The Daring Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series)

by Carmen Caine

  “Have I?” Julian replied. He’d always played the light-hearted fool in the lad’s presence. Bitterly, he shook his head and muttered, “Mayhap ‘tis time to reveal the many faces lurking behind the mask.” He wasn’t even sure to whom the words were addressed.

  And then urging his roan to a fierce gallop, he thundered back towards the camp.

  No one spoke as he settled in front of the fire and rolled into his plaid.

  He’d find the lass. Or more likely, she’d appear in Edinburgh herself.

  But he knew he’d see her again soon. Le Marin wasn’t finished with her yet. He wasn’t finished with her yet.

  Sleep was long in coming.

  * * *

  Julian awoke to hear Cameron’s deep voice calling his name as the bed curtains in his Edinburgh chamber were abruptly yanked aside.

  “Up, lad!” Cameron smiled down at him. “‘Tis time to ride.”

  Raising himself on his elbow, Julian glanced out the window to note the early morning sun. He’d arrived at Edinburgh with Ewan and his men just the day before, exhausted and worried about Liselle, though refusing to admit it to anyone, even to himself.

  Ewan had dispatched several of his men to search for her, but it was too early yet to expect word.

  “Julian?” Cameron’s long fingers snapped in front of his face.

  “Aye.” Julian grunted, swiftly refocusing his thoughts. Cocking a brow at the rolled parchment in Cameron’s hand, he asked, “And what’s this?”

  “The rotting stench of bribery and corruption.” Cameron crooked a cunning smile as he tossed the scroll onto the bed. “’Tis a trap.”

  Julian swung his feet out of the bed and caught the plaid Cameron threw at him. “A trap?” he asked.

  “’Tis written in my own hand, begging Albany to come to Edinburgh as our king,” Cameron answered smoothly. “He will abandon all other plans once he reads it.”

  Julian paused. “Aye, he’ll come at a run if he thinks that now even ye want him as king.”

  “Precisely,” Cameron stated calmly. “I’ll start with that as bait. I’ve only to bring Albany here and we’ve won. Gloucester doesna have siege weapons that can take Edinburgh.”

  “But Albany’s anger will be unmatched when he discovers your treachery,” Julian warned, sliding his feet into his boots.

  Cameron didn’t seem concerned. “The man loves Scotland and his brother more than even he knows himself, lad. I might yet talk sense into his thick skull,” he replied with an elegant shrug. “And if I canna then I’ll simply imprison him.”

  “Just imprison him and his brother and have done,” Julian growled.

  “Aye!” Cameron’s eyes lit with laughter, and then he turned serious. “But if it comes to war, I’ll have the clans support. Nigh on fifty thousand men have come to my call. Already, they are gathering at Burgh Muir.”

  Julian let out a long, low whistle of relief and chuckled aloud. “How could I have ever doubted ye, Cameron! Gloucester is doomed.”

  “We’ll fight, if it comes to that,” Cameron said, moving to peer out of the castle window. “But mayhap Douglas and Albany are men who can still be swayed. They hate the English more than most. Ach, they raided the borderlands for years! I dinna wish the blood of even one loyal Scot to be spilt over this, Julian. We’ve only to protect this land long enough for our young Prince James to become king, nothing more.”

  “Aye,” Julian agreed. “Then I’ll leave at once and see that Albany reads this on the morrow.” He felt strangely restless. ‘Twould do him good to be on the back of horse.

  With Cameron’s farewells ringing in his ears, he saddled Ewan’s black charger—at his cousin’s insistence—and galloped out of Edinburgh. And taking the same road that he’d taken just a few days before, he pounded across the blooming heather and rolling hills.

  At Channelkirk, he paused at the inn, entering to the boisterous sounds of singing. Apparently, those who hadn’t fled eagerly anticipated the impending battle with the English. The men were helpful, but none had seen any sign of Liselle or his mare.

  Evidently, she hadn’t returned to Channelkirk.

  Resuming his journey, he continued south down the King’s Road until the wide spreading oaks of the royal burgh of Lauder rose before him. And then turning his horse’s head, he changed his course to the east.

  As the sun rose in the sky, smoke began to drift toward him, casting a grim pall over the day, and as he crested a small rise, its pungent fumes assaulted his nostrils. Shading his eyes, he spied the distant flames and smoke of a burning village.

  Cursing loudly, he reined the black charger in with a sharp jerk and pounded his fist on the pommel of the saddle.

  He’d found Albany.

  Was he even now watching the flames consume the thatched roofs and blacken the cottage stones of the homes of goodly Scottish folk? The very people he expected to cheer him as their new king?

  Albany was even worse than his brother, James! Aye, the only Stewart worthy of the crown was Cameron, but he would never rise to take it.

  Overhead, the sky threatened rain, but it would be too late to stop the burning. And by the time Julian rode through the thick black clouds of cloying smoke to arrive at the outskirts of the burning village, there were no folk left, English or otherwise.

  The army’s trail was easy enough to follow, but the going was rough.

  Sometime later, Julian had just descended into marshlands when his horse began to favor a foot. Stopping at once, he grimly inspected the animal’s hoof and dislodged a sharp stone. The fetlock was slightly swollen. Slapping at the cloud of midges surrounding him, he glanced up at the darkening sky. He’d have to find shelter and let the horse rest if he wished to make good time on the morrow.

  Leaving the boggy ground behind him, he made camp at the edge of an ancient forest as a light drizzle began to fall. And using his saddle as a pillow, too weary and disheartened to think, he settled back to listen to the raindrops echoing like tiny drums on the thick canopy of leaves above his head.

  The night passed quickly, and the dawn found the horse recovered. Still, it was early afternoon before he reached the border stronghold of Edrington with its castle occupying the summit of the steep hill above Whiteadder Water.

  Thick black smoke hung heavy in the air, and the mill and the village lay in ruin. Appalled, Julian skirted the destruction. Aye, by the time he finally did find Albany, he knew that he’d be sorely pressed not to strangle the man.

  The bridge had been destroyed, and Julian was forced to ford the river. Clambering onto the far shore, he stood there a moment, surveying the damage before turning his horse’s head east towards Castle Berwick. He then galloped along the banks of the deep churning river twisting its way through the valley.

  Finally, he burst from the dense forest to see Castle Berwick rising against a sky streaked with black columns of smoke.

  The siege of the castle had already begun.

  Men on horses and on foot swarmed over the hillside like flies. Some were manning the siege weapons, while others burned outlying buildings.

  A cluster of tents stood at the bottom of the hill with Gloucester’s massive pavilion rising in the center, proudly flying a magnificent Yorkist banner. Albany’s tent—half the size of the English duke’s—was relegated to the outer edge.

  Julian clenched his jaw.

  The man was a disgrace to Clan Stewart!

  Julian cocked a calculating brow at the sky. Already, the sun hung low over the trees. It would be easier to deliver the missive under the cover of darkness. Dismounting, he tied the black charger out to graze and settled back against a tree to wait.

  Time passed with excruciating slowness.

  It was fair difficult to simply lurk in the forest, listening to the angry sounds of war. And it seemed forever before the last bit of orange finally sank below the horizon to allow Julian to leave the cover of the woods.

  Mingling with the English soldiers without rousing su
spicion was easy enough. As Le Marin, he had learned long ago to act with confidence. Few ever possessed the courage to question him.

  And gaining entry into Albany’s tent was absurdly simple. The young lad posted as guard nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to allow Julian to pass, pulling back the lamb’s wool door-hanging.

  “Aye, what is it?” Albany grunted, running his thick fingers through his red hair.

  The treacherous prince sat alone behind a wide table graced with tallow candles that flickered fitfully in their silver candlesticks. The ground was covered with sheepskins and rugs, and nearby was a comfortable bed covered in fur.

  As annoyed as he was, Julian quite enjoyed the look of abject astonishment on Albany’s face.

  “Julian!” The man cleared his throat in confusion. “What brings ye here?”

  Throwing Cameron’s parchment onto the table, Julian replied, “’Tis a missive from Cameron.”

  Albany stared at it a moment, rubbing his thumb and forefingers together in a nervous, circular motion.

  “Well?” Julian prompted impatiently.

  Taking a deep breath, Albany broke the wax seal and slowly began to read. But with each passing moment, a smug smile grew to spread across his face.

  Inwardly, Julian heaved a breath of relief that Cameron’s plan appeared to be working. With the smell of smoke and death in the air, heaven knew that they would need it to.

  “Aye, ‘tis as it should be!” Albany laughed outright in pleasure. “Even Cameron himself wants me as king now, eh? Let’s have wine to celebrate! Aye, and bring Douglas here at once!”

  With a negligent wave of his hand, he pointed to the flask of wine and a goblet at the far end of the table.

  Julian eyed the man in disgust.

  The man had just burnt good Scottish villages. He’d not serve him a goblet of wine nor play his messenger lad. Aye, he had to get away, before he was tempted to tie the man up and deliver him to the newly-made homeless villagers for a bit of true Scottish justice.

  Turning upon his heel, he strode through the tent door and quit the place.

  * * *

  Julian spent the remainder of the night lurking in the shadows and learning more than he wished to know of Gloucester’s doings. And the following dawn saw him riding hard to Burg Muir, bearing the tidings that while half of the English army ravaged the borderlands by burning castles and farms, the other half would soon advance to Edinburgh itself to place Albany upon the Scottish throne.

  Several leagues from Channelkirk, he heard the rattle of drums and the wailing of pipes long before he saw them and a smile split his tired face.

  It was more than a mile later that he rounded a bend in the road to see a great many horsemen bearing down upon him from the north with the banners of the House of Stewart unfurling in the wind.

  Cameron had moved the clans.

  Chapter Twelve – The Hanging

  As the last rays of the sun fell across the land, Julian leaned against an ancient spreading oak, his gray eyes sweeping over the vast numbers of horsemen and foot soldiers setting up camp between the parish kirk at Lauder and the old village bridge.

  He was exhausted and beyond weary of the entire situation. Or mayhap it was more than just this particular situation. Could it be that he was weary of political intrigue altogether and simply retiring to Castle Huntly wouldn’t be so dull a prospect after all.

  Aye, if he had a lively lass there with him, one with stunning hazel eyes, it might be a delightful adventure!

  A light touch on his arm caused him to jump and instinctively reach for the knife safely tucked in his belt.

  “Stand down, lad!” Cameron’s easy laugh filled the evening air. “And where was your mind? ‘Tis quite unlike ye to allow me to startle ye so!” His brow was raised in mild curiosity as his keen eyes swept Julian from head to toe.

  Julian grunted. He wasn’t about to admit what he’d been thinking. Instead, he pointed to several Scottish nobles some distance away. The men were agitatedly waving their hands and exchanging heated words. “What has them so angered?” he asked.

  Cameron followed his gaze and then expelled his breath in unmasked contempt. “’Tis James. The daft fool sought to make Thomas Cochrane the captain of the cannoneers. Aye, I told him ‘twas best to remain in Edinburgh, but there are rumors both the king and Thomas are on their way.”

  “Ach!” Julian made a sound of disgust. “We’ve no time to let fools parade on the battlefield in fine velvets when we’ve the English to fight!”

  “Aye, I fear the king willna listen,” Cameron murmured grimly. “I cannot guarantee his safety should he come here with Thomas.”

  “Then I almost wish he would come,” Julian admitted dryly.

  “Nay, Julian,” the Earl of Lennox disagreed with an elegant shake of his head. “Scotland cannot yet withstand a civil war. You know this.”

  “Aye, I know,” Julian replied, somewhat chastened. And then he added truthfully enough, “I wish for peace. I’m weary of these turbulent times. Ach, I would this was already over.”

  At that, Cameron heaved a sigh. “Soon enough, lad.”

  And then one of the agitated nobles drew his sword and began shouting at the others.

  “If ye’ll excuse me, lad? It seems I’ve a matter to settle,” Cameron said, nodding at the man with his chin. And then clapping Julian’s shoulder in farewell, he set off in the man’s direction.

  Shaking his head, Julian heaved himself off of the tree and returned to where he’d staked Ewan’s black charger out to graze. ‘Twas time to return the beast and to use it as an excuse to ask Ewan if he’d heard word of Liselle.

  Liselle. He’d been fretting far too much over the lass of late, and dreaming of her too.

  Scowling a little at himself, he grabbed the horse’s halter and headed back to camp in search of the MacLeans.

  They weren’t difficult to find.

  He had only to listen for the loudest band of men singing raucous drinking songs around their evening campfire. And because of the sheer number of clans gathered upon the field, it was quite a feat that they still sang the loudest.

  Chuckling, he stepped around a half-drawn tent to come upon Ewan standing apart from the others.

  Julian paused and eyed his cousin.

  The young man’s feet were braced wide apart, and his arms were folded tightly across his broad chest as his unseeing gaze locked upon the horizon. Again, the sadness was etched upon his handsome face, plain for all to see.

  Julian frowned, wondering what burden his young cousin carried, but it was fair impossible to escape the lad’s eagle sense for long. Almost immediately, Ewan’s fair head turned his way, and he raised an arm in silent greeting.

  Stepping forward, Julian hailed him warmly and held out the reins. “I’ve come with your horse, cousin. ’Tis a fine animal, and I’m sore tempted to steal him from ye.” As he said the jest, a brief vision of Liselle fled across his mind, but he quickly pushed it aside.

  Ewan gave the horse a fond slap on the flanks and replied mildly, “I think ye still have need of him, aye? Your gray mare has yet to be found.”

  Julian clenched his jaw.

  “I’m sure the lass is safe, cousin,” Ewan reassured. “Ye should—”

  “Ach, her safety is not my concern,” Julian grated roughly.

  It was a lie.

  They both knew it.

  And then the resounding cry of “A MacLeod! A MacLeod!” split the air.

  Thrusting the reins back into Julian’s hands, Ewan urged, “Take the lad, cousin, and return him only when ye’ve need of him no longer.” Tilting his head in the direction of the commotion, he added, “I’ve words that must be said to Ruan, so I’ll leave ye to your thoughts.”

  Julian grimly watched his young cousin thread his way through the crowd to where the dark-haired Ruan MacLeod, Laird of Dunvegan, waved a strong arm in greeting.

  Turning away, Julian passed a hand over his face.

>   Liselle was clearly capable of handling herself. Aye, the lass leapt through windows. Most assuredly, she could ride across the heath upon the back of his sure-footed gray mare.

  He had no cause to worry.

  Shaking his head, he’d just made up his mind to greet Ruan MacLeod himself when he heard a familiar laugh.

  Instantly alert, he scanned the sea of faces about him and spied a burly form and a glimpse of red hair flashing from under a black cloak.

  Shoving the horse’s reins into the hands of a nearby MacLean, Julian slipped through the crowd and fell into step behind the cloaked man. Aye, he’d recognize him anywhere. Stepping forward, he tore the man’s hood from his head, and grabbing him about the throat to half-choke him, hissed into his ear, "Might I have a word with ye, traitor?"

  Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, looked back at him, gasping, as his eyes bulged in surprise.

  "I'd wager your presence here is as rotten as it smells!" Julian growled, making little effort to disguise his disgust. “You’re no better than Albany! Ye both should hang from yonder bridge along with any man who conspired with ye to burn the villages of good honest folk!”

  He twisted his hand tighter around the man’s thick neck.

  “Hold!” The Red Douglas wheezed, clawing at Julian’s hands. “I come at Cameron’s bidding, by way of tidings that ye delivered with your own hand!”

  Julian searched his eyes before shoving him back roughly. “Then I’ll personally deliver ye to the man,” he said, his voice sharp-edged and hard. “I’ll not have your ilk wandering about here unescorted!”

  Catching his balance, Douglas nodded and straightened his collar, feeling his neck as if to make certain it was still in one piece. “Aye, then, lead on,” he replied with an uncustomary meekness.

  With a curt nod, Julian motioned for the man to precede him, but they had scarcely taken two steps when the sound of a horn split the air.

  At once, the voices in the camp fell into muted whispers as all eyes riveted upon a party of men approaching in great state.

  Four trumpeters with golden horns bearing the royal crest marched before two elaborately dressed men on horses. And they were in turn followed by several hundred soldiers, all on foot, clad in white livery, and armed with gleaming battle axes.