Highland Belle

by Patricia H. Grasso

“I—I was havin’ my lessons,” Glenda told him. “Lady Brie asked Father Kaplan if she could speak privately wi’ me. She asked me to care for Sly while she was gone. I wanted to go, too, but she wanted to be alone to think aboot her problems."

  “Did she mention where she was goin'?” Black Jack prodded.

  “Ridin'."

  “I see.” Black Jack smiled at his granddaughter. “And have ye been carin’ for Sly?"

  Glenda grinned. “Most diligently."

  Black Jack hugged the little girl. “She'll be pleased wi’ ye when she returns."

  “Lady Brie will be comin’ home, then?"

  “Of course,” Black Jack assured her. “Do ye doubt it?"

  “I met Brie in the foyer,” Percy interjected. “She must've just left Glenda. I offered to ride wi’ her, but she refused, sayin’ she needed to be alone."

  “Ye should have insisted,” Iain snapped.

  “I amna’ the one who caused her unhappiness,” Percy defended himself.

  “What was her frame of mind,” Black Jack asked, “when last ye saw her, Iain?"

  “She was purrin’ contentedly from our lovemakin'."

  Black Jack chuckled. “So, ye said yer farewells upstairs?"

  “No, Brie was in the garden when I left."

  Her spritely step betraying her light heart, Antonia fairly danced into the study. “Oh, Iain,” she gushed, pasting an appropriately sympathetic expression onto her face, “I'm so verra sorry Brie has deserted ye. She seemed like such a sweet thin'."

  When Iain faced Antonia, he recalled how his sister-in-law had cornered him in that very chamber and thrown herself into his arms. “What did ye do to Brie?” he demanded, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her roughly.

  “Nothin'!"

  With the vilest of oaths, Iain pushed her away.

  “When ye saw Brie in the garden,” Black Jack asked again, “what was her frame of mind?"

  Iain ignored his father's question. Antonia kissed me, he recalled, and then I found Brigette, strangely disheartened, in the garden. To get to the garden, she had to pass the study door. The open study door.

  “I believe my wife has returned to England,” Iain informed his father. “Hopefully, she's arrived there safely. I'll be leavin’ in the mornin’ to bring her home."

  “I'll come wi’ ye,” Percy offered.

  Iain glared murderously at his brother. “There'll be a Highland blizzard in hell before I have need of yer dubious aid."

  * * * *

  Marianne gently nudged Brigette awake. Placing a finger over her lips, she warned her young guest to silence. Lil still slept in the other cot.

  “Wash and dress,” Marianne whispered, “then come downstairs."

  Brigette dressed hurriedly, then went downstairs. Bertie was alone in the kitchen. Swallowing her revulsion, Brigette smiled and asked, “Randi?"

  “She'll be along.” Bertie was impressed with the change in Brigette's appearance. After studying the beauty of her face, his beady-eyed gaze dropped to peruse Brigette's body as if she were a succulent sweetmeat. Anticipating the taste of her tempting flesh, the cook smacked his blubbery lips together, and a dribble of spittle ran slowly down his chin.

  “I'd like ta be ya friend,” he murmured, advancing on Brigette, who recognized the lusty glint in his eyes and stepped back.

  With a swiftness one would not expect in a man his size, Bertie closed the distance between them and tweaked a plump breast. In the next instant, he shoved Brigette against the wall, but she retaliated by kicking his shins. Bertie's scream of pain rent the tavern.

  “What the bloody hell is happenin'?” Bucko shouted as he and Marianne raced into the kitchen from the common room.

  “He attacked me!"

  “She attacked me!"

  “Keep them greasy hands off this lady, ya lecher,” Marianne warned in a deadly voice, “or ya'll answer ta Bucko and me.” She turned to Brigette. “Let me know if he bothers ya and I'll fix him good. Grab some of that bread and cheese for yaself and we'll be off."

  Marianne led Brigette into the common room. It was a surprisingly spacious chamber with two hearths, one at each end. Near one of the hearths was a stairway leading to the second-floor bedchambers. In one corner stood Bucko's domain—the bar. Small tables and chairs were positioned around the chamber. Even unoccupied, the common room possessed a comfortable atmosphere, exuded relaxation.

  They went outside. The previous day's rain had ceased, and Brigette looked curiously at everything around her. The morning was young, but the narrow street was quickly becoming congested with all kinds of people—housewives, merchants, apprentices, vendors.

  “This is Friday Street,” Marianne told her.

  Brigette giggled. “How strange to name a street in honor of a day."

  Marianne shrugged. “Perhaps it was built on a Friday."

  “Whatever the reason, it's a fair enough day to glimpse Londontown."

  “Glimpse Londontown?” Marianne looked at Brigette. “Ain't ya never been ta London?"

  “No, I've lived my entire life in the country."

  “Whereabouts?"

  “I'd rather not say."

  Marianne arched a brow. “Don't ya trust me?"

  “Of course,” Brigette answered, “but I'd still rather not say."

  “When we've time to spare,” Marianne promised, “I'll take ya ta see some of London's most interestin’ sights."

  “Where?"

  “The Bloody Tower is off ta our left. That's where the queen sends a body when she's unhappy with ya."

  “My father was once locked in the Tower,” Brigette confided.

  "He was?" Marianne was impressed. The Tower was a place of confinement for erring nobility. “Did he get his head chopped off?"

  “Nothing so dramatic as that.” Brigette chuckled. “Papa was forgiven and released."

  “Who's ya father?"

  “Nobody—he's been dead for several years."

  “Oh.” Marianne switched to a more pleasant subject. “Blackfriars is off ta the right. One day we'll cross the Blackfriars Bridge into Southwark, where the bear-baitin’ rings are. Want ta see it?"

  “I don't think so."

  “Why not? It's excitin'!"

  “It's cruel to abuse animals for sport."

  “Then we'll go for a stroll across London Bridge,” Marianne announced. Leaning close, she whispered in Brigette's ear, “Where the tarts are."

  “Tarts?"

  Marianne laughed. “Not that kind of tart—whores!"

  “Whores?” Brigette's face was a brilliant scarlet. “You mean, where a man can—"

  “That's correct,” Marianne interrupted.

  "Brigette MacBria!" a familiar voice shouted.

  Brigette scanned the crowded marketplace for the owner of that voice. Suddenly, Magnus materialized from nowhere. Except for the familiar stubbles of a growing beard, a dashingly handsome lord had replaced the gaberlunzie.

  “You are beautiful,” Brigette cried, flinging herself into his arms.

  “I thank ye, fair maiden.” His eyes drifted to Marianne, who smiled, thoroughly impressed. “I'm relieved to see ye've found yer friend."

  “Randi,” Brigette introduced the two, “I would like to present Magnus. Magnus, this is Marianne, also known as Randi."

  Smiling, Magnus bowed to Marianne, who was thrilled by his courtly manners. Nobody had ever bowed to her before.

  “Where is it yer stayin'?” he asked, turning back to Brigette.

  “I've found employment at the Royal Rooster Tavern."

  “On Friday Street,” Marianne added.

  “I must soon return to Scotland,” Magnus said. “I'll stop by the Royal Rooster before I leave."

  “Do!” Brigette exclaimed. “I would be glad of the chance to see you again."

  Magnus grinned and hugged her close, then kissed her cheek. He turned to Marianne and kissed her hand, then strolled away.

  “Sweet Jesu!” Marianne swore. “
Nobody ain't never kissed my hand before."

  “What of Bucko?"

  “Bucko ain't the hand-kissin’ type, if ya know what I mean,” Marianne said. “But I love him anyway and I'm bound ta catch him in wedlock, even if it's the last thing I ever do. Have ya ever been in love?"

  Brigette's eyes misted with anguish. “Once."

  From her companion's glum expression, Marianne realized love was a sore subject. “How is it ya know a Scottish lord? Ya sound as English as me."

  “My husband is Scottish,” Brigette answered in a choked voice.

  Marianne placed a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Why don't ya lighten that load? Tell Randi what happened."

  Brigette sighed. “I learned my husband is in love with his brother's widow. Involved, in a manner of speaking."

  “He admitted he was layin’ her?” Marianne's eyes were wide with shock.

  Brigette flushed. “Antonia told me."

  “Let me get this straight,” Marianne said, her eyes gleaming with shrewd intelligence. “This Antonia told ya that she and ya husband are lovers?"

  “Correct."

  “And ya believed her?"

  “Why shouldn't I?"

  “What did he say?” Marianne asked.

  “Iain was away at the time."

  “Ya left without speakin’ ta him?” Marianne was incredulous.

  “What would you have done?"

  “Strangled her and gelded him!"

  * * * *

  Supper at the Royal Rooster was a noisy and crowded affair. The tavern was a beehive of activity, filled with men, very few of whom were accompanied by a female.

  Marianne and Lil divided the room in half, save for the two tables nearest to the bar, which were assigned to Brigette. Bucko had wisely decided to keep close watch on her.

  With a spritely step, Brigette approached her first customers, two successful-looking merchants. One was rotundly piggish. His companion was lanky and sported a hawkish beak that overwhelmed his face. Both were expensively dressed.

  “Good evening, sirs,” Brigette greeted them. “For what would you care this evening?"

  “What've we here?” Sir Pig said contemptuously, arching a brow at her accent. “A tavern wench giving herself airs?"

  Brigette's eyes narrowed, a sure sign of danger. “I am a lady, sir, no wench,” she returned tartly. “You are no gentleman to speak thusly, no matter the cost of your doublet."

  Sir Pig's face mottled with anger at her rudeness, but the hawkish one chuckled. “Very well said, my dear,” the Hawk replied. “We'd like a pitcher of ale and a couple of bowls of Bucko's stew."

  “Right away, my lord.” Brigette scurried to the bar and gave Bucko her order. Beside her, a slightly inebriated patron glanced her way. Pleased by what captured his eye, the man reached out and pinched her derriere.

  "Ow!" Brigette cried and leaped away.

  “What a rump!” The man leered at her. “How about a taste of that after work?"

  Brigette's mouth dropped in disgusted disbelief. Before she recovered herself, a pitcher of ale and two mugs were set on her tray.

  “Deliver ya order,” Bucko said.

  Brigette served Sir Pig and Lord Hawk their ale, then raced into the kitchen to get their stew, missing the entrance of the Royal Rooster's newest patron. Magnus took a seat near the door.

  “Good evenin', sir,” Lil said, admiring his good looks and rich apparel. “What'll it be for ya?” She leaned forward so he could feast his eyes on her ample cleavage.

  Magnus perused Lil's tempting mounds of flesh, then raised his eyes to hers and smiled. “I want the copper-haired wench to serve me."

  “She's busy,” Lil snapped, unaccustomed to having her charms rebuffed. “Ya have ta settle for me."

  “A mug of ale and a bowl of stew, then."

  Lil raced to the bar, where Marianne stood. “That new wench is bad for business,” Lil complained, irritated. “Five of my customers have already asked for her. Is this a tavern or brothel?"

  "Oowww!" Bertie's loud wail of pain sounded from the kitchen.

  “Keep your bloody hands off me!” Brigette's outraged voice was heard.

  Marianne raced for the kitchen, but was met at the door by a red-faced Brigette. “I kneed him in the pins,” she said smugly. Marianne threw back her head and roared with appreciative laughter. Those men within hearing distance cringed in sympathetic pain and surreptitiously touched the jewels nestled at their groins.

  After delivering the stew, Brigette turned to the men at the next table. She rushed to the bar to get them ale and sidled next to Marianne.

  Bucko set the pitcher of ale on the tray, and Brigette, clutching it, swung away from the bar. It was then that Marianne strategically placed a foot in front of her. Brigette stumbled and the tray flew out of her hands, drenching Lil, who stood behind her.

  Pandemonium ensued. Screeching, Lil swung at Brigette, who ducked to avoid the blow. Lil's fist connected with Marianne's cheek. Marianne retaliated instantly, and the two adversaries fell to the floor—biting, scratching, and clawing each other. Springing into action, Bucko leaped across the bar and tried to separate the furious women.

  Unnoticed at the rear of the tavern, Magnus wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. He stood and dropped a few coins on the table, then slipped out the door. When the queen's business is finished, he decided, I'll return for Brie. Huntly's chit be damned!

  * * * *

  The moon was a sliver of silver, peeking down through swiftly drifting clouds at London's deserted streets. A ragged gaberlunzie passed through the Bishopgate and wended his lonely way north.

  11

  Overcast and cool, the day was typical of April. With his memories of a copper-haired woman to keep him warm, a ragged gaberlunzie followed the road north out of York.

  After reporting to the queen, Magnus plotted, I'll return to London for Brie. She'll have had her fill of taverns by then, but if she's unwilling, I'll abduct her.

  We'll return to Edinburgh and live at the Campbell Mansion. When I discover her husband's identity, I'll arrange a fatal accident for him. Then Brie will become my wife, the future Duchess of Argyll.

  Lost in pleasant reverie, Magnus failed to focus on the rapidly approaching danger. Riding hard in his direction was a group of men-at-arms.

  “Damn,” he cursed, suddenly aware that he must have been seen. “Sweet Jesu!” They wore the MacArthur plaid and were certain to identify his horse as their property.

  “Seize him!” Iain shouted.

  Kicking his heels into the horse's flanks, Magnus attempted to flee. Dugie gave chase, easily tackling his quarry, and the two men landed in the road. Before Magnus could reach for his weapon, five gleaming swords touched his chest.

  “For Christ's sake, MacArthur!” Magnus roared. “Call yer men off."

  The MacArthur men remained motionless, their swords poised to skewer. Iain dismounted and stared hard at the gaberlunzie.

  “Would ye slaughter yer own cousin?” Magnus asked desperately.

  Iain motioned his men to sheath their swords. “Who are ye?"

  “Yer cousin,” Magnus spat. “If ye murder me before I produce an heir, Argyll will have yer head on a platter."

  Chuckling, Iain extended his hand and helped Magnus stand. “Why are ye dressed like that, cuz?"

  “I've been travelin’ for the queen."

  Iain gestured to the horse. “And how did ye come by my property?"

  A besotted smile appeared on Magnus's face. “It was a gift from the most magnificent, copper-haired wench."

  Without warning, Iain's fist connected with his cousin's jaw, sending him sprawling in the dirt. “That was nae wench,” he snarled. “That was my wife."

  “Yer wife!"

  Iain grimaced, humiliated that his kinsman should learn of his marital troubles, then extended his hand once again. “Ye may as well know,” he admitted sourly, helping Magnus rise. “The twit had the temerity to fly home to England."
/>
  Magnus shouted with laughter, but then realized his cousin was not amused. Forcing himself to show a more somber expression was difficult.

  “When I get my hands on her,” Iain ranted, “I'll give her the skelpin’ of her life. She willna’ be sittin’ down for a month."

  Unable to control himself, a chuckle bubbled up from Magnus's throat. “Headstrong, is she now?"

  “Aye,” Iain snapped, “but I'll soon cure her of that. Where is she?"

  “I'm verra sorry, cuz, but my benefactress has sworn me to secrecy.” Iain growled and reached for Magnus, who threw up an arm to ward off the attack. “However,” he added quickly, “I must tell ye that a verra fine quality of Brie is bein’ served in London at the Royal Rooster Tavern. On Friday Street, to be exact."

  “A tavern?” Iain was surprised.

  “Yer countess is employed as a servin’ wench,” Magnus embellished cheerfully.

  “I'll kill her!"

  One and all, the MacArthur men-at-arms turned away, biting back their laughter. The Sassenach chit was leading the future Earl of Dunridge on a merry chase, but all roads end somewhere. Lord have mercy on the lady when Iain finally caught her!

  “Jamie,” Iain ordered. “Escort Lord Campbell to wherever he's goin', then go back to Dunridge and tell the earl we've located my wife."

  “I amna’ in need of a bodyguard,” Magnus protested.

  “I insist, cuz. If I sent ye on yer way alone and somethin’ happened, Argyll wouldna’ forgive me. Remember, cuz, if ye dinna produce an heir, to me and mine reverts the clan's chieftainship."

  “Ye canna verra well produce yer own heir,” Magnus returned, “if yer wife habitually takes off for parts unknown."

  “Dinna forget Percy,” Iain countered. “Bein’ a blockhead doesna’ affect his pecker."

  Magnus laughed. “When ye've recovered yer wife,” he said, shaking Iain's hand, “come to Edinburgh. The court's aboot to become a most interestin’ place."

  The MacArthurs mounted and rode south. Watching them, Magnus realized his plan to wed Brigette was finished. No honorable man would dispatch his kinsman and marry the widow. Shrugging his shoulders, Magnus shook off his dream. Perhaps while I'm in Edinburgh, he decided, I'll take a quick peek at Huntly's chit.