The judge drew in a deep breath and leaned back into a massive chair as if satisfied with his decision and continued with his hands steepled. “You and Lachlan will be awarded guardianship under my sheriff and will join a party leaving soon for Edinburgh. There, you will both learn your fate.” He slammed the gavel head against the desk. “Dismissed.”
Rosalyn’s knees almost buckled again as the great hall erupted in a flurry of reactions over the verdict, but Lachlan grabbed her elbow tightly and guided her over to the bailiff, who led them away from the curious onlookers to the back of the great hall where he finally cut the remaining bonds.
“Good man,” Lachlan said as he rubbed his wrists, “were the ropes really necessary? We’re gentry, not common criminals.”
“If ye’d be treated as criminals, ye’d be in chains and an executioner would be leading you to the gallows, instead of a sheriff assigning you to your guest chambers at Berwick Castle.” The court bailiff laughed at Lachlan’s aghast expression.
“I’m accustomed to having dinner with dignitaries, not being held prisoner in a dungeon,” Lachlan responded with disgust. “I was serving King Henry’s court here at Berwick until just yesterday when this misunderstanding took place.”
Stone-faced, the bailiff stared at him. “Your misunderstanding included a drunken tirade after you found out someone else had laid claim to Fyvie Castle.”
Lachlan responded first by stroking his perfectly plucked goatee. “Well, then, that explains my confinement, to sleep off my over-indulgences and my lack of good manners, but what of the woman? Why was she bound like a prisoner?”
“She’s not English,” the bailiff stated as plainly as if he’d called her a bastard.
Rosalyn bit her tongue. Another glaring example of why she hated everything English.
Lachlan raised a fist, but reconsidered when the bailiff reached for his sword. “I would fight for any lady, English or Highlander,” he declared gallantly, then put a protective arm around her shoulders. “She’s not guilty of a crime yet, so she shouldn’t be treated as such.”
Rosalyn appreciated Lachlan sentiments, but she was still suspicious of his motives and was anxious to be out from under the scrutiny of the crowd of onlookers. He’d lied to the judge about her background and that didn’t set well with her.
“I must get some air,” she declared and spun out from his unsettling embrace.
The bailiff nodded, but that didn’t stop Lachlan from chasing after her. In moments, he nabbed her elbow and ushered her out of the great hall with grace and superiority. He didn’t say a word, but nodded at each passerby with that conceited grin of his.
As he led Rosalyn out of the keep and into the gardens, she worried about her mother and sister, now that her plans had been delayed. A trip to Edinburgh before returning to Aberdeen would take at least a fortnight.
Lachlan settled on a bench behind a row of rose bushes. Taking her hand, he ushered her to the seat beside him. He finally spoke, breaking into her trail of worry. “I’m sorry for all that,” he said, gazing at her over their joined hands.
All that? If ever she was speechless, it was now. Whatever did he mean? The kiss? The lies? The discrimination of the Scots? But her heart thundered against her ribs liked a wild beast thrashing against the bars of its cage.
“You needn’t worry, Rose.” He kissed her hand. “As your guardian, I’ll save you from harm.”
She straightened her spine and yanked her hand from his too-familiar grasp. “My name is Rosalyn,” she hissed, “and I’m nae in need of saving.” No one called her Rose, except her da, and he was gone.
“Is it the fiery red hair that makes you obnoxious?” he asked, giving her a curt nod after she shot him an icy glare, but he continued to serve her that smug smile. “Call me Lockie,” he suggested, keeping her gaze and taking her hand in his palm again. “You are quite worth saving, Rose—” He paused as if taunting her, then finished with “—alyn.”
“I’m quite sure your promises are as sincere as your kisses, and as untrue as your testimony against me in court.” She didn’t realize until she finished speaking how sarcastic she sounded.
“Quite the contrary, my lady,” he said, inching closer. “You have no guardian. I’m at your service.”
His charm was disarming, but she had to fight the urge to be taken prisoner by his charisma. The fact that her escort to Berwick-upon-Tweed had fallen ill shortly after they arrived by ship did not concern him. “I think not,” she said, shaking her head to dissuade him and clear her thoughts. “You’re a liar, Lachlan.”
“You’re safe with me, Rose,” he promised again. Still holding her hand, he closed the gap between them, gazing down at her with pitch-black eyes that hinted at mischief.
She wanted to tell him that he couldn’t call her by that name again, but his mouth smothered her objection, just like he’d done in the prison cell. Lachlan stole her breath away with his gentle assault. And when she wanted to, she couldn’t breathe.
“What’s happening? I—”
Chapter 2
Lachlan caught Rosalyn before she fell face first into a bed of wild red roses. The irony of it should have caused him some amusement, but right now, he was disturbed by the potential consequences this lady’s death could have on his reputation.
Killed with a kiss? As the once-feisty Scot hung limp in his arms, he imagined the rumors swirling and the gossips describing his lips as deadly. His normally cool composure was interrupted by a disgusting trickle of sweat dripping down his brow. As much as he hated soiling his silk coat, Lachlan adjusted his shoulder, the girl halfway in his lap, till he could dip is head low and wipe off the offense with his sleeve.
Squaring his shoulders again and redistributing the weight of the lass in his arms, he glanced about the courtyard garden until he was certain they were still alone.
“Damn the Scots,” he said half to her and half to the heavens, swearing about his father’s likely displeasure over his inability to secure the Aberdeen castle. Even though he’d been distracted by the beautiful Highland lass, how had a simple land hearing gone wrong? Now he’d been ordered to appear before a Scottish high court. The highest.
When Rosalyn moaned, Lachlan returned his attention to her and a spark of recognition flared.
Was she Dengas Macpherson’s daughter?
When she moaned again, Lachlan realized he should seek out a healer and quickly wash his hands of her malady. The gossips from the court would be milling around the bailey soon.
Tucking his arm under her legs, he hoisted Rosalyn up into his arms, shifting her weight against his chest. The lass was so light it made it easy for him now as he took great strides back the way he’d come. It didn’t take long before he reached the keep and rushed to the nearest chamber, kicking the half-closed door open.
Expecting an empty room, Lachlan was halfway to the bed when his ears were assaulted by a woman’s scream. Turning toward the noise, he discovered a maid and her paramour in the middle of a romantic embrace wearing nothing but their embarrassment.
Immediately, the servants dove for their clothes, heads knocking in a comedic scramble to get covered. Eyes downcast, they bowed incessantly. He found himself relieved when they finally reached the door.
“Bring a healer to me,” Lachlan demanded, impatience resonating in his clipped order as he reached the bed and the embarrassed couple rushed out.
With the utmost care, Lachlan lay Rosalyn on the bed’s fur coverlet. Giving her a quick assessment, he was pleased to find her ample bosom rising and falling. As distracting to him as it was, he relaxed a little. At least she was alive. Fainting spells were rarely fatal.
Without breaking his gaze on the lass, as if she’d stop breathing without his watchful eye, Lachlan took up a sturdy stool by the bedside and studied the woman who’d challeng
ed his family’s land holdings. Pale-faced, she was still stunningly beautiful in her sleeplike state, and he was determined not to let this Highland lass keep him from his claim. Even though his time spent at Fyvie had been short, he knew of the Macphersons and her father, Dengas. But the clan leader had died four years ago. What claim could his daughter have on Fyvie now?
The sound of approaching voices through the half-opened door had Lachlan scrambling to his feet. He raked his fingers through his hair and straightened his cloak.
“She’s in here, Ursula,” a voice said from the outer hall. Steps echoed from outside the chamber where he waited. Finally, the castle’s healer swept into the room with a mini army of servants in her wake. They carried buckets of boiling water, fresh linens, and trays of herbal concoctions.
Tossing him an icy glance, Ursula rushed to the other side of the bed. The healer lifted Rosalyn’s limp wrist and pushed her fingers against it, gently seeking a pulse. Seemingly satisfied, Ursula peeled back Rosalyn’s eyelids and inspected the girl’s empty stare. Once the healer had enough probing and poking of her charge, she snapped her fingers and one of the servants brought forth a tray of herbs and potion bottles.
Lachlan had been smitten by the sultry woman when he first arrived at Berwick Castle. She’d escaped his advances thus far, but every time he was around her, he was aroused. Bedding the lass had occupied his thoughts until he’d been able to find satisfaction elsewhere.
Memorized by her delicate moves now, as she carefully selected a miniature-sized, purple glass bottle from the tray, he still couldn’t fathom why she kept her distance.
Holding the delicate bottle at arm’s length from her nose, Ursula carefully opened the top. A pop sounded when the cork was removed. Even from where he stood, his nostrils were assaulted by a strong, pungent smell. All the servants took a measured step backward.
With the grace of a dancer, Ursula waved the purple glass container under Rosalyn’s nose three times, then quickly recorked the top. Right away, Rosalyn’s lashes fluttered, then her almond-shaped eyes opened wide.
“Oh, oh, my,” the lass sputtered, blinking hard and taking Ursula in with a dazed gaze. “Wh-Where am I?” Rosalyn asked in a shaky whisper, color flushing back in her cheeks.
When Rosalyn leaned forward, propping herself on one elbow, the healer held up her hand. “Under my orders, you are not to move from this bed. Understand?”
“I speak the same English as you,” Rosalyn responded, her speech now more rebellious than timid.
Ursula cut a dominating figure, even without her potions about her. Waist-length, obsidian-colored hair framed her deep, brooding eyes. Her skin was a stark contrast, as if she’d avoided the outdoors and spent her days under the covers. When Ursula clapped her hands together, Lachlan snapped out of his seductive thoughts.
“The lady’s feeling much more herself. Out you go, now,” she instructed, rising to her feet and shooing the servants toward the open door, like herding wayward sheep.
But Lachlan lingered, caught web-like between the two, blood pulsing through his groin. Thoughts of all three of them together in the chamber bed made him hard against his breeches.
He caught Ursula’s eyes first and she cooled his intention with her obstinate glare, her hands on her hips. Reticent and unyielding to his pleading grin, she pointed to the door.
Admitting temporary defeat, he shrugged his shoulders and left.
Once out of the room, Lachlan turned toward the main hallway, ready to retire to his chamber with a tanker of strong ale when his boot kicked something that blended in with the gray stone floor. Studying the mound more closely, he found the creature to be covered in fur.
A mouse? He’d saved one the other night from being beaten to death by a maid with an empty chamber pot. He smiled at the memory of the terrified servant, grateful he had saved her from the harmless critter.
Picking up the fuzzy wad, he held the bundle in the throbbing light of a wall sconce to discover it wasn’t a rodent after all, but a drawstring bag made of rabbit’s fur tied together snuggly at the top by a leather thong. Curiosity outweighed courtesy as he loosened the leather knot and eased open the pouch.
Peering inside the opening did nothing to reveal its contents, so Lachlan poked his fingers inside, his hand too big for the job. Soon he found an object that felt familiar and drew it out. Even in the semidarkness, the impressive, unset red stone gleamed and sparkled. This was clearly no chambermaid’s pouch.
Whack! Lachlan felt his heart jump. He’d nearly lost the jewel when the sound of Ursula slamming the door shut behind him made him bobble it, but he managed to jam the stone and the pouch into the empty tankard hanging from his belt before he spun around to face her.
She appeared rattled at finding him outside Rosalyn’s door.
He cleared his throat. “At the ready,” he offered, then swept into a low bow, his gaze holding hers.
Ursula eyeballed him suspiciously as he rose. “Your guest has lost something personal,” she informed him. “I was going to call for a maid to see if she could help in the search.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Lachlan insisted. “You stay with our guest. She’s a ward of the courts. Someone should keep an eye on her.”
“The woman’s a victim, not a prisoner,” Ursula said, her dark eyes narrowing, full of distrust.
Lachlan chuckled nervously while he slowly backed away. “What tis the missing item?”
“A fur pouch.”
“Yes, right. I shall see to it,” he promised and turned, heading toward the great hall. After ascending the stairs to the guest chambers, he paused on the landing to listen. Once he was sure Ursula hadn’t followed him, although he would enjoyed the minx’s company, he hurried in alone and bolted the door behind him.
Curiosity still overrode his sense of duty as he dumped the contents of the pouch on his desk. He combed through the tokens. A scrap of plaid, frayed around the edges, caught his attention first. He turned the fabric around in his hands, the fine wool soft against his skin. He set the plaid next to a lump of yellow wax. But it was the stamping seal, tipped on its side, that he sought next to examine more closely.
After loosening a burning tapered candle from the wall sconce above the desk, Lachlan softened the bee’s wax over the flame until it became pliable. When his fingertips started to burn, he dropped the gumming wad onto one of his parchment papers. Scooping up the stamp, he pressed it firmly into the naked wax anxious to find what markings it would reveal. He counted quickly to ten, then with care, peeled off the stamp to reveal its fresh imprint.
Lachlan stumbled back a step when he read the words on the hot wax. “Tha Séala Mor na h-Alba”, he uttered in disbelief. How could it be? He’d seen the symbol of the monarch on horseback before. It was unmistakable. The King of Scots’ seal.
Lachlan shook his head. Was it a fake? Part of Rosalyn’s forgery tools? How had she managed to keep this from the court? This very device could have proven her guilt.
And guilt was what he’d have on his conscience if he turned her over to the court with this evidence. How he wished he could be honest with her and the court as well, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until they appeared before the King of Scots, then Lachlan would need to prove his legacy amounted to more than just a surname.
When a sharp rap sounded on the chamber door, he quickly began shoving Rosalyn’s belongings back into the fur pouch. “What do you want?” he asked, hoping if only a servant, they’d leave him be.
“Sheriff, here.” The door rattled against its hinges. “Open up.”
With no time to consider an iron-forged key, Lachlan tossed it into the pouch and drew the drawstring taut. Later, he’d find a suitable hiding place. For now, he’d stash it in his crotch.
Lachlan chuckled after securing the soft fur. It tickled him as he w
alked to let the sheriff in.
The soldier stumbled into the room as if he’d been braced against the door. With a huff, he addressed him, “What are you hiding in here, Lachlan?”
Chapter 3
Grateful her accommodations had improved and feeling more herself, Rosalyn cautiously surveyed the chamber with half-closed eyes, admiring the rich, tapestried walls and masterfully carved furnishings, a stark contrast to the dank dungeon. But she couldn’t deny the truth, no matter how glamorous the surroundings. She was still a prisoner with a sheriff as an escort. And that’s why no matter what the chancellor had said, Rosalyn was certain her king, the King of Scots, would award her Fyvie if she could make her plea first.
But she’d need an ally.
As Rosalyn’s determination to control her fate bubbled, her gaze finished sweeping the room and settled on Ursula working meticulously over a cauldron hanging in the hearth. Rosalyn squinted through her lashes, secretly studying the woman, grateful she was the only guest left in her chamber after the healer had ushered out the rest, including Lachlan.
The English bastard had thwarted her plans for Fyvie and taken liberties. He’d kissed her. Twice. With the first, she’d been defenseless. The second, she should have given him a black eye for his trouble. Instead, she’d swooned from the lack of air. Because he was English, she should have been abhorred by the idea of kissing him, but he’d been so kissable. And handsome.
The Golden Rose of Scotland (The Ladies of Lore Book 2) Page 2
