“I will never forgive you,” she said, even as her hand reached out and clutched his.
“And the Maclean? Are you as angry at him?”
“He is not my cousin and my friend.”
“Is he not the latter?” he asked. “Or something more?”
Her cheeks blushed. “He has no interest in me.”
He held her for a moment, then she took a step back. “You have been hurt,” she said.
“Morneith set his lackeys on me. Lachlan was following and joined in the battle. I have bruises. He was hurt far worse.”
“How badly?” she asked, her face drawing up in worry.
“He will live,” he said, wishing not to distress her. He wanted to wait until he knew more about how well the wound would heal.
“I would like to see him.”
“He is staying in my father’s rooms at the castle. I do not think you want to see him at the moment.”
“Soon then. He was very kind to me.”
He nodded, and her gaze went back to the bruise on his face.
“It is nothing,” he said.
“It does not look like nothing, but now I cannot hit you. Not like I did Rory.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You hit the Maclean?”
“Aye, and very well,” she admitted with great satisfaction.
Several minutes later, he departed. Before he did, though, he caught glances exchanged between Rory and Felicia.
God help them both.
It was pure agony sitting across from Rory at the Rose and Spur and feigning indifference.
Indifference was the last thing she felt.
She had tried to seduce him last night after they returned from the chapel. She had needed him after hearing that Jamie and Lachlan had almost been killed on her behalf.
“It was not your doing,” Rory tried to comfort her. “They are after a traitor.”
“But if not for me …”
“If not for you, Scotland could be at peril.”
But it had not comforted her. And while she knew he wanted her as badly as she wanted him, he had merely held her through the night. Part of him had withdrawn from her, and it hurt to the core. She wondered whether he could ever tear down that wall he’d constructed around his heart.
Still in the guise of an apprentice, she sipped the bad wine and kept her gaze on his face as he continued to glance toward the door.
Everything depended on whether Morneith was desperate enough to meet her cousin again. She knew about the first meeting. She also realized there had to be more witnesses.
Rory had assured her Jamie would be protected, that there would be others around. Jamie had assured both of them that he would be safe, and she wondered who among the diners might be there on Jamie’s behalf.
Rory had not wanted to bring her. She knew that. She knew the only reason he had was that he feared she would find some way to join them anyway. And she would have. She was involved. She, too, could be a witness against Morneith. She had been left out too long.
The establishment was nearly filled with a mixture of young lords and prosperous merchants. Three men came in, talking in loud voices. One was a fine-looking young man with red hair and a red beard. The other two were less distinctive, though their voices were blurred with wine.
“There will be others joining us in our little game,” he told the proprietor in a voice loud enough for the room to hear. They were led by the proprietor up the stairs to one of two private rooms Felicia had been told about.
Jamie entered and sat at a bench near the one window.
Minutes went by. Then an hour. She was beginning to think no one would come, when she saw a flicker in Rory’s eyes.
She heard Jamie’s booming voice. “Morneith, my dear man. How good of you to join me.”
A grunt was the only answer.
Felicia was turned partially away from him, but she saw him glance around the room. His eyes rested on her, and she saw something malignant in the glance. His gaze lingered too long on her, and she remembered the dark rumors that had swirled around him.
She shivered as his gaze turned from her and studied the others in the room.
Morneith was a tall man, though not fat. His beard was neatly trimmed, and he was dressed in somber but obviously expensive clothes. His shirt had a fashionable high collar, and he wore a black velvet coat and silk hose. His face was lined, and his nose crooked, but the most startling feature were piercing dark brown eyes. It was the cold calculation in them that made them striking.
“I have engaged a room upstairs,” she heard Jamie say. “We will have privacy. Now I hope you have brought what you promised.”
“Lower your voice,” Morneith said with obvious disgust, but he followed Jamie up the stairs.
Rory waited several moments, then he and Felicia mounted the stairs as well, knocking lightly on the door to the left. It was opened by the redheaded man.
He acknowledged Rory and gave her a searching glance, then turned back to his companions. “The show was in the event someone was watching below,” he explained in a whisper.
Then he went over to the fireplace and stooped. Felicia and Rory did the same. Voices were audible. Barely, but audible. She wondered how Jamie had found such a place.
“It is not enough. ’Tis only a fraction of what you received from—” Jamie continued, his speech slurred as if he’d had too much to drink.
“You fool, be quiet. You will have us both in the castle dungeon.”
“I want what you promised.”
“I cannot bring it here. You will have to go to my residence.”
“I prefer public places after the other night.”
“I heard about that. I had nothing to do with it.”
“A coincidence then,” Jamie said in a louder, wine-slurred voice.
She heard the sound of a metal hitting the table. “You sotted young fool,” Morneith said. “You spilled wine on me.”
“I want you to talk to Buckingham, as well,” Jamie said, ignoring him. “He should ha’ even more gold for another friendly Scotsman.”
“Your father has more gold than any of us.”
“Aye, but he is tightfisted and refuses to pay my debts. Says I am unworthy. I will show him by gaining even more land than he has.”
“You think Buckingham will offer a drunken …” He shut his mouth immediately.
“He promised land to you. He gave you money. My name is far more respected than yours, and more clans will follow the Campbells. When my father dies I will have three times the number of soldiers.”
Jamie was arrogant, boasting, throwing his name in Morneith’s face. Felicia tensed at the danger he was courting.
“Buckingham would have naught to do with a drunken lout,” he said, his fury obvious even through the barrier of the fireplace grates. “He trusts me …”
He stopped suddenly. “If you want any more money, you will have to come to my residence,” he said in a voice dripping with ice.
“I know Buckingham gave you—”
One of the men in the room with them suddenly dropped a tankard. Just as they had heard the one in the next room, Felicia realized Morneith could hear this one.
Silence. Then she heard Morneith say in a more moderate tone, “You can go with me to my residence now, and get your … money for the investment. Either way, I am leaving.”
She, Rory, and Ian Stewart exchanged glances. Did Morneith suspect anything? Would he charge into the room? Or would he try to get rid of Jamie quickly? Surely, he would have had men watching the tavern. He was too cautious a man not to.
The door next to them opened and closed. She heard Jamie’s complaining voice. “Another glass of wine first?”
“Nay!” Morneith replied. “There is much at my residence.”
As soon as Felicia thought the two men had gone down the stairs, she turned to Rory. “We have to go after them.”
“There are Campbells in the streets,” Ian Stewart said. “They will not
allow anything to happen to the son of the Campbell. But now if Jamie does get the money, then there can be no doubt.” Fury turned his pleasant voice into a grating whisper.
“Is there any now?” she asked.
“It was Jamie’s plan,” the red-haired Stewart said. “He wanted no doubt.”
She did not like Jamie’s plan. He was taking too big a risk. They should have enough proof now.
“I am going after him,” she said, opening the door and going down the steps. Rory was right behind her. But as she ran through the public area, she was aware of a commotion behind her. She turned. Rory was on the floor, and a rough-looking man loomed over him, blaming him for a collision.
She could not wait. Urgency filled her. She opened the door. Fear ripped through Felicia. She knew Jamie had just signed his death warrant. Morneith could no longer let a drunken young man wander about making charges, even if he had not heard the tankard fall. If he had … he would have to rid himself of the most immediate danger.
She darted out the door.
She reached the street in time to see two men holding Jamie, half carrying him down the street to a cart waiting there. She saw three men who had just left the tavern stumbling in that direction.
Suddenly the darkened street was lit by several torches. Men surrounded those carrying Jamie. She recognized some of them from Dunstaffnage.
Hands, seemingly out of nowhere, grabbed her. An arm went around her neck, and she felt a dagger prick her throat. “Make a sound, and I will slit it,” her captor said.
She recognized Morneith’s voice. Everyone’s attention was directed toward Jamie and the two men who had taken him. Apparently Morneith had waited in the shadow to see who else might emerge.
One of his hands sought a better grasp on her and found her breast. He cursed, then he dragged her farther into the alley. She knew she could not move, or scream. He had meant what he said.
“You were far too interested in me,” he whispered. “Who are you?”
“Felicia!”
She heard Rory’s voice, and her captor’s arm tightened around her.
“Felicia,” he whispered. “An uncommon name.” The point of his dagger touched and cut her skin. “You would not be Felicia Campbell.”
She started to say something, and the dagger cut deeper. “Do not speak,” he said in a whisper. “Nod.”
She did not move. She felt blood running down her neck. A burning pain.
More shouts. Sounds of men running.
He pushed her behind a pile of refuse and forced her down, planting his body on top of her. His dark clothes faded into the darkness.
The smell was suffocating, a combination of the garbage and the rich perfume he wore. His weight crushed her, and she felt him becoming aroused.
Light shone down the alley, but she doubted anyone could see them. She could not yell. Not with the knife at her throat. Morneith had committed treason. He would not hesitate to kill her to protect himself.
Her name was called again, but the sound was fainter. The search party was moving away from her.
Morneith rolled off of her, but the dagger point did not leave her neck.
“You are Felicia Campbell. My intended wife. How kind of you to come to me.” He pulled her to her feet, the dagger still at her throat.
“You are a traitor,” she said. “They will find you.”
“Ah, but now I have a hostage.”
“I am nothing compared to treason. Do you think my life would keep the king from taking you?”
“The king will have to find me first. And I do think young Campbell cares for your life. If I can leave Edinburgh, I have armies …”
She could not let that happen. “My cousin cares about his king above all.”
“We will see, will we not. Tell me, Felicia,” he said. “How did you happen to be dressed as a guttersnipe?”
“To trap you,” she said viciously.
“Ah, you like a fight. I enjoy women who fight. I like breaking them. Not as much as a lad, but—you would make it easy to pretend.”
She opened her mouth to scream, and his hand clasped over it. He had to move the dagger as he did, and she saw her chance. He was slightly off balance, and too confident. She twisted suddenly and kneed him in the crotch with all her strength. He groaned and let go so suddenly she fell, and she screamed as he did. The dagger fell with her.
She rolled away from him as he tried to straighten.
She saw the dagger at the same time he did, but she was faster. She reached for it just as he lunged for her, a spate of curses tumbling from his mouth. She felt his large body pin her down again.
Feet running. Her name echoed in the alley.
Morneith tried to grab her around the neck, but suddenly his body rolled off her, and she was able to grasp the dagger.
She turned. Rory was on Morneith, his hands beating his face, pummeling his chest.
She screamed again, and more men came running.
Rory stood up. Morneith lay bleeding, a sob coming from his mouth.
Rory turned and looked toward the newcomers.
And then she saw Morneith take a second dagger from inside his coat and start to rise. Rory’s back was to him.
“Rory?”
He turned. It would be too late. A dagger was in her hand. She thrust it into Morneith’s back.
He turned, looked at her with astonishment, then fell.
And Rory’s arms closed around her.
Rory’s heart beat frantically as he held her. Dear Mother in Heaven, but he had come close to losing her.
He had rushed after Felicia but had been delayed when a lout—probably someone with Morneith—tripped him, then started a loud argument, which drew more people. He had finally been able to break free and rush after Felicia.
Several men had rushed to a cart down the street, and he started in that direction, when he’d heard a scuffle and a scream in the ally that ran alongside the tavern. He’d turned and peered into the darkened alley. With eyes trained to see in the dark, he’d seen the two forms against the wall and the dagger at Felicia’s throat. He saw the threat, but he could not attack Morneith as long as he had the dagger to Felicia’s throat. And then, unbelievably she had managed to unman him, which gave Rory the opportunity he needed …
He felt the the blood running down from her neck. He released her and tore off a piece of his shirt and wrapped it gently around the wound, then he held her tight. He never wanted to let her go.
But he knew he had to. She had almost died. Because of him. Because he had brought her with him. It had not all been, as he had claimed, to keep her safe. Part of it had been his need for her, his desire to have her with him.
And it had almost cost her life.
He released her. “Thank God you are alive,” he said. “It is my—”
“Nay,” she said.
He was startled at her vehemence. “Nay?”
“You will not blame yourself.”
He was silent, not quite sure what she meant.
“It was my decision to come to Edinburgh, to the tavern tonight. It was my decision to go after Jamie. You cannot take responsibility for the entire world. You were not responsible for your wife’s death in childbirth, or Anne’s illness.”
“You cannot—” he started to say, but then they were suddenly surrounded by armed men, one holding a torch.
Two of them grabbed Rory. He did not fight them.
“Nay!” she said.
“Lady Felicia,” said the apparent leader. “Are ye …?”
“I am not badly hurt. And let him go. He just saved my life from that …” She looked down at Morneith’s body. Her voice sounded stricken.
The two men held on to Rory, and he did not try to get loose. She had nearly died, and then she had killed a man. Even if he had been a monster, Rory knew she must have some guilt, regret. Regardless of what she had said, he felt responsible for it all.
“I am sorry, my lady. We have orders,” the lea
der of the men said. “I will have to take him to your uncle.”
He saw her tense. “Nay,” she said again.
But he knew it was useless. A favorite of the king had been killed. Rory had kidnapped the Campbell’s niece and had held his son. They were not going to let him go.
And Felicia’s wounds needed attention. “Go with them,” he said in a harsh voice.
She got that stubborn look again.
“Please,” he added, unable to mask the desperation in his voice.
She stared at him in the light of the torch. Then she nodded in recognition of her own helplessness. “I will talk to Jamie.”
Rory thought it would do little good, but he wanted her away. He nodded as if he thought it would make everything right.
Before any of the Campbell men could react, she took the few steps separating them and stood on tiptoes. She kissed him, making a public announcement to everyone there.
Then he was hustled off.
Chapter 30
Bandaged and dressed in a gown her uncle had somehow found, Felicia was summoned to her uncle’s room. Had she not been, she had planned to confront him on her own terms. She had to know what was happening to Rory.
She had mentally prepared a heated defense of him. He had exposed a traitor. He had saved her life. The king and her uncle should reward him, not imprison him.
Her uncle regarded her as if she were a strange being from a faraway country, as if he could not believe she was a Campbell.
“You are a disobedient child.”
She thrust her chin up. “I am not a child, Uncle.” She knew she probably had looked like one when, hours earlier, she had first entered the Campbell rooms with her shorn hair and lad’s clothes. He had taken one look at her and demanded that she dress as befitted her station.
She had started to argue, demanding to know what he was going to do with Rory, when Jamie entered. He looked unsteady, and blood covered the left side of his blond hair.
She ran over to him. “They have taken Rory.”
“I know,” he said, sitting down wearily next to his father.
The interruption did not halt her uncle’s tirade.
“Nay. You are not a child, and that is the problem.” He shook his head as if he were at a complete loss as to what to do with her. “You have been compromised,” he finally said. “You have traveled with the Maclean with no chaperons. You have stayed alone with him.”
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