by Paula Quinn
He should leave. If she was happy and Oxford was whom she wanted, he should go and wish her well. But he couldn’t bring himself to move. He watched her as if she were a dream that had come to life. How many times had he gazed at her profile against the backdrop of an azure sky or a wild, open glen painted in purple? He knew the curve of her pert nose, the tantalizing dip of her full lower lip, better than he knew the path home. When she leaned over the edge, his gaze slipped to her backside and he drew in a silent, starving breath. Every woman he’d been with after he left Camlochlin had left him cold. But Mairi sparked his passion with a simple quirk of her lips, the bite of her tongue… and her teeth. He brought his fingers to his lower lip, still a bit swollen from where she drew blood yesterday. He loved her vivacity and her sharp, sometimes merciless wit, but he missed her laughter. He missed the way she used to look at him, as if the sun rose when she saw him. Could he win her back? He smiled when she moved her arm away from Oxford’s touch. To hell with being a fool. She was worth it.
The sharp snap of a twig behind him made him turn, but it was too late. He saw only a shadow and then darkness as he slumped to the ground.
“Are you certain ’tis him. Linnet?” The man standing over Connor’s fallen body looked at his sister and dropped the rock he’d used to hit him. “There are a lot of captains here.”
Linnet slipped her hood off her head and bent quickly to have a better look at him. God’s teeth, but he was handsome. She remembered the way he’d smiled at her that night at The Troubadour, those deep dimples beguiling her senseless. Pity, she sighed and rose to her feet. “It’s him.”
“What should we do with him?”
“Kill him, as we were paid to do.” She looked through the thick tangle of branches at what the captain had been looking at before they came upon him. “We cannot leave him here. Bring him to the alley behind The Troubadour and dump him there. Check his clothes. If he carries anything on his person, take it. It will appear to have been a robbery.”
“What if he has no coin?”
She gave her brother a look of impatience. “Then take his boots. And, Harry,” she said before she left him, “have a care.”
She didn’t remain behind to watch her brother sink his dagger into the captain’s belly. She wasn’t at all happy about what they had done, despite the amount of coin they’d received to see the task through. Killing a soldier in the king’s Royal Army was punishable by hanging. Oh, God, please, don’t let her get caught. She knew the man who’d paid her would not come to her rescue if she was. She was not foolish enough to believe his whispered words of affection while she lay with him were true. He’d used her to do his bidding. But she had used him, as well. She needed coin to get Harry out of London before the bodies of the two prostitutes he had killed were discovered. Damn him anyway for his depraved sexual appetite. She should leave London alone and let him suffer the consequences of his deeds, but she had promised their father that she would look after him.
She sighed, thinking of the purse hidden beneath her skirts, and smiled at the tinkle of coin. It could take her to France if she traveled alone. She thought about it as she left the park. She wasn’t Harry’s mother, after all.
Chapter Nineteen
Tennis was an odd game, Mairi thought, while she fanned herself in her seat. There was nothing like it played at Camlochlin. It appeared quite strenuous, with players running to receive a ball that was tightly wound with cloth strips and driving it back again with strange little rackets fashioned from ash wood. While he was here, her father complained that the game served no purpose but to make a man sweat, and he would rather do that while honing his battle skills.
Hell, but she missed him, and her mother too. She missed Rob and her aunt Maggie—and even Tristan.
She smiled when Claire earned a point over Lady Margaret, Lord Ashley’s daughter.
“Are you enjoying the game, my dear?” the queen, sitting beside her, asked.
“Aye, but it seems unnecessarily taxing in this heat.”
“It’s the high walls,” Mary of Modena agreed, looking up. “They block the spring breeze. You are not going to fall faint again are you?”
Mairi shook her head, mortified all over again by the memory of Connor carrying her out of the sun. Where was he anyway? She had not seen him since this morning in the lists. She knew he wasn’t with Lady Elizabeth because the pinched-lipped little trollop was sitting at the other end of the court.
Dear Lord, but it had been a trying afternoon. She had agreed to ride to St. James’s Park with Henry after he practically begged her for over an hour. She hadn’t wanted to go, but she conceded, deciding it best to tell him away from court that she didn’t favor him the way he so obviously hoped. She hadn’t been able to do it though, not when he spent the entire afternoon telling her how his life had changed after his accident. She’d never thought to ask him how his face came to be so disfigured. It didn’t bother her, since many of the men at home bore similar scars. But poor Henry hadn’t earned his scar in battle. His cousin had inflicted the wound in practice. Thankfully, there resided a skilled healer at his father’s castle, and she’d put Henry’s face back together as best she could. Sadly though, there was little she could do about the ladies who spurned him from then on or the feelings of inadequacy he suffered. Mairi was the only one, according to Henry, who showed him kindness. How could she break his heart after that?
She had to tell him soon though. She wouldn’t tell him that she would likely spend her later years as miserable and alone as he, or that Connor Grant was the reason for it. How could she wed another after Connor had kissed her, held her, loved her before any other? Dear God in heaven, but his kisses ignited fires in her that were a thousand times more deadly than they had been before he left Camlochlin. He was no longer a boy and he no longer kissed like one. The question that pricked her like an irritating nettle caught in her boot was how many lasses had he practiced on? Och, but when he kissed her, she didn’t care.
She knew, after only a se’nnight with him, that no other man could ever make her happy. No other man would stand up to her the way Connor did, so confident and cocksure of himself. Damnation, it was attractive. As much as she hated to admit it, and, och, she hated to, part of her heart still longed for the bastard.
“Are you certain you are well, my dear?” the queen asked her, pulling Mairi’s attention back to the game. “You are fanning yourself hard enough to strain your wrist.”
“I am fine, truly,” she assured her hostess with a gracious smile. “The thinner gowns help. I fear, though, that they will be of no use to me when I return home.”
The queen clapped her hands when Claire earned another point. “She’s quite good.”
Mairi agreed, watching Claire swing her racket around like a blade going for a Royalist’s throat. Compared to their petite queen, who took more enjoyment watching her guests play tennis and bowl on the green than actually competing in the games herself, Claire Stuart was a force to be reckoned with.
“Ye should see her wield a sword,” Mairi said with a measure of pride squaring her shoulders.
“Yes, I heard that she once fought alongside her brother. It is not so difficult to believe when I see her vigor with my own eyes. With all the practicing her son does in the lists every day, it is obvious that he shares the same love of the blade.”
Mairi shifted slightly in her seat. “His father, along with my own, made certain that he practiced daily. He is an excellent swordsman.”
“Thankfully, I have yet to see him fight. The king, however, remembers him during the Rye House Plot, when conspirators planned to murder him and his brother Charles. Captain Grant was the first to capture and arrest Lord William Russell, one of those implicated in the plot. The late king thought very highly of him.”
Word had reached Camlochlin two years ago about Connor’s prowess at catching one of the conspirators. It had not surprised Mairi that Connor risked his life to protect his royal cousin. It had
angered her though. Whether she hated him or not, she did not want him to die. The mere thought of it had near set her to tears for a full two days.
“He is loyal to the throne, Yer Majesty.” Should she have told him about the militia? Hell and damnation, why couldn’t she keep secrets from him? It was the same when they were children, he, her best friend and the one she trusted more than the next day’s sunrise.
She looked away when the queen turned to smile at her, her fan flapping faster. She did not want to speak of him. Every time she did, his face, his smile, his kisses invaded her thoughts and made her feel hotter.
“You must know him very well. Tell me,” the queen went on mercilessly, “what kind of woman would he prefer for a wife?”
Mairi’s fan stopped along with her heart. She turned back to her hostess, knowing her face had gone pale and not caring. “A wife? Fer Connor?”
“Yes.” The queen nodded. “For Connor.”
“He…” Dear God, she had to get a hold of herself. She had to think, to say something other than sputtering. Lord, she hated sputtering. “I… He…” Her fan picked up its frantic pace again. “Has he requested one?”
“Why no.” The queen laughed. “But he is a score and five. Goodness, what is this aversion you Highlanders have toward marriage?”
What was this preoccupation the queen had for marrying everyone off? “I dinna’ think anyone here is right fer him.” Mairi looked across the court at Lady Elizabeth and scowled.
“Oh? Why ever not?”
Mairi gaped at her for a moment before snapping her mouth shut. How in blazes was she to answer that? “Yer Majesty, yer guests are all overindulged harlots” wouldn’t sit well, she was sure. She could not tell her that she did not want Connor to marry anyone without providing a reason why. And that she certainly would never admit to the queen. It was hard enough to admit to herself.
“Should I choose a Scotswoman for him then?”
“With respect,” Mairi softened her voice, and it was a difficult feat to accomplish when what she wanted to do was scream. “Why choose anyone at all? At home, we are permitted to pick our own husbands or wives.”
The queen shook her head and patted Mairi’s knee. “This is not the Highlands, my dear. Lady Huntley is my friend, and the king’s relative. It is my privilege to see her son wed to someone well bred and right standing. He should have a wife to come home to, a dozen children at his feet…”
Connor, a father to children that were not hers? Satan’s balls, she was going to faint in front of the damned Queen of England.
“Pardon the intrusion, Yer Majesty.”
Mairi looked up and shielded her eyes to Richard Drummond standing over them.
“I beg a word with Miss MacGregor.”
The queen nodded her head, permitting him to speak.
“ ’Tis about Captain Grant, my lady. I’m afraid no one can find him and I was hoping ye might—”
“What do you mean no one can find him?” the king’s wife snapped at him.
Connor’s lieutenant didn’t appear overly worried, but Mairi noted his white knuckles clenching the hilt of his sword at his side.
“He has not been seen since early this afternoon, Yer Majesty. According to Humfries, who was the last to see him in the stables, he was on his way to St. James’s Park.”
“Alone?” Mairi’s gaze cut to Lady Elizabeth watching her.
“He was looking for ye.”
Mairi wasn’t sure what it was that set her heart to pumping, the idea that he would go after her and Henry, or the fact that she had returned hours ago, and he hadn’t.
“Where have you searched for him?” The queen rose to her feet and beckoned Claire to her.
“Everywhere, ma’am,” Drummond told her. “My men search even now. I have over forty combing the park and the rest have gone through the palace, but to no avail. I take it then, Miss MacGregor, that ye have not seen him.”
“Seen who?” Claire asked, coming to them short of breath.
“Your son,” the queen informed her. “He appears to be missing.”
Mairi knew and understood full well the look of fear and dread that came over her dearest friend as the lieutenant repeated everything to her. He was safe, Mairi told herself. Somehow they had simply missed him. He had to be somewhere. He had to be all right.
“Have you checked The Troubadour?” Claire demanded. “He has been spending time there recently.”
“My men searched the tavern an hour ago, Lady Huntley. He was not there.”
“Search again! If he is not in the palace or on the grounds—Oh, to hell with this,” Connor’s mother growled and pushed past Drummond. “Find my husband and saddle our horses,” she shouted over her shoulder. “And someone get me a sword!”
Connor opened his eyes, then wished he hadn’t. Pain shot through his skull like a fireball, exploding behind his eyes. Everything was dark around him and he wasn’t sure if night had descended, or the splitting ache in his head had made him blind. He was lying down on top of something that jabbed into his back like a blade. Where the hell was he? His mind cleared just barely enough for him to remember looking at Mairi in St. James’s… Hell, someone had hit him. He tried to move and something under him jabbed him in the back like a blade. Reaching behind him slowly, he uncovered what felt like a fishbone. Without warning, the stench of piss and rotting meat assailed his senses. He gagged and attempted to sit up. He became aware of a whole new pain. He clutched his belly and groaned at the sticky fluid that covered his hand. Blood. He’d been stabbed and left for dead.
Hell. Someone was going to die for this. But first he had to get back to Whitehall. Calling up every reserve of strength he still possessed, he slid his body to the left. A little more. A cat screeched and darted away from him, knocking over something that clanged to the ground. At least he hoped it was a cat and not a very big rat. He moved a little more and a wave of nausea washed over him. His head throbbed and his belly burned but he managed to pull himself out of the pile of garbage he’d been tossed into. Who the hell had done this to him, and why? It was his last coherent thought before his eyes closed again and his mind slumped back into blessed unconsciousness.
“He’s here!” Richard Drummond shouted into the darkness, and held his torch closer to Connor’s face. He was about to check for breathing when the captain’s parents and five other guardsmen rounded the corner of the dark alley behind The Troubadour.
“Oh, dear God in heaven.” Claire drew her hands to her mouth when she saw her son lying still beside the day’s refuse. “Does he live?”
Her husband pushed past her and skidded to a halt above his son. His face, ashen, his breath suspended, too afraid for a moment to know the answer.
“He lives!” Drummond told them, lifting his cheek from Connor’s parted lips. “His breath is shallow. Merciful God, he’s been stabbed.”
Graham didn’t wait for any other discoveries, but bent to his knees and hefted his son in his arms. “We need to get him back to the palace. Drummond, bring me your horse. Hurry!”
Chapter Twenty
The silence that clung to the great lawns leading to the entrance of Whitehall was shattered by the thunder of many horses. Captain Sedley led the charge, but Mairi leaped from her mount first and ran for the doors. She had been searching the park when Connor’s cornet, Edward Willingham, had found them and given them the news that Connor had been found—barely alive.
Informed that he had been taken to his parent’s guest chamber, she raced up the stairs, all the while praying to God for his life. He could not die! She could not imagine her life without him alive in the world. It did not matter where, or if, they were together, as long as he lived. When she reached the second landing she stopped upon seeing over a hundred of Connor’s men lining the cavernous hall. She took a dreaded moment to note the somber lines creasing their faces. The queen sat in a heavy chair off to the side, engaged in quiet conversation with Richard Drummond. Mairi took off towar
d her.
When the queen saw her, she rose and met Mairi halfway.
“Does he live?” Mairi moved toward the door, but the queen stopped her.
“My private physicians are with him. He was stabbed, though not fatally. But he now suffers a fever.”
“I must see him!” When the queen looked about to refuse, Mairi pressed on. She could not lose him without saying farewell. Och, God, dinna’ let him die. “I beg ye, Yer Majesty. Please, let me see him.”
“Very well.” The king’s wife motioned to the men standing guard at the door to give her entry.
“Thank ye.” Mairi took her hands and kissed them both. “Thank ye.”
She was directed to the bedchamber, where light from the hearth bathed the room in soft amber hues. The air was heavy and scented with sage and thyme. Two of the queen’s physicians stood by the bed, blocking her view. Graham and Claire were there also, and when she saw Mairi, Connor’s mother left her chair by the bed and went to her. They embraced, both with more to lose than they could bear. After Graham gathered her in his arms next, Mairi wiped her eyes.
“What happened?” Even as she spoke, she turned toward where Connor lay, drawn by the need to go to him.
Graham filled her in on everything they knew so far while the physicians parted and allowed her near.
He looked peaceful and so very handsome, this face she had known since birth. His head was bandaged, the wound at his belly dressed loosely to allow draining.
“They will suture him tomorrow if all goes well,” she heard Claire, somewhere behind her, say.
If all goes well. Mairi’s hands shook as they moved to touch his cheek. His skin was so hot she thought he must be burning inside. “Ye must get well, Connor,” she said softly. “We are not yet done, ye and I.”
