The Golden Rose of Scotland (The Ladies of Lore Book 2)

by Marisa Dillon

  She sighed.

  “Watching me, are you?” Ursula accused without turning around.

  Rosalyn coughed.

  “You know my intentions?”

  “No. Well, yes,” Rosalyn finally admitted. Of course, how could she be so idiotic? Most healers were also seers. Better concede now, or she’d stand to lose the woman’s trust.

  “Rowan berries?” Curious, Rosalyn sat up, still under the covers, propping her elbows on her knees. “And you’ve heated them?”

  “Red berries from the Faerie tree. ‘Tis what I know,” the healer said, turning toward her. “This will settle your stomach,” she promised as she made her way to the bed with her pestle and mortar.

  Rosalyn’s nostrils flared as the unmistakable aroma filled her sinuses first, then her lungs, soothing away the nausea that accompanies a fainting spell. Uncooked, she was certain the berries were poisonous. At least she might relax a little knowing Ursula wasn’t trying to put an end to her. Rosalyn hadn’t been able to trust anyone since arriving in Berwickshire.

  “Caorunn!” Rosalyn said with conviction, finally recalling the Gaelic name. She’d been taught much of the healing arts from her mother. “Good for many uses including witchcraft protection.”

  Ursula confirmed her appraisal with a nod and a reluctant smile, the first to grace her striking features.

  Rosalyn grinned and narrowed her gaze on Ursula. “You arenae English?”

  The healer sobered and studied Rosalyn for a moment, like a Scottish wildcat would before a retreat or attack. A smile flickered, then turned into a grin of acceptance when Ursula hiked her skirt to her knees and flipped up the hem to reveal a swatch of red, purple, and gray tartan sewn into the underside edge.

  “Highlander?” Rosalyn squealed, struggling to hide her enthusiasm.

  Ursula nodded.

  “Macpherson, sept and clan,” Rosalyn said proudly, wanting to show her plaid, but quickly remembering she couldn’t with her pouch missing.

  “Mackintosh sept, clan Fraser,” Ursula said, bursting with pride.

  “We’re near-cousins. Is your da Big Douglas? Is the laird still alive?”

  Ursula’s grim expression answered for her. “Da went down fighting for Berwick. He would nae have tolerated being evicted from his home like the rest. Four years past.” Ursula swiped a tumbling tear from her cheek, then sat on the bed next to Rosalyn. Scooping up some of the paste she’d made, the healer offered Rosalyn the concoction.

  Rosalyn swallowed the bitter herbs, then waited patiently, hoping the healer would offer more of her story. As if reading her thoughts again, Ursula scanned the chamber, then walked to the door and put her ear to the wood. Once she was satisfied no one would eavesdrop, she worked her way back to Rosalyn’s bedside and took up the stool.

  “As I was saying,” the healer started again, “my da went down fighting when the English shed Scots blood and murdered our legacy to this land. I’d rather see the French, even the pillaging Vikings, have Berwickshire than let English rule what’s rightfully ours.”

  Feeling an immediate kinship, Rosalyn’s heart went out to the Highland lass beside her. They’d both suffered from the loss of land and family. She’d make the perfect ally.

  As she mulled over how to approach Ursula on the subject, the woman placed a warm hand over her own. “You didnae need to convince me, I’ll help you escape.” Then she squeezed it and released a deep, back-of-the-throat chuckle. “And no, I didnae share Lachlan’s bed.”

  Rosalyn couldn’t help but gasp. She didn’t recall thinking about the two of them together. Or had she? Of course, she was curious about the man who’d been strapped to her back. Not a criminal, but a lord. A man who was accustomed to serving at court, accustomed to getting what he wanted.

  “No, he donna always get what he’s after. And his thoughts are so dark, I cannae read them much at all. I’ve tried,” she admitted with that cautious smile.

  “If you can’t read his thoughts, then what has he told you about himself?”

  “Not much at all, really. He’s brooding and I catch him staring at me most days. Not that I’m a beauty or anything, but he just does. It’s unsettling. He’s handsome, but conceited.”

  “Conceited?” Rosalyn giggled.

  “He likes his own appearance.” Ursula leaned in closer to share more whispered gossip. “At the end of a meal in the great hall I’ve caught him grinning in his goblet’s reflection.”

  That conceited smile. She’d been a witness.

  “And he takes liberties with unmarried noble women,” Ursula said, staring off into the hearth.

  “Aye! That I’ve seen firsthand,” Rosalyn confessed. “Just moments after I met him, he ravaged me with kisses. My hands were tied, and I couldn’t fight him off. Tis not a noble way to treat a woman. Is he a bastard?”

  “You could call him a skirt-chaser, stealing kisses and embraces like a thief, but the gossips say he doesnae bed his dalliances.” She leaned in closer as if happy to have a confidante. “No one knows much about his family, the de Lavertons. A few of the ladies of the court started looking into his heraldry, but couldn’t find much. Probably trying to decide if he’s a noble worth having or a bastard who should be passed up. But many enjoy his flirtatious attention.”

  Rosalyn considered all Ursula had said and cocked her head. “Does he nae have one redeeming quality?”

  Ursula’s gaze traveled to the ceiling and her face scrunched up as if her mind was occupied by complex problem. After a few moments of contemplation, though, Ursula finally released a little “ah.”

  “Aye, he does,” the healer admitted as she focused on Rosalyn again. “He can be kind.”

  “Kind?”

  “Not like you and I would be kind.” Ursula stole a look at the ceiling again. “Mayhap considerate is the better word?” Then she nodded as if satisfied.

  “Aye, now that you mention it,” Rosalyn said, “he did question the bailiff about my abhorrent treatment in the dungeon.” As much as Rosalyn wanted to dislike Lachlan for all the reasons she should—he was English; he was conceited; his nobility was in question; he took liberties—there was something about him that drew her to him.

  “Damn good kisser,” Rosalyn responded in a dreamy tone, but then she gasped, covering her mouth when she realized what she’d said aloud.

  Ursula gave her a disgusted glare and a tsk before she continued. “From afar I’ve watched him work his hands through his hair until it gleams in an unnatural manner. But that doesn’t deter most of the available ladies of the court who swoon at his glances. He could have any one of them, but says he’s waiting for me.” She drew her gaze from the fire and gave Rosalyn a he’ll-be-damned reaction. “Well, he can wait until his cock falls off, because it’s nae going to be. My heart is promised to another.”

  “Scot or English?”

  “Eww! My distaste of the English is as strong as yours.” Ursula nodded knowingly. “His da is chieftain of clan Mackenzie.”

  “Enemies! No, Ursula. The fates are cruel to you.”

  “Aye, they are, lass. That’s why we are apart for now. He travels from near Edinburgh through Berwickshire once a fortnight bringing the raw wool to be sold at market.”

  “So you see each other in secret.”

  “Aye, we slip away to the woods by the sea. There’s an abandoned farm by Marshall Meadows. For now, that ‘tis what we have.”

  A sharp rap on the door shattered their cocoon of intimacy and startled Rosalyn so much she shook as if a cold draft had entered the chamber.

  Ursula’s head jerked toward the door.

  “Open up. It’s the sheriff.”

  Rosalyn sucked in a sharp breath, unprepared for more questioning. She was hoping to avoid a conversation with another English official altoget
her. But before she had a chance to figure out a stall, Ursula was at the door opening it a crack only a mouse could navigate.

  “Making my rounds.” The sheriff’s gruff voice filtered in through the narrow slit.

  “Your charge is in my good hands, resting,” Ursula said.

  “Let me enter,” the sheriff persisted, pushing against the door and making his way into the room past a ruffled healer.

  Rosalyn swallowed a snicker.

  “The Bishop of Imola,” he began, addressing them, “we’re honored to have him as a guest at Berwick Castle. He’s traveled from Italy, sent by the pope for King James.” He paused. “The bishop has requested a Scot be present at the feast tonight.” He shuffled his feet. “You are the only Scot in residence,” he said, looking directly at Rosalyn.

  Rosalyn resisted the urge to glance at Ursula, who until they’d been alone had hidden her Gaelic lilt.

  “Will she have to attend in ball and chain?” Ursula asked provokingly as the sheriff’s gaze shifted. “As her healer, I cannot promise she has recovered enough to attend.” Her accomplice crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “What would assure her good health for tonight’s festivities?” he asked in a low, toneless voice, his gaze moving to the glowing hearth.

  “Her dirk returned and no guard to watch over her chamber. I’ll be her guardian from now on,” Ursula said, as simply as if she’d asked for sweet cream.

  “Then it will be quite the blessing in the great hall to see you both for the ceremony,” he replied with sarcasm, watching Ursula on his way out the door. As it closed with a hard slam, the healer’s eyes gleamed with victory.

  Chapter 4

  Primping, pinching, and pampering. Rosalyn was not accustomed to the pompous fussing she’d received in the past few hours preparing for dinner with the Italian bishop. Rarely did she receive this kind of attention. Of course, her mother had once had staff, but even then, Rosalyn and her sister, Rowen, shared a maid with her and most days dressed themselves.

  It went against her nature to accept the assistance. But when the handmaiden explained she might be beaten if she didn’t perform her duties, Rosalyn gave in.

  First, she was dressed in a silk lavender chemise that was topped with a deep purple velvet overdress.

  Next, her wild, red locks had to be tamed. As nervous as she was, Rosalyn couldn’t help but fidget while her hair was plaited into one long braid down the middle of her back. The maid wove in stings of amethysts before it was twisted into a crown shape atop Rosalyn’s head.

  Finally, when all the fussing was complete, the maid walked with her to the mirror’s view. Smoothing out the folds of her gown the young girl gushed, “You look like royalty, my lady.” When she took it all in, Rosalyn stepped back, surprised by the result of all the primping.

  “I do feel quite grand,” she admitted. At least more worthy of her clan’s station than she had in the past four years. She sighed deeply, reflecting on how much had changed. The dress she wore now reminded her of the finery her laird father would bring back from his wool trade travels to France. Before that he’d imported the raw wool to be spun in Aberdeen from the wild land of Norway. Then, he’d brought her beautiful jewelry made of silver. That was long ago.

  She was grateful to Ursula though, for the dress and blinked away a tiny tear, covering a sniffle with a cough. “Yes, quite grand. Surely, I’m ready to meet the bishop.”

  After a few more moments of fussing, the handmaiden finally led her to the grand hall entrance, instructing her to sit at the dais. Then with the confidence of a Macpherson, she walked into the great hall, crossing the room crowded with the curious and the courtly, to join Lachlan, the only familiar face in the place. Once she was at his side, Lachlan gave her a puzzled look.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, almost snarling.

  Ruffled at his obstinacy, she shot back a query of her own. “What kind of greeting is that coming from a nobleman who kissed me and vowed to protect me?”

  “God’s blood. If I’d kissed you, I’d remember it,” the man said, grinning wickedly.

  Rosalyn reassessed the man smiling at her. The cocksureness was there, but the charm and confidence were lacking even though the face looked the same. She huffed, “What have you done with Lockie?”

  A clean scowl replaced the dirty grin.

  “Lockie?” he growled.

  “Right here, Brother.” The response came from behind her.

  Rosalyn whirled around to find the charming smile she’d been seeking. “Lockie?”

  He caught her up in his arms, leaning close to her as if he’d kiss her. “You’ve been looking for me?”

  With a gasp, Rosalyn stumbled backward only to be caught in the arms of the Lachlan impostor behind her.

  “She’s my ward.” A hand reached out to tug Rosalyn free of both men. She caught a glimpse of the black, glossy hair and recognized the gentle but firm grip even before she could breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Identical twins?” Rosalyn whispered to herself, the resemblance remarkable. Ursula held her elbow protectively as she tried not to gawk at them. She glanced at her friend looking for an explanation, but the healer shrugged.

  Awkward silence prevailed until Lachlan put his arm around his brother’s shoulder and offered an explanation. “You must have mistaken me for my brother, Ethan. He just arrived today from Aberdeen.”

  Rosalyn’s eyes narrowed. Aberdeen? What was an Englishman doing in the Scottish Highlands?

  “Just arrived, aye. Sent by our father to investigate,” Ethan said, shoving his brother’s arm from his shoulder in an odd show of animosity. “In his words, ‘Find the bastard judge keeping Lachlan from settling our claim and take care of it.’”

  “Your claim?” Rosalyn’s cheeks flamed. Ursula’s grip tightened, but Rosalyn shrugged her off as she strode forward to stand toe-to-toe with Ethan. Glaring up at him, she didn’t let his dominating figure or returned scowl dissuade her from what she was ready to say. “Tis nae your—”

  She was interrupted by a hand clapping over her mouth. Lachlan had come behind her and stopped her from telling his brother all about the court and her claim. She wanted to bite his hand so she could get on with it, her blood boiling, but he held a firm grip. Tantrum-like, she stomped on his boot, but he didn’t even flinch, instead his other arm wound around her waist as he drew her close.

  “Unhand her!” The command came from an authoritative voice to her right. Lachlan’s hands went limp and Rosalyn let out low whistle, a puff of air leaving her lips. She was relieved a referee had stopped the tiff and gave her a moment to let her anger subside.

  She turned to find the sheriff staring at the group of them, but he addressed Lachlan. “You are still under my guardianship, so mind your actions lest I have to bind your wrists again,” the court’s servant warned.

  “Bind your wrists?” Ethan asked, his expression giving away his disgust. “You told me you were dealing with a trivial delay.”

  “I’m the trivial delay,” Rosalyn said, speaking up, but calmer now that the sheriff had intervened. Even though the guard was English, he’d more likely protect her interests than Lachlan or his brother. But any further words on the matter would have to wait. A hush fell over the room.

  Covered in gilded regalia and followed by six priests, the Italian bishop entered the great hall. Ivory robes flowing, as if gliding on angels’ wings, the pope’s emissary cut a path through the great hall while courtesans gawked. Most had at least the courtesy of bowing with respect when he passed. As the holy man came closer, Ursula pointed to a chair for Rosalyn to take on her right at the end of the head table.

  While she took up her place, Rosalyn’s gaze followed Lachlan as he steered his brother to a long trestle table nearby filled with ladie
s of the court who giggled as both men took their seats.

  When Ursula nudged her ribs, Rosalyn turned toward the healer, ready for a query or comment, but felt a hand on her leg instead. Resisting the urge to swear, Rosalyn locked her gaze with Ursula while her Scottish ally handed her something cold and heavy beneath the table.

  Her missing dirk?

  When the reigning Lord of Berwick Castle met the bishop at the dais and bowed deeply with hands in prayer, Ursula whispered in her ear, “That’s First Lord Hailes.”

  “Thank you,” she said more for her dagger than the information, then she turned her head to follow the proceedings as she slyly tucked the covered weapon into her boot.

  “Rise, my son,” the bishop said softly, stepping up to the dais and taking a place beside the castle’s lord. The six Catholic priests, also richly robed, joined them.

  Lord Hailes signaled for all to rise and everyone in the great hall stood. Sweeping an arm toward his guest and beaming with pride, he announced, “Courtesans, welcome Giacomo Passarelli, the Bishop of Imola, sent by Pope Innocent VIII of Italy.”

  The bishop extended his left hand and Lord Hailes kissed the holy man’s golden ring. Then with gentle grace, Bishop Passarelli reached his hands out in supplication to the reverent courtly guests. Blinking heavy-lidded dark eyes, he exuded peace and calm as he glanced about the room. His linen headdress crowned a head of graying, shoulder length curls.

  Rosalyn had never seen a bishop before and found herself intrigued by his presence.

  While the lord continued his address, Rosalyn worried over the reasons why the bishop wanted her at the high table. Surely, human sacrifice was not a catholic practice, but she’d heard stories of Vikings taking virgins for their God Odin at ceremonious occasions. Were the Italians as primitive? She couldn’t help but wonder why a Scot needed to be on the dais. Even with Ursula at her side as her guardian, there was little the healer could do if an agent of the pope made a formal request.