by Lois Greiman
A dark- haired scoundrel stood upon a rope and juggled wine-filled mugs. From across the courtyard, an acrobat blew flame from his mouth, and not far away Ramsay MacGowan strode through the crowd, his swaddled son held close to his chest.
But there was no puppeteer. There was no king. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps-
But then she saw the puppet master. He was dressed in common gray. In rags! The marquis was nearby, halfway up a flight of stonework stairs, and from the light of the fire eater’s hissing flame, she could see the hatred in his eyes.
Truth smote Rhona like the strike of a double-edged sword.
‘Twas not the king Robert hated. ‘Twas Ramsay MacGowan!
From a window far above, a movement caught her eye. Evil comes to Evermyst!
She shrieked a warning even as she leapt from the shadows and struck Ramsay at the waist, bearing him to the ground. A man bellowed. Women screamed. The baby flew from his arms. An arrow hissed past, piercing the swaddling.
Rhona gasped and sprang toward the child, but when she pulled the cloth aside, ‘twas naught but a bundle of rags.
“Nay,” rasped the marquis.
Rhona straightened and drew her sword, but in that instant, the world disintegrated to cold ash, for there, beside Turpin, stood Catherine.
He turned toward the girl as if in slow motion and smiled as he pulled her close. Time slowed to a crawl.
Rhona could do nothing but watch as he wrapped his arm about the girl’s waist and lifted her against his chest. Could do nothing as his left hand disappeared murderously behind her back.
The warrior had failed! Had lost, and suddenly there was nothing she could do-nothing but hope for a miracle.
“Champion,” she whispered. And somehow, he came, stepping out of nowhere, looming behind the marquis at the top of the stairs.
The world was as silent as death, and yet she could not hear the words spoken from the stone steps.
“Let the lass go,” ordered Lachlan. Rhona was safe.
Ramsay was safe! And by God, Catherine would be the same, for Rhona loved the girl, whether she knew it or not and he would not see her heartbroken. “Let her go, or I swear by that’s holy, you will not last the day.”
The marquis darted his gaze from one to the other.
“Who are you?” he rasped.
“I am Lachlan of the MacGowans.”
”The Welshman!” he hissed and jerked his head toward Rhona. “And him?”
“She is vengeance.”
Even in the firelight, his face went pale.
“Let Catty go,” Lachlan ordered. “She has naught to do with this.”
“And neither do I,” hissed Robert, his chest heaving, his hands atremble. “Do I, MacGowan?”
“Do not harm her.”
“Harm her? Nay. I would not, for she is my progeny. My heir,” he whispered and laughed demonically. “Damn you MacGowans for taking all I had.”
“We took nothing from you, Turpin.”
”The Fraser bitch should have been mine, but your brother seduced her. Her son should have been my son, but he was sired by another. I am the marquis of Claronfell, the king’s own cousin. You are naught but Highland rabble, and yet I get your brother’s cast-asides. The haughty Lorna carried his brat. A boy it was. A boy! Yet she gave me naught but a pair of worthless maids.
Catherine’s face was as pale as death, but m her hand, hidden in folds of her narrow skirt, was Rhona’s dirk.
Lachlan eased his fist open and breathed a silent prayer.
“Let her go and we will do the same for you, Turpin.
“Ahh, the renowned mercy of the MacGowan clan,” he said, and laughed. His voice shook. “I think not, Dafydd,” he whispered and backed up the steps. Lachlan eased away, giving him room. “I will take her with me. But she will be safe so long as you keep your secrets to yourself.”
Lachlan dropped his gaze to Catherine’s. A single tear slipped down her cheek, but her gaze never faltered-and he nodded.
She delayed a moment, a heartbeat of time, and then she tightened her grip on the hilt and stabbed.
The marquis screamed. His hands loosened, and.m that instant, Lachlan snatched his own blade from its sheath.
It snarled into the air and plowed into the marquis’s chest. He staggered backward. And suddenly arrows hissed from every direction, striking him like body blows. He drew his last breath before he struck the ground.
“Catty,” Lachlan rasped and snatched her from her feet. She hid her face against his chest and clung to him with all her strength. “Sweet Catty.”
“Champion!” Rhona stumbled up the stairs. Her face was wet with tears, her voice raspy. “My champion, you came,” she whispered.
“Aye. Aye, lass. I will always come,” he said and, drawing her into his embrace, kissed her with wild desperation.
She touched his cheek, her fingers trembling against his skin. “How did you know? How-”
“And what is this then?” asked an imperial voice. Rhona tried to step away, but Lachlan pulled her against his side, not able to let her go for the briefest moment.
“Your Majesty,” he said and bowed.
“The Rogue Fox, kissing a warrior,” said the king. “‘Tis a sight worth seeing.”
Lachlan cleared his throat. Catherine still clung to his chest like a tattered doll. He tightened his grip across her back and closed his eyes to the fierceness of his emotions. “I can explain this, Your Majesty.”
“Can you?”
“Aye. The warrior is not what he seems. What she seems. In truth, Your Highness-”
“Could you explain this better, Lady Rhona?” asked James.
She removed her helm. Firelight danced across her noble features. “The marquis of Claronfell plotted a murder, Your Majesty. I thought it was you he meant to harm.”
James smiled and, reaching out, took her hand between his own. “And thus you hurried to my rescue once again, Rhone?”
“It seems his venom was not bent on you, my liege, but on the MacGowans instead. He positioned an archer in the window. He had best be caught,” she said and scowled upward. “Although I know not who loosed the arrows that killed the marquis.”
“The shaft through his heart is me sister Shona’s,” said Gilmour, and stepped suddenly from the crowd. “The others are from assorted clansmen.”
“You knew,” Rhona gasped, and stared at Lachlan.
“You knew there was a plot aimed at Evermyst.”
“I thought you were in danger,” Lachlan said. “I too searched the marquis’s belongings. Read his missives.”
“He believed Ramsay was targeted,” said Mour. ”Though he wasn’t sure. Thus me brother’s clever baby of rags. Anora was mad enough to kill him herself for the risk he took, but we thought it best to let the drama play out, for we could not accuse Turpin without proof.”
“You knew,” she said again.
”The archer has died,” announced a soldier, stepping from the crowd. “We tried to take him, but he chose death on the rocks below instead.”
“Who was he?” asked James.
“‘Twas Caird of Windemoor, my king.”
“The Munro’s captain.”
“He has never been pleased with Windemoor’s truce with Evermyst,” Gilmour said. “Lord Turpin’s coin only made the proposition more tempting.”
“Sir Charles is also involved,” Rhona began, but Lachlan interrupted her.
“You hurried to our king’s rescue again?”
James turned toward him. “Did you not know it was the lady warrior who helped me escape from the Black Douglases many years ago?”
Lachlan shook his head.
“MacGowan,” he chided. “You should learn a bit about a woman before you kiss her so fiercely.”
“Me apologies, Your Majesty,” he said. “But she can
be a bit closed mouthed.”
“It did not look that way to me.” Chuckles issued from those around them.
“I
ndeed,” said the king, and sobered. “Our lady warrior was as much a prisoner of the Douglas as I. She dressed as a groom and brought me the same type of garment to aid my escape from Edinburgh.”
“She must have forgotten to mention that.” Lachlan said.
The king laughed. “I owe you much, Lady Rhone,” he said. “In fact. I recently received a request regarding you.”
“A request, my liege?”
“Aye,” he said. “It seems that your foster father would like to bequeath Nettlepath to you instead of giving it to his closest male heir. I suspect I will have to grant his wish.”
She said nothing, but shifted her gaze first to Catherine and then to Lachlan. Her eyes shone in the firelight, filled with an emotion so strong it was all he could do to keep from taking her into his arms and forgetting their royal audience.
“In truth, Your Majesty,” she said softly. “There is another favor I would ask.”
“Speak,” he said.
”The marquis of Claronfell sired two daughters. We would take them as our own if you will allow it.”
“We?” he asked.
” Lachlan and myself,” she said.
Joy and passion smote Lachlan like a fist to the chest and perhaps it shone in his eyes, because the king laughed.
“And have you told the rogue fox of your plans yet, Lady Rhone?”
She blushed. Actually blushed, though she raised her gaze to his. “Champion,” she whispered. “I know I am not what you hoped for in a bride. But the lassies need-“
“You are mine!” he growled, and pulled her back into a tight embrace. “Forever and always.”
“Aye,” agreed an ancient voice, and as they watched, Meara of the Fold pushed her bent body through the crowd. “Peaceable and powerful. Cunning and kind. Loving and beloved. Welcome back, wee Rhona.” Her faded eyes were filled with tears. “I knew you would return for duty’s sake if none other.”
Rhona shook her head. “You knew I was the warrior. “I am old, but I am not daft.” She twisted her ancient face into a scowl. “And… your sisters recognized you some time ago.”
She lifted her gaze to the firelit maids who stood together at the crowd’s edge. Anora and Isobel Fraser. Her sisters. Her blood. “How?” she breathed.
Meara shrugged. “I do not know. They possess some strange power. ‘Tis unnerving is what it is. But ‘twas I who told you of the evil, was it not?”
“How did you know evil stalked Evermyst?”
“I didn’t,” she admitted. “But I could think of no other way to keep you close.” She nodded. Her ancient eyes were misty, but she held her chin stubbornly high. “‘Tis about time you come home, lass. We have waited long.
Chapter 27
It was a Yuletide wedding, and Evermyst’s great hall reeled with happiness. Although Rhona might never become accustomed to the feeling of family around her, she found also that she cherished it like none other. Anora and Isobel stitched her wedding gown themselves, laughing at every foolish stage and drawing her into the joy of their reunion. Meara and the kitchen staff argued relentlessly over who would care for Catty and Edwina, and Lachlan ‘s kindred arrived by the score to tease and bully and congratulate.
Master Longshanks rode Knight Star alone from Nettlepath to give his blessings, for the baron had passed on, leaving the manor to her by the king’s decree. His gigantic, flop-eared hound circled the tables, growling at Lachlan when they happened upon each other.
Catherine and Edwina played hoodman’s bluff with their new found cousins. They remained quiet and shy, but their faces were no longer gaunt and the haunting fear was gone from their eyes.
Along the far wall, beside the wassail tree, a group of overly enthused youngsters performed the mumming, acting out skits to the crowd’s delight, and near an iron bowl of heather ale, the brother rogues gathered.
Even from a goodly distance, Rhona could see mischief in their eyes.
“So,” said Gilmour. “Shall I assume that I was correct? She is a woman?”
Lachlan took a sip from his horn cup and let his gaze skim from his brother to his bride. Happiness was his in such a vast degree that sometimes it felt all but impossible to believe. “Assume what you like, Mour,” he said.
“Ho!” crowed Gilmour to Ramsay. “Mayhap our wee brother has tastes we know nothing about.”
“Watch your mouth, Mour,” Ramsay said. “The lass is armed.”
Gilmour nodded, took a drink, and narrowed his eyes as he glanced at the newest Fraser bride. “Aye. She is that, but I believe me own Bel be the most dangerous of the three once her temper’s up.”
Ramsay thoughtfully rubbed an aging wound. “You have met Nora, haven’t you?”
“Is it a wager you’d have than?” Gilmour asked. “Methinks we may have enough wagers already.”
“Ahh Ram, ever the cautious one. And what of you, Lachlan? Are you game for some sport?”
She was watching him, staring across the crowd with those mercurial eyes. The eyes of a warrior, the eyes of an angel, the eyes of his wife. His chest swelled.
” Lachlan,” Gilmour said, and elbowed him. “What of a wager?”
She was coming toward them now, making her way through the mob. Gowned in blue velvet, she looked like a Highland queen. Regal and strong and so bonny it all but stole the breath from his chest.
” Lachlan!”
“I think he may have other things on his mind just now,” mused Ramsay.
“Aye, it might well be,” agreed Mour, “and I can well understand his enthusiasm, but I hate to see the lass disappointed.”
And then she was there, beside him, filling his senses like a fragrant draught of wine. “Champion,” she murmured. “I have missed you.”
Their hands met. Their fingers twined. Lightning sizzled up Lachlan ‘s arm, searing his thought. “Mayhap we have spent enough time among the rabble,” he suggested.
Her lips lifted in impish agreement, but Gilmour spoke up.
“Nay, you must stay. The king and queen of bean have not yet been chosen.”
“I have me king,” Rhona murmured, and Lachlan leaned close. Her lips felt soft as a prayer against his.
“The wassailing has yet to begin,” said Mour, and raised his cup. “You’ll miss a good deal of drinking.”
“You can have me share,” Lachlan murmured. Gilmour scowled. “Listen, lass,” he said. “I do not mean to be the harbinger of ill news, but… ‘tis your wedding night after all, and I feel I should prepare you for the ordeal ahead.”
They turned to him in unison, their arms brushed.
Lightning struck again, burning pleasantly.
Gilmour shook his head sadly. “Our Lachlan,” he began. ”Aye, it’s built like a minotaur, he is, and he’s a fair hand in a battle. In truth, I admit I’d rather have him or me side than against me, but…” He sighed with long suffering drama. “As you may have heard, great fighters are not oft great lovers and since you have agreed to wed him I assume you have not tested that theory, but I fear you will not be pleased with his ability in-”
But in that moment she kissed Lachlan again and every dram of his attention was drawn away, pulled to her, captured by all that she was-strength and softness, wit and kindness.
“Come,” she whispered. “Your brother is rambling, and I feel a need to do that which you do best.”
“I am yours. Forever and always for as long as I draw breath,” Lachlan vowed and, lifting her against his chest, headed for the stairs.
“Damn,” mused Ramsay solemnly, “unless she speaks of arm wrestling, I think you lose the wager, Gilmour.”
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
