to be present for the trial.”

  “I do,” Lady Rowena answered. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”

  “We both have,” Laird MacKenna assured her.

  Lady Rowena did not fuss as she was led away. Laird MacKenna watched her go before facing his people gathered before him. His expression was grave as he said in a carrying voice, “Your father did this. He drove her to where she is today.”

  “I know nothing of it,” Colster answered, his voice not without compassion.

  Laird MacKenna cut the air in an angry gesture. “It doesn’t matter. Your trial is not about her but them.” He swept an arm to encompass the crowd. “They’ve come from every corner of the Highlands. They’ve come to me searching for justice, and I’ve promised it to them.”

  “Or have you promised them insurrection?” Colster challenged. “You’re encouraging them to rebel. You are urging them to certain death.”

  “What sort of life do they have left?” Laird MacKenna countered. “These people were loyal, proud Highlanders until the filthy landowners burned them out of their homes, homes their ancestors had built. And why? For the gold,” he answered, rubbing his fingers together. “The lords of Scotland have forgotten the people. But I haven’t!”

  A shout of agreement went through the crowed, causing horses to startle and Charlotte to look around in amazement.


  “I shall lead them back to their homes,” Laird MacKenna boasted. “With my army, I shall set Scotland free of English traitors!”

  The army of men behind them removed their swords and pounded them on the ground or hit shields with their fists, adding that noise to the swell of approval. “We’d die for you,” one soldier called, and his words were quickly seconded.

  Colster turned toward them. His hands were tied but he held his head high as he challenged, “I do not know what game MacKenna plays. However, he plays it with your lives. Once the Crown learns of your activities, it will be considered treason. Go, return to your families and your homes now while you have the opportunity. Do not choose war over peace.”

  “We don’t have homes,” a woman close to Colster shouted. “We have nothing.”

  Gordon Lachlan stepped forward. “Save our pride.”

  His statement was met by a thunderous agreement and Laird MacKenna’s smiling approval.

  Charlotte glanced at Bruce. If looks were daggers, Lachlan’s heart would be cut out of his chest. The two men were rivals and Lachlan had just won this round. Good. She might not like Lachlan, but she despised Bruce as a bully. His type was the more dangerous.

  Colster tried to speak up, “There is a way for change. It’s in Parliament—”

  Catcalls and hissing met his words.

  He didn’t give up. “—Think of your families and your children.”

  “We do,” one man answered, speaking for the masses. “My mother died in the fire my landlord set to burn us out. ’Twas not right. She’d been born there. Her mother had been born there. She had more right to the land than the noble who gave the troops the order.”

  A chorus of agreement met his statement.

  Laird MacKenna held up his hands. Immediately the crowd settled into order. “This shall be decided, later tonight.” He looked to Colster. “Prepare yourself, Your Grace. A time of reckoning is at hand. Once, I promised your father it would be so. And I told him when it happened, I would win. My only regret is that he didn’t live to see this moment.” He nodded to two soldiers at the foot of the house steps. “Take him off that horse and bring him inside.”