Rosalyn studied him closely as he spoke.
“Praise Mary, we aren’t cousins,” she said with an odd look on her face.
“Because when we have children it won’t be blasphemous?” Lachlan asked, looking to rile her, and his efforts paid off. She huffed when he finished.
“Even in my grandfather’s day, cousins married,” he reminded her.
“Not first cousins. Nay, if you were my cousin, I couldnae argue with King James for my land.”
“Your land, through forgery,” he claimed, annoying her again.
She gave him a wild-eyed glare. “You’re suspected of forgery too,” she challenged.
“But even then, my crime would not be as serious as yours.”
Her beautiful, pouty mouth puckered, her amber eyes narrowed into slits, and she jutted out her chin in defiance. “Why is that?” she dared ask him.
Of course, he’d been an idiot to leave the king’s seal at Berwick. But when he’d contemplated it further, he began to wonder how he’d have proven it belonged to her.
Perhaps she’d even dropped the satchel on purpose knowing someone in the castle would find it and she’d be rid of the evidence. But the jewel? That made him pause. No, she would never put the red gem in jeopardy. But at least now he had a plan.
“Because with the proper evidence, you’d lose your pretty head.”
Chapter 13
Rosalyn balled a fist. Lachlan had rattled her before. Actually, every time she’d been alone with him her body became flooded with competing sensations. From loving to loathing, from adoration to angst, from trusting to tyrannous, no matter the circumstances, her heart would race and her anger spark.
Now, he was threatening her with evidence. Could he have found her pouch and kept it? Ursula had said she’d asked him about it. He was in the room. God’s teeth, he’d carried her there. How long had she been unconscious before others had joined him? He could have searched her body. He could have . . . she shuddered to think and stopped herself, then turned her attention back to Lachlan.
“Evidence? Show it now,” she demanded, rubbing her neck absentmindedly.
“I didn’t say I had the evidence. I’m speaking hypothetically.”
“Speak plainly, instead,” she said, never more angry with him for putting on airs and being secretive.
“The Golden Rose.”
“You donna have the Golden Rose.” She shook her head in disbelief, knowing her time spent with the bishop in the chapel made it clear that the Golden Rose would be anything but evidence against her.
“Yes, I do,” he said, pointing to something behind her. She spun around to look. If it was here, she hadn’t noticed.
Her eyes scanned the room and finally settled on a shelf behind the altar.
“Why is it displayed and not under lock and key?” He voiced what she’d been thinking.
“Perhaps the bishop believes he’s traveling with English men he can trust.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she turned around to face Lachlan. “But he’s a fool if he turns his back on men like you.”
Lachlan snorted and leapt up from the pillows as if he’d never been ill, and to her relief, secured the belt on his trews before he made his way to the rose.
Could he have been faking all along? Faking an illness to spy on others, on her, to gain entrance to the bishop’s sanctum?
“It’s beautiful, you know,” he said in a low voice, then he turned to look at her and paused. His gaze softened and the corners of his mouth turned up into that wicked grin. “But not as beautiful as you.”
Rosalyn coughed. “The healer needs no compliments to do her work. I wouldnae do anything more or less for you because of your flattery,” she promised him.
He picked up the vase and began to walk toward her.
She shook her finger at him and stood. “You should put that down. What if the bishop came in now and found you fondling his rose?”
“Ye, who throw caution to the wind, should not be so righteous. What if the bishop had come in and found you fondling my cock?”
Rosalyn burst out laughing at the thought, although she should have been mortified. Yes, that would have been dreadful and she hadn’t considered it when she was lost in the moment, when her heart had been thundering in her ears, when she’d never felt more alive in her life.
“I know about the rose. It’s been blessed. You could tarnish it.” Once she’d said the words, she couldn’t take them back and she didn’t mean to be so uncomplimentary, but perhaps that’s what she really thought. Although it was Lachlan’s turn now to laugh loudly.
“Me tarnish an artifact made of precious gold?”
As an alchemist, Rosalyn knew there were a number of ways to tarnish gold, but she wasn’t about to list those for Lachlan, nor did she want him to know the depth of her education.
“The Rose belongs to the King of Scots. You should look, not touch,” she insisted, but Lachlan ignored her anyway, walking to where she stood.
“You shouldn’t—”
“Shh!”
“Donna be shushing me—” she started.
“If you are going to lecture me, at least tell me what you know about the Rose. I heard the bishop invited you to a special ceremony.”
“I am the chosen one.”
Lachlan’s eyebrows arched up.
“‘Tis what the bishop told me,” she amended.
She held her head high. “I am the one chosen to deliver the Golden Rose to the king. It must be a Scot, and the bishop said I am the one.” There.
Perhaps now Lachlan would reconsider using evidence against her, if he had any, because she would not only be endeared by the Bishop of Imola, but also by her king.
“Then I will be in high regard for saving the life of the chosen one.”
Was he mocking her?
“Rose?”
“Why do you insist?”
He rolled his eyes. “The Golden Rose, not you, Rosalyn. You promised to tell me about it.”
She huffed. “Aye. You heard what the bishop said at Berwick, unless you were not listening, but flirting with the women at your table.” She paused and stared at him, but he returned a coy smile in answer to her suspicions.
“Then I shall remind you that the Golden Rose was blessed by Pope Innocent VIII and sent to Scotland as a gift to King James in recognition of—”
“Yes, yes, I know that part,” he said, interrupting her. “What’s its worth?” Lachlan asked as he held the rose up. “Are these jewels?” He picked at a red ruby nestled on one of the rose petals.
Rosalyn’s jaw dropped and she blinked rapidly. “It’s priceless.” Could he be that stupid? When he proceeded to start scratching at one of the leaves, she smacked his hand away.
“Why would the pope send a gift with jewels made of glass and roses painted in fake gold?” she asked, gazing at the vase full of ten beautifully crafted delicate roses, complete with thorns and stems.
“To keep men like me from coveting it.”
She took her gaze off the rose and gave him a sideways glance. “Not only is it made of pure gold, all the stones are real—precious rubies, diamonds, and emeralds.”
“Will this turn lead into gold?” he asked, tipping the rose sideways.
Is he joking? She blinked hard, and held back what she really wanted to say. “Nay, be careful,” she warned, wanting to grab the precious cargo from him. “That tall rose in the center holds musk and balsam oils used to bless the rose. You will nae be wanting to tip that over and spill out the Holy Spirit.”
As he righted the golden bouquet, Lachlan’s gaze caught hers over the top of the highest rose, the one that held the oils. His mischievous, unblinking stare made her heart miss a beat. Was it because she was
worried he’d do something idiotic again or something more disturbing?
“Here chosen one,” he said, breaking the long silence. His grin lit up his face as he shoved the precious Golden Rose toward her. “You take it.” And just as she reached for it, he let it drop.
Rosalyn screamed and her heart dropped too.
“Got you!” he shouted and burst out laughing.
Yes, she thought he’d dropped it, when only he pretended to. With a jester-like cock of his head, Lachlan turned on his heel, then strutted to the altar.
But just when he was setting the Rose back in its rightful spot, the wagon screeched to a halt and tossed him forward. This time, he almost dropped it without pretending. Once he regained his footing, Lachlan gingerly set it back in the sturdy box meant to keep it from tipping.
After a few moments, the curtains of wagon rustled and Ursula popped her head through with a murderous look on her face.
“I was riding with the driver and I heard a scream coming from here. I held the soldiers back because I said I would take care of whatever was happening.” She gave an exasperated glance about the wagon. “What’s happing?” Her eyes darted to Rosalyn. “Did you scream?”
“Ursula, assure the soldiers that there’s nothing wrong. I thought I saw a rat.” She glared at Lachlan for an instant, then gave Ursula her attention. “But I think I made a mistake.”
Ursula looked relieved, and she disappeared as quickly as she had come. In a few short moments, the wagon started up again.
“I hope you are proud of yourself,” Rosalyn said in a scolding tone. “Now, the entire party will be wondering what’s going on inside this wagon.”
Lachlan glanced at the Rose, safely back in its place, then walked to the opposite wall where the rosaries hung and began pushing against it, rocking the wagon slightly. He turned to look at her over his shoulder. “I can make them wonder even more.”
“And if you do that again, Lachlan, I shall scream even louder than before. Donna test me.”
He stopped, but still stared at her. His eyes began to narrow, his gaze smoldering. Was he angry with her defiant response?
Slowly, he turned and stepped forward with a swagger. The closer he came, the more intense his gaze. Once he reached her, his lips parted and his head raised slightly as if superior to her.
Without a word, Lachlan reached one hand under her chin and turned her face toward his. With the other hand, he grasped her firmly around the waist and pressed her to his groin. When she gasped, the corners of his mouth switched. He took the hand from her chin and raised it up above her head.
Her instincts told her to twist away. Cringing, she raised her elbow to serve as a shield.
But he didn’t strike her. Instead, he grabbed her elbow and in one swift moment, pinned both her arms to her sides. When he leaned toward her, his breath swept across her face, a mix of wine and herbs. Sweeter than she’d imagined after he’d taken the concoction.
Rosalyn’s chest heaved from her rapid breathing. What was he going to do? She was about to ask him outright, but just as her lips parted to speak, his mouth claimed hers and he drilled his tongue inside, twirling it and causing her to forget her question.
When his hands grabbed her arse, her eyes opened wide, prompting her back to clear thinking. While kneading her bum, Lachlan bunched the linen fabric efficiently up her back side. Before she realized his intention, his hands were under her dress.
That dream of being wrapped up with Lachlan in bed resurfaced. His movements intoxicating. But as much as this felt right, it was wrong. She shook her head to clear it from Lachlan’s effect.
Surely, his inclination to take liberties with her was intensified by the poison. Even if she could rationalize his bad behavior though, she did not intend to fall victim to bad judgment.
With his strength and strong hold, she needed a clever intervention to escape his groping, something other than screaming.
So instead of fighting, she began to give in to his kisses. Then she reached her hands behind his back to fondle his arse. What a muscular delight it was. No, do not enjoy this, she immediately told herself.
Lachlan responded with a deep groan and started grinding his hips against hers. Just as she was about to give him something else to think about, she discovered a bump under his belt. Odd. She reminded herself she was groping his arse, not his crotch.
She reached under his belt and tugged on the item. To her delight, it came loose into her hand. At that moment, she also raised her knee, and with a mighty effort, she thrust it between Lachlan’s legs.
Immediately, he released his hold on her lips and thighs. Then Lachlan grabbed his cock and screamed like a girl.
“Now, let’s see what they think has been going on in here,” she said, hiding the pouch in her skirts. “My work here is done. You are fully recovered.”
And with that, she turned her back on Lachlan and held on to the wall as the wagon came to another abrupt halt. Ready to join the driver and Ursula, Rosalyn escaped through the curtains, having had the last word.
Chapter 14
Lachlan woke disoriented. As he glanced about his surroundings, he was reminded of a church. Covered with ceremonial urns and silks, a makeshift altar ran the length of one wall. Rosaries hung on another. But then he remembered the poisoning and Rosalyn’s passionate mission to save him. Still baffled by some of her actions, the darn girl had left him aroused and wanting more. He wasn’t sure if it was the herb mixture or his partially satisfying and equally frustrating romp with her that made the difference.
Lachlan realized that he’d slept in the wagon and it was a new day. In no time at all, he was dressed and out in the camp mounting his horse as if he’d never been ill.
Lachlan circled the camp’s perimeter, but stopped short when he discovered another party had joined their group.
Drawing his horse flush with the bishop on the outer circle, he leaned toward the holy man hoping to get some answers.
“English or Scot?”
“Not Roman.” The bishop chuckled. “The men identified themselves as Knights of the Garter. Do you know them?”
“Ah, the noble Knights of the Garter,” Lachlan said, thinking back to a time when he was recruited. “The legendary order founded by King Edward III. They are quite revered,” Lachlan said in a condescending manner.
“You do not sound impressed.”
It was Lachlan’s turn to chuckle. “I have some history with the group and it did not fare well. Though I’m not familiar with any of those men.”
The bishop coughed politely. “I do believe they were part of the promised escort, though you and the other men have been quite efficient.”
Of course, the Garter knights were to be the original protectors. Lachlan paused. That did alter his plans somewhat. His hope was to arrive at Edinburgh Castle, the hero, having led the bishop, the Golden Rose, and the entire party safely from English soil to Rosalyn’s Scottish homeland.
But just as he was about to look for the lass, one of the rider’s caught his attention. A mounted nobleman without a Garter banner. As Lachlan squinted into the sun to get a better look, the man raised an arm and began to wave.
Lachlan spun in his saddle to look over his shoulder. Who the rider was signaling? But when it was obvious he’d been the mark, Lachlan turned back only to find the rider approaching. The wicked grin, a mirror to his own.
As the sun’s rays cut swaths of bright beams through the dense trees, his brother rode through splashes of light and dark until he reached them.
“Brother, good to see you.”
“Why are you here?” Lachlan demanded when his brother reined in his warhorse short before them.
The bishop made the sign of the cross. Clearing his throat, he offered, “One of these men appears to know you after all.
Scusami.” Then the holy man dug his heels into the sides of his steed and steered his horse toward the front of the caravan.
After the holy man was out of ear shot, his brother spoke first. “No words of endearment?” Ethan asked, cocking his head to one side, his sarcastic tone ripe.
“Last I heard, you were posing as me. I thought you traveled to Somerset, to see father.”
“Last I heard, you were poisoning me.”
“What?”
“Do not pretend,” Ethan spat, breath hissing through his teeth. “I know your plan. Sideline me from making my report. But father came to Berwick to see for himself. And he wasn’t pleased. You know what that means?”
Disgust rising from within, Lachlan glared at his brother. The same features, the same father, the same blood, but in Lachlan’s eyes they were more like mortal enemies.
“That you will do everything in your power to make yourself look good and make me look like an arse.” He was angry, and if they weren’t both mounted, he’d have punched him in the face.
“Turn around, Brother,” Lachlan said slowly, working hard to keep his voice level. “Go take my place in Berwick with the ladies. Tell them you are Lachlan and enjoy the fruits of my bed.”
His brother laughed louder than necessary. “What? And disobey Father? That’s a death sentence, Brother.”
“Perhaps only one of us will survive this battle for Fyvie,” Lachlan threatened.
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Ethan replied, his disgust apparent.
“If we are choosing allies in that arena, I already have the bishop in my stead.”
“You are too impressed with yourself to remember that he’s already blessed me.”
“The devil owns your soul. No blessing will save you.”
“Gentlemen!” Rosalyn’s sweet voice cut through the arguing. “Stop acting like spoilt children and prepare to disembark.”
The Golden Rose of Scotland (The Ladies of Lore Book 2) Page 9
