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

by Marisa Dillon

  Lachlan’s gaze darted from Rosalyn to the Garter knights, who’d stopped to gawk at their squabbling.

  “Brotherly banter, I assure you.” Lachlan’s swung his gaze to meet Rosalyn’s again. “Don’t you fight with your siblings?”

  “Not in front of noble knights and men of the church,” she said in a condescending manner, tsking him after.

  “Well then,” Lachlan said, clearing his throat, “we’ve just shown you how it’s properly done.” He glared at his brother and guided his horse forward, kicking the sides of his destrier.

  “Come, Rosalyn, it appears I may join your efforts and help you win Fyvie Castle after all.” He kept his eyes on his brother as his horse fell in step beside hers. “If it means defeating my father and brother at the same time, it may be worth the sacrifice,” he muttered to himself.

  Rosalyn sucked in a sharp breath, making him turn to her. Hope gleamed in her eyes. What was one castle, when he had the means to have many more? Perhaps his efforts would be better served joining forces with the Highland lass than fighting for it in her homeland. His brother had a way of altering his goals and ultimately, spoiling his good fun.

  Once the party was underway, it wasn’t more than a half days ride until the group, led by the Garter knights, finally thundered across the drawbridge, passing under the jaws of the iron portcullis gate, and into the grand walled fortress that guarded the King of Scots.

  First a golden rose to deliver, then Fyvie Castle’s fate to be determined. Lachlan was anxious for both.

  ~ ~ ~

  The last hours of the day’s ride passed quickly enough for Rosalyn after the soldiers had announced Edinburgh was near.

  And when her king’s castle finally came into view, her pride of being Scottish had never been stronger.

  Once they’d been properly welcomed, Rosalyn was led by soldier escort through the halls of King James’s castle, grateful to be a guest and not a prisoner.

  Her life had taken precarious turns since she’d left Aberdeen. Not sure of who to trust or what to cling to, except for her love of her family, it was her determination to regain control of Fyvie Castle that saw her this far.

  Through no fault of her own, though, Rosalyn had traveled through most of England and back to Scotland on her own without an escort. Although she’d left Aberdeen with her Uncle Angus, he’d fallen ill on their way to reclaim Fyvie. Traveling wool merchants from her home in Aberdeen had seen her safely to Berwick-upon-Tweed where she’d expected her uncle to rejoin her. But he hadn’t. Until today, finally back in her homeland, Rosalyn had been vulnerable without an escort.

  Now that she was settled in the chamber next to Ursula’s, Rosalyn fell backward onto a freshly threshed bed and closed her eyes, recounting the words Lachlan had said earlier that afternoon. Could she begin to hope that the jealousy and competition between the twin brothers could work in her favor?

  A sharp rap on the door interrupted her thoughts. Just as she raised her head to ask who was there, Ursula slipped into her chamber like a thief.

  “The plan?”

  “He’s on our side,” Rosalyn replied, hardness entering her voice.

  “What?” Ursula asked, crossing the ornate rug, stepping softly as if she was still trying to steal her way in to the chamber.

  “Lachlan is on our side. He wants to help me fight for Fyvie,” Rosalyn declared breathlessly, hoping there was some sincerity in his offer.

  “Why would he help you?” Ursula asked flatly, seemingly unimpressed with Rosalyn’s enthusiasm.

  “Because he hates his brother and father more than he wants the castle. I suppose there’s more, but I am certain his brother is a bigger threat than I am,” she concluded with a huff.

  Ursula eyed her like a traitor. “Remember, lass, I’ve known the man longer than you and I wouldn’t put much stock in his willingness to look out for you before he looks out for himself. What makes you so sure he and his brother aren’t playing you for a fool?”

  Rosalyn hopped up from the bed, anger flaring, cheeks heating as she moved toward Ursula. “Because I saw the go-for-blood look in their eyes. Because I heard the bitterness of competition in their voices. Because I could feel the hatred radiating between them.” Rosalyn’s hands fisted at her sides.

  Ursula took a measured step back as Rosalyn began searching inside her skirt pocket for the furry pouch. When she found it, she held it high above her head like a victory trophy. “And because I found this,” she said, gloating.

  Ursula remained silent, but crept closer when Rosalyn lowered the prize and began to loosen the thin, leather tie that held her precious pouch closed. She strode over to the bed and dumped the contents out onto the fur coverlet.

  Ursula followed, then stood, curiously quiet beside her as Rosalyn began spreading out her precious cargo.

  “Tartan. Key. Stone.” Rosalyn sucked in a sharp breath when the item she wanted wasn’t there.

  “Where is it?” She turned to Ursula as if she’d know.

  Ursula shrugged. “What are you missing? Is this the pouch you’d lost at Berwick?”

  Rosalyn nodded frantically, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “In Lachlan’s breeches,” she said, sniffling.

  Ursula burst out laughing. “You were searching Lachlan’s crotch in the bishop’s quarters and found this?” The healer’s eyes bugged out of her head.

  “That sounds horribly wrong. Please understand I was held in his tight embrace. He was kissing me and I wanted to get away.” She sighed when she realized Ursula was holding back another laugh. “I—He does not know I have it,” she said with an exasperated sigh, sitting down on the bed next to her precious belongings.

  Ursula joined her and put an arm around her shoulder. “Now, calm down and tell me everything from the beginning,” she said in a soothing voice.

  Rosalyn sniffled and laid her head on Ursula’s shoulder. Seeing some of her most beloved treasures made her yearn for her mother and family.

  “These are precious mementos. An important part of my life. My story. My family. I always carry them wherever I go.”

  Ursula unwound her arm from her shoulder, then reached over her lap to take hold of the red stone.

  “Do you recognize it?” Rosalyn asked, brightening.

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  Rosalyn nodded excitedly, forgetting some of her trepidation about the missing stamp.

  Ursula stared at her in awe. “How do you come by this?”

  “‘Tis been in my family for generations. It has been hidden. Sadly, many have died protecting it.”

  “If it wasn’t missing, Lachlan must not know the stone’s value.”

  Lachlan. The missing stamp. Her fears began swirling. A cloud of dread hung over her now and Ursula must have sensed it.

  “Tell me more. Start at the beginning,” Ursula asked her, reaching over to swipe a tear off her Rosalyn’s cheek in a loving way.

  Rosalyn heaved a sigh. “Yes, these tokens are all precious to me. The tartan. The stone . . .” She stroked the metal keepsake. “The key—” She lowered her voice. “to Fyvie’s secret treasure chest.”

  “Pray tell, the token you are missing is as precious as these?”

  “I’m missing evidence that will save me or damn me. And if Lachlan still has it, I’m not so sure he’ll want to save me.”

  Chapter 15

  Being back on Scottish soil made Lachlan a little uneasy as he lay on the massive chamber bed staring at the ornate ceiling the next day. Not that he expected foul play under the roof of King James at Edinburgh Castle, but he’d seen enough mysterious disappearances and unexplained deaths to keep his chamber locked and his sword in his hilt. Even more so while he stood in the way of his bro
ther’s ambition.

  Ethan was destructively greedy like his father. What bad luck that he hadn’t been able to convince his brother to let him secure Fyvie while Ethan played at Berwick. He’d promised his brother to give him the credit. He’d take it anyway. Now, he had to decide who he’d support before King James.

  The lass wanted Fyvie desperately. And at first, he hadn’t cared. Not a whit. But despite his wanting to remain detached, when it came to women, this one was proving difficult to ignore.

  He’d come to enjoy being pursued by the ladies of the court. Flowers in his room. Promises of trysts and late-night rendezvous. Whether well-seasoned or virgin, matron or maiden, Lachlan had welcomed them for flirtatious fun, but never, ever cared for one enough to settle. He loved women too much and it would be a crime to commit to only one forever. Wouldn’t it?

  Then why was this lass so special? This one whose torch flame-colored hair was as hot in hues as her temper was short.

  Now, the dilemma. What would he gain if he helped her while he undermined is brother and father? Admittedly, his thirst for land was as much to quench his desire for power as it was his father’s. And oh, how he hated the man his father had become. Yet, land was key to the kind of wealth and prestige he yearned for. Even if the title was not as important.

  What would he lose if he stole the land from her?

  The persistent knocking at his door finally broke through his thoughts, requiring him to answer door instead of his nagging questions.

  Lachlan raised his head off the pillow, “Who calls?”

  The door slowly creaked halfway open, then stopped. He’d forgotten to lock it. Even though he was dressed for the day, he’d been held in his chamber, waiting to be called by the king.

  When the silence grew too long, he jumped up from the bed still wearing his sword and grasping its hilt.

  But once a curly mop of graying hair appeared through the doorway, Lachlan relaxed his grip.

  “Scusami, perdono,” the bishop said shyly. “I meant not to make a suspicious entry, but one of my clergyman stepped on my robe in front of your door.” He chuckled, throwing his hands up and shrugging his shoulders. “They follow me too closely, you know,” he whispered, shutting the door behind him and leaving his entourage in the hall.

  The bishop’s face grew serious as he walked into the chamber. Lachlan pointed to a sitting area by the hearth and the bishop followed him there.

  Once they were seated, the holy man closed his eyes. “Let us pray,” he started. “Dear Lord, thank you for Lachlan’s guidance and Your Holy Grace in delivering us to the King of Scots safely. Only Your blessed gift, the Golden Rose, is missing and I seek Your assistance in bringing it back to its intended owner. Amen.”

  Lachlan’s eyes shot open as soon as the bishop finished his prayer, realizing he was the last one, other than the bishop and his men, to have been in the presence of the Rose.

  Bishop Passarelli’s kind eyes studied Lachlan, but he did not speak right away. Did the bishop think he had something to do with its disappearance?

  With a steady gaze and an unexpressive face, the bishop said, “The Rose is not the only thing missing, so is your brother.”

  Lachlan’s shoulders stiffened. “Ethan is missing? Pardon my blasphemous insinuation, but perhaps he’s with a wench somewhere in the castle.”

  The bishop’s right eyebrow raised slightly. “No need to look for him in the church’s chapel, you say?” He gave Lachlan a broad grin, but that quickly faded. “His horse is gone too. Do you know his plans?”

  Lachlan studied the holy man’s face. At first impression, it appeared Ethan’s whereabouts could be more closely associated with the missing rose than Lachlan’s. “I told him to go back to Berwick Castle. Perhaps he took my advice.”

  “You two were arguing yesterday.”

  “‘Tis how we communicate.”

  “Why did you want him to leave?”

  “Because he threatened me.”

  The bishop leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

  Lachlan mirrored him. And silence ensued.

  Finally, Lachlan knew what he had to do. He just needed the bishop’s permission.

  “I will find the Rose,” Lachlan pledged to the bishop then pounded his chest for emphasis. “I vowed to see it delivered safely to Edinburgh Castle, with the plan to place the blessed award into the hands of its king. My promise is more important than anything else before me.”

  The bishop’s gaze softened. “Yes, your honor is important to you,” he confirmed, “yet, you have another challenge before you that questions your honor.” The bishop paused then continued. “Your dispute with Rosalyn. How will that be settled?”

  Yes, how would that be settled? He had been distracted by the bishop’s news. The Rose was to be his barter.

  It took him a few moments to collect his thoughts, even more difficult with the bishop waiting. Though he wasn’t always honest, he refused to lie to the holy man.

  “The future of Fyvie is uncertain, but my service to Rosalyn is unwavering.” Lachlan gave the bishop a nod. “After speaking with my brother yesterday, I entertained the idea of joining forces with her, to find Fyvie’s ownership in her favor. Yet, even if I did, I know my father. He would tear it from her hands. And if I know Rosalyn, it would be the death of her.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “I’m at odds, Father,” Lachlan spoke honestly, his gaze dropping to his boots. “I’d hoped to win the favor of the king, as I said, with the delivery of the Rose and its party in good stead. Then have the castle in Aberdeen awarded to me as a gift of honor.”

  He stood and began to pace. “After that, arguments for or against property ownership I’d hoped would be avoided. Perhaps that was foolish,” he said, his gaze meeting the bishop’s.

  “No, my son, your intentions weren’t foolish, but perhaps your hope for an easy resolution was.” The holy man got up and started toward Lachlan.

  “The outcome is not in your hands anyway, my son.” The bishop rested his hand on Lachlan’s shoulder, the holy man’s long, flowing sleeve draping over most of Lachlan’s arm and chest. “It never is.”

  Giving his shoulder a light squeeze before he released it, the bishop turned to go. “The king wishes to settle Fyvie and your fate before dinner. It was he, who asked me to pay you a visit and make an assessment. I have what I need. I will see you in the great hall later this day,” he promised. Then the bishop silently glided out leaving Lachlan wishing he’d brought the king’s seal with him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Exhausted from the journey and the constant worry over the looming court proceedings, Rosalyn had slept til midday. Told upon waking to wait in her chamber until the king was ready to hear her plea, she had eaten alone. Thankfully, Ursula convinced the guard outside Rosalyn’s door to give her access and the healer helped Rosalyn pass the time as they concocting an herbal remedy that promised courage.

  Perhaps the exercise had been only a distraction, for Rosalyn felt anything but courageous when she was finally ushered into the great hall later that day.

  Her knees wobbled beneath her, just as they’d done the day she met Lachlan and argued her case for Fyvie before an English judge.

  Even though she was on native soil before her king, there was little to make her believe her situation had improved.

  Even more disturbing, the bishop had stopped by her room to tell her the Golden Rose was missing and asked if she had any idea who might have taken it.

  She wanted to say she was suspicious of Lachlan, for the disrespect of the holy artifact and his cavalier attitude toward it. What was more damning, though, was the fact that he’d been the last one, outside the bishop and his men, to see the Rose before they arrived at Edinburgh Castle.

  She was hoping that
any of those points could help her with a better chance of winning Fyvie. But as she pondered the circumstances, she began to put her fear in check. For even if he held the missing king’s seal, his integrity could be in doubt. Lachlan couldn’t prove the seal had been in her possession. In fact, for him to have it, could play to his detriment, giving the king reason to assume he’d stolen it and the Rose to forge his claim.

  As she approached the king’s dais, passing the curious courtesans, she still trembled. He was an intimidating figure, wearing a black bear skin around his shoulders, his blond mane of hair held in place by a gold encrusted crown decorated with massive precious stones. The light shining in through the windows from the late day sun reflected off the jewels creating a halo of light about his head and making him appear God-like.

  “Come forward,” he beckoned.

  She glanced nervously over her shoulder only to realize he was talking to her. Rosalyn lowered her head as she started forward, glancing under her lashes from side to side. Could Lachlan have forsaken his claim after all? She could only hope.

  “Hear ye, hear ye,” the court official announced. “We bring to order a dispute of Scottish property, one Fyvie Castle in Aberdeen.”

  Although it was the highest court in the land, the king’s court was the least formal. The king was the king, and his word was final. There was little need for anything other than His Majesty’s presence and a court bailiff to call to order. The onlookers were there merely for sport.

  “The court calls Rosalyn Macpherson to speak. Come forward.”

  Rosalyn shuffled her feet. She was already as far forward as she dared, but she dove down on one knee and bowed her head low before her king. “Your Majesty,” she said breathlessly.

  “Rise, Rosalyn.” His stern expression relaxed. “Be at ease. This is your court. Your voice will be heard.”