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

by Marisa Dillon

  “Comfortable?”

  Rosalyn yelped when she looked up and found Lachlan peering at her.

  “Ursula said you’d be decent.” He paused. “I’m not being perverted,” he said, color rising on his cheeks for the first time in her memory. “She asked me to deliver this.” He pitched a soft bundle over the gate to Rosalyn.

  She caught it and tossed him a grateful grin.

  Lachlan gave Rosalyn a long, thoughtful look and said, “Happy to see you smiling after that attack.”

  “Thank you for being my guardian.” Rosalyn choked back the emotion that nearly bubbled to the surface.

  He nodded, turned to go, then whipped around just as quickly. “Almost forgot,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed. “Bishop Passarelli heard that you took a tumble in the brush,” he said, winking, “and he insists you ride in the wagon for the rest of the day.”

  When Rosalyn protested, Lachlan held up his hand. “Disagree all you want with me, but the bishop insisted. He’s a man of God and you can’t argue with God’s will.”

  She contemplated that for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. “Then I cannae refuse.”

  Lachlan chuckled, nodded in agreement, turned and left.

  Rosalyn heaved a grateful sigh as she removed the makeshift cape Lachlan had fashioned into a coat, then stepped out of the torn dress. Grateful for a change of clothes, Rosalyn slipped a comfortable linen shift over her head.

  God’s will. What did he have in store for her? Life with Lachlan was getting complicated. Damn. Somehow, she hated him less than yesterday.

  ~ ~ ~

  As Lachlan strutted across the clearing toward Rosalyn’s palfrey, he hummed a little tune. The redhead was no longer angry with him. In the bishop’s wagon, she’d behaved like coy cat, seemingly approachable. But as Lachlan considered the comparison further, his cocky grin disappeared when he remembered cats are also unpredictable, capable of clawing your eyes out.

  Reaching her palfrey, Lachlan came to a reasonable conclusion, deciding it would be prudent to keep a good distance between them the next time they spoke. That anger of hers could spark at the slightest provocation and she also was dangerous with her dirk.

  As he pondered her redeeming qualities and readied her mount for the bishop, Lachlan noticed Rosalyn’s flask dangling from the saddle. Because he had followed her into the woods and not eaten or drank for hours, he was famished.

  “Well, at least I could have a drink while I wait,” Lachlan muttered.

  Tugging at the ties, Lachlan easily released it from the saddle and popped off its cork. With a long swig, he guzzled the liquid. “Hmm. Not mead at all. Perhaps it’s wine from northern Scotland,” he whispered as he secured the flask to Rosalyn’s saddle.

  “Bene! Eccoti,” came a familiar voice from behind. “E l’eroe!”

  Lachlan spun around to greet the bishop. Did he just call him a hero?

  “You are doing God’s work,” the holy man said, switching back to English. “The lass is lucky to have had you as her savior,” Bishop Passarelli continued, walking up to receive the palfrey’s reins. “A chi bene crede, Dio provvede.”

  As Lachlan struggled to understand, the bishop offered the translation. “He who serves God has a good master.”

  Lachlan nodded and grinned at the smiling bishop. He was cherub-like except for the graying hair.

  “Are you feeling bene?”

  There was that mix of English and Italian again. Lachlan had studied Latin in school, yet he was not as familiar with the Roman language. But it was the look of concern on the bishop’s face, not the snippet of Italian, that prompted Lachlan to scratch his beard.

  “This morn, after I gave you the blessing, you drank the wine and not long after started to shiver and broke out in a sweat. Then you left to rest,” the bishop said, still eyeing him with concern.

  Ethan. He’d been the one at the table that morning for the blessing with Rosalyn. Now it made sense. No doubt his conniving brother did nothing to correct the misunderstanding.

  Lachlan cleared his throat and squared his shoulders before he responded. “But of course I’m well. Here I am,” Lachlan replied in a cherry tone. Although now that he thought about it, he did not feel well. His skin felt clammy and his mouth dry, as if he had grabbed some trail dirt and eaten that instead.

  The wine?

  “If you are insistere, let’s ride together. As I told you before, it’s rare my position allows me a moment in the saddle.” The holy man shook his head. “Such a waste. My father sent me to a prestigious riding academy and now I’m told to ride like an old man in a woman’s wagon.”

  The bishop stopped for a moment and looked at Lachlan, who saw a glint of mischief in the bishop’s eyes. “Let’s have a race,” the bishop said with childlike enthusiasm.

  Wanting to give the bishop a chance to relive his youth, Lachlan nodded as they mounted their horses.

  “To the fallen tree,” Lachlan challenged, pointing to the toppled oak about two hundred paces off the trail.

  “And back,” the bishop responded.

  Lachlan turned around in his saddle and quickly surveyed the camp, grateful to find most of the men still laughing and drinking near the supply wagon. He nudged his war horse into a canter and led the way to the trail’s edge.

  “On my mark,” the bishop said barely loud enough for Lachlan to hear. “Ready, set, race!”

  Lachlan dug his heels into his horse. The destrier shot forward. But the bishop beat Lachlan at the start and led by a length. Lachlan kicked his mount again and the horse surged.

  They raced toward the tree, the wind whipping Lachlan’s cape wildly behind him. He hadn’t been challenged in a long while. It felt exhilarating.

  They reached the fallen tree and the bishop rounded the old oak first with Lachlan close behind.

  As they approached the camp, cheers and shouts filled the air. The race had become a public spectacle.

  Lachlan kicked his warhorse’s flanks again and drew head-to-head with the bishop, his mount snorting with competitive zeal.

  The riders rushed toward the finish line with Lachlan in the lead. But just as Lachlan anticipated victory, his vision blurred and his mind spun.

  He grabbed the beast’s mane and dug his fingers into the coarse tufts to anchor himself.

  They were almost there. Closer, closer.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter 10

  When the soldiers carried Lachlan’s limp body into the wagon, Rosalyn didn’t know what to think.

  “Make way, make way.” Ursula’s demanding voice could be heard from behind the men as they eased Lachlan onto the floor near Rosalyn’s feet, his skin slick and pale.

  Lachlan groaned as Rosalyn tried to make him comfortable. Propping his head on a pillow, his eyelids fluttered. The men had removed his armor and his shirt. Lachlan’s charming mouth trembled, as did his entire body as if it was buried in snow.

  “Be quick about it, men. Out of the wagon. I’m in charge now,” the healer barked, like a commander, making the retired knights rush out and follow her bidding.

  Motioning to Rosalyn for help, she forgot her own worries and scrambled to her feet.

  “What happened?” she whispered to her friend.

  “Our plan is working,” Ursula bragged and revealed Rosalyn’s flask tied to her belt.

  Rosalyn clamped down on her lip, biting it to stop from gasping. The leftover poison. Apparently Lachlan had found her flask.

  Once Lachlan appeared settled, Ursula mouthed directions for her to move to the back of the tent.

  As they huddled in the corner next to the long row of rosaries, pangs of regret washed over Rosalyn.

  “You said the plan is working, but this isnae the plan,” Rosa
lyn whispered.

  The healer’s eyes narrowed. “This is the plan,” Ursula whispered more harshly, then nodded toward Lachlan without taking her hard stare off Rosalyn.

  “That was before he saved my life.” Her words were choked with emotion.

  When Ursula’s eyes grew as wide as saucers and her lips hardened into a thin line, Rosalyn hesitated, wanting to come up with a rational reason for her change of heart. Finally, she said with a sigh, “‘Tis complicated.”

  “Surely, ‘tis complicated. Poisoning someone ‘tis complicated.” Ursula let out a huff.

  “Well, it needs to be undone.”

  “Cannae be undone.”

  “No antidote?”

  Ursula crossed her arms over her chest.

  Rosalyn did the same, but looked up into the ceiling of the bishop’s sanctum, instead of into the harsh, judging eyes of her friend. Herbs of all kinds hung from the sturdy rafters above their heads. No doubt there was a concoction Ursula could make that would at least ease the symptoms. She lowered her eyes, ready for battle, but then a commotion at the entry made her spin away from confrontation to find out what was causing all the noise.

  “Scusami!” The word rung through the wagon as a white linen hat framed by graying curls popped into view. In a few short moments, the bishop had climbed into his sanctum, straightened his robes, and was looking to the two of them for an explanation.

  “Your Excellency,” Ursula said, speaking first and bowing her head in respect. Rosalyn bowed low, too.

  “Rise, young maidens. No formalities needed here,” he insisted, sweeping his hands in a wide arc. “What ails e l’eroe?”

  They both looked at each other, then back at the bishop. Ursula gasped. “Hero?”

  “Saving the life of the lovely Rosalyn with God’s guidance. Si, e l’eroe,” the bishop said with pride, looking down at a groaning Lachlan.

  Rosalyn turned away from Ursula to hide her smug smile. Yes, until today, Rosalyn would have joined Ursula in poisoning Lachlan with no regrets. Up until then, he’d been only her advisory, conceited and self-serving, intent on taking Fyvie from her. But her feelings had changed.

  Rosalyn glanced over at Ursula when the silence lingered too long, but it appeared her friend’s reticence had her tongue, so Rosalyn answered. “Aye, bishop, he is my hero and it’s our turn to save him. I believe he’s been poisoned.” Rosalyn clasped her hands together in a pleading prayer. “I can only hope Ursula will give him an antidote.”

  She was close enough to the Highland lass to hear her sigh. Then Ursula tossed her an I-will-get-even-with-you glare that the bishop couldn’t see, before she sweetened her tone. “But of course, Your Excellency,” her friend said through slightly gritted teeth, “I will do everything in my power, but I am in need of a few special herbs.” She stopped and stared up into the rafters as if searching and not finding what she wanted.

  “I suspect you’ll be needing valerian and horehound. Perhaps even a dash of sage,” the bishop offered with a warm smile. “You shall not find them with my common herbs,” he said, walking toward the chest. Once there, he threw back the lid and began tossing silk bundles to the floor. Altar coverings or ceremonial robe adornments, she wasn’t sure which, but he treated them like common kitchen linens as his search intensified.

  Finally, he let out a little shriek of joy after finding what he wanted. With great care, the bishop lifted up an ornately carved ivory box, then cradled it in his arms like a baby ready for christening, taking it to the makeshift altar.

  Once the holy man opened the treasured box, he got busy sorting through its contents like a young boy again. Brightly patterned silk sachets where tossed onto the altar while he dug around inside for something special.

  While the holy man’s search continued, Rosalyn shrugged her shoulders in response to Ursula’s irritated gaze. She didn’t dare interrupt the bishop’s search. But finally, after a triumphant shout, the bishop held up a fuchsia silk pouch covered in gold embroidered stiches and Rosalyn released a grateful sigh of relief.

  “Si, signora. Si, I have what you seek,” the bishop said with pride as he turned and held up the satchel like a prized fish. “Come, come, join me.”

  Now it was Ursula’s turn to shrug her shoulders, when she surrendered to the giddy glee of the holy man and his resources. Following the bishop to the altar, Ursula and Rosalyn knelt on either side of him.

  “Si, here are the herbs you will need,” he said in a victorious rush, thrusting the fuchsia colored bundle into Rosalyn’s hands. “As the chosen one, you also have the power to heal. You always have. You will know what to do. Believe in yourself,” he said as if to help manifest her confidence. Then he rose, made the sign of the cross over his heart, and began to pray in Latin.

  As Rosalyn waited for the bishop to finish his prayer, a new plan began brewing in her head. Plants and flowers, learning their vocabulary with her grandmother, that had been her life’s classroom. And even in the short time she’d spent with Ursula, Rosalyn had learned much more.

  Was it the bishop’s prayer, or the confidence he had in her? Either, or both, somehow Rosalyn was certain, even without Ursula’s assistance, she could save Lachlan. The debt could be repaid now. Then, she’d be free to fight for Fyvie.

  Before the prayer was finished though, Ursula nudged her ribs, forcing Rosalyn to open her eyes.

  When the healer extended her hand, Rosalyn shook her head.

  Ursula huffed, narrowed her eyes and reached for the parcel.

  With her own huff, Rosalyn swatted Ursula’s hand away and tucked the precious cargo behind her back.

  When the bishop finally finished, he walked directly to the wagon entrance and quietly disappeared without another word to either of them.

  They watched him leave in silence, then spun to face each other. “What do you intend to do with the herbs? Throw them out?” Rosalyn accused.

  “You want Fyvie Castle back, donna you now?” her friend bristled, her brogue returning.

  “No. Well, yes, without hurting Lachlan.”

  As if he was listening, Lachlan let out a loud groan, then began babbling between shouts of obvious pain.

  Rosalyn tensed her entire body as if she would could somehow absorb some of the hurt. She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle and began to twist back and forth.

  “You arenae hurting him. You didnae take a weapon to his flesh.”

  “Nay, but I am still responsible for this,” Rosalyn said, pointing at his flailing limbs and sweating brow. “He looks like he’s burning from flames we cannae see.”

  Ursula’s face hardened, statue-like in its inflexibility. She blinked a few times and then finally spoke. “I willnae be the one to make the decision for you,” she said, trembling from either anger or exhaustion. “This is your battle to win or lose. Your patient to heal or not. Do what your heart tells you is right. I will support your choice, but it will not ride on the back of my conscience.”

  With final huff and flick of her waist-length hair, Ursula spun on her heel, and without another word, she climbed out of the wagon.

  Rosalyn let out the breath she was holding. She could not explain the total change of heart, but the man who lay writhing in perspiration and pain was her responsibility now. Even if his intention had been to spy on her in the woods, in the end, he had committed a selfless act. He’d have much to gain if she’d been killed.

  When Lachlan’s groan brought her back to the present, Rosalyn dropped to her knees by his side. Reaching across his bare chest covered in dark, curly hair with the intent to capture a pillow and make it her ally, she stopped abruptly when her chest brushed his.

  In that moment, she had the urge to let her cheek rest on his taut chest muscles. She set her ear to his heart. When the steady beat reassured her, she let out a lit
tle sigh.

  “What type of healing are you providing, lass?”

  Rosalyn sucked in a sharp breath and jerked her head up. But she wasn’t fast enough. Before she could move away, he’d wrapped his arms around her back and he trapped her to his chest.

  Chapter 11

  Rosalyn closed her eyes, trying not to panic, and took in a long, calming breath, until Lachlan squeezed the air right out of her and she started gasping.

  “Just a little lower, my love. With this kind doctoring . . .”

  “Let me go,” she demanded, interrupting whatever suggestive words he had for her. She squirmed against his hold. “You don’t understand.”

  “All I know is that one moment I’m winning a horse race against the bishop, and the next you are in my arms.” He gave her a kiss on the top of her head. “You are a gift from God. The bishop knew what I needed to be right again.”

  “God’s teeth, you are not right in the head,” she said, her tone more irritated than she meant. “God would not punish me to make you whole.”

  Rosalyn wasn’t sure if it was her words or her wiggling that had the desired result, but after a few moments of pushing against him, she broke free.

  Rising up from Lachlan’s chest, Rosalyn smoothed her tousled hair away from her eyes, then with a tsk, she adjusted her bodice back in place.

  When she gazed down, wondering why he’d given up so easily, Rosalyn was greeted by a placid Lachlan, looking very much like he was asleep.

  She wanted to slap him and tell him to quit pretending. But then she noticed his heavy breathing and relaxed, almost angelic, face.