by Paula Quinn
Everyone remained silent and still while his words settled on them.
“I must go.” Her mother broke the silence and swept her blanket off. Abby held it in place in her lap.
“Are ye mad to think we’d let ye go, Davina?” her uncle Colin asked.
“Mayhap the fever has returned,” said her uncle Connor Grant.
“Should I get Isobel?” her uncle Tristan asked, bringing more relief to Abby, knowing that they agreed with her father.
“I can’t let people I love die because of me. Not again.”
“We need to alert the other clans.”
“Aye, Tristan,” her father agreed. “I dinna’ think the queen knows where in Skye we are. She’ll send her army throughout.”
“Robbie,” her mother pleaded woefully. “Please. I can make it to London and stop any fighting from taking place. Let me do it.”
Abby had heard tales of St. Christopher’s Abbey, where her mother grew up, and how her royal family was responsible for hiring a madman to burn it down with the more than twenty nuns who raised her inside. She would have died as well if Abby’s father hadn’t rescued her from the flames. Her mother didn’t want to be responsible for more deaths.
How had Anne found out about her? Had she always known? Did she really just want assurances that the firstborn heir to England’s throne didn’t want the seat?
“Davina,” her father said softly. “My mind is set, my love.”
“What of our kin?” her mother insisted. “Our bairns, Rob. What if they are killed?”
“I will go in her stead, Faither!”
Hell, Abby wasn’t afraid to go to England. Her mother was happy just where she was. Abby would make her aunt see that. She would win her favor for her mother’s sake and try to guarantee some kind of protection for the clan. Protection against the loss of their name and their beliefs. She wasn’t afraid. What was the worst that could happen? It wasn’t like her pistol-swinging brothers were coming with her. Mayhap she might even meet a handsome knight like the ones from her grandmother’s books. She’d be escorted by the queen’s personal guards, so nothing… She blinked at her father, who was staring at her like she’d just sprouted a second head.
“Abigail, d’ye sincerely think I’d let ye go to England alone?”
Her eyes glittered like the frost on the mountaintops outside the castle, but there was nothing cold about her. Like her mother, everyone at Camlochlin loved Abby. She fit in with everyone—whether in the kitchen, in the sewing chamber, or on the practice field. The chief’s only daughter won every heart, especially her father’s.
“Ye dinna’ have a choice, Faither. Our clan depends on it. I will do whatever I must to keep us safe. The royal army would do much damage and eventually they would find us. I’m not going to sit back while my beloved faither and uncles fight and possibly die in a battle. I’m going. My mind is set.”
Colin was the only uncle who smiled. It was slight, but Abby caught it.
“Ye will go over my dead body, Abby,” her mother told her sternly.
“And ’twill be dead indeed if ye try to go, Mother.” She shook her head and turned to the men again. “Ye all know that one day I want to be the chief. Though I’m a woman, I want to prove to ye that I’m worthy of the title.”
Colin raised his cup to her and smiled. “Ye’re braw, lass. Ye’ll have my ‘aye’ when the times comes fer the next chief to be chosen.” He turned to her father and winked at him. “Not that I want that day to come any time soon, brother. I just think she’s a better choice than Adam—”
“I dinna’ give a damn about that,” her father shouted. “Ye think my only daughter should go to meet our enemy alone?”
“Nae, of course not,” Colin insisted. “Why the hell would ye think that? We’ll stay a day behind her.”
Tristan smiled. So did Connor. Abby loved them all.
Looking at them, she understood why she waited for a certain kind of man.
“I canna’ let her go.” Her father turned to her. “Ye ask the impossible.”
She smiled softly and went to him, taking his arm in hers. “Faither, I love ye with all my heart, but I didna’ ask.”
Abby penned her reply to the queen herself and without waiting for her father’s approval, she rode to Broadford and made arrangements to have the letter delivered to St. James’s Palace. Upon her return to Camlochlin, she met up with her brother, who was returning from Torrin.
“Where were ye today, Adam?” she asked her eldest brother, riding her surefooted mount around his appropriately named dog, Goliath. “Faither sent fer ye and ye didna’ come.”
Adam exhaled a long breath and turned his eyes toward Camas Fhionnairigh. Abby knew where he’d been and what he’d been doing instead of seeing to his duty. She didn’t blame Murron MacDonald. Adam was striking, with raven hair, pale skin like their mother’s, and even lighter blue-gray eyes. He was a spectacular blend of both her parents.
“Aye, a letter from London. The twins told me.” He swung his cool gaze to her. “Ye know I have nae interest in anything English.”
“It seems ye have nae interest in anything that doesna’ come in a skirt.”
He smiled and Abby thought it a pity that he was so arrogant and flippant about his life.
“Ye are practically handing me yer birthright, Adam.”
He shrugged. “Who says I want it?”
He didn’t. He’d made it clear on more occasions than one. He didn’t want to rule. He wanted to raid, women mostly. That was fine with her. Less opposition later. She smiled.
“Give it to me then.” She waited for his answer. If he handed his birthright over to her, no one would contest it. “Why wait?”
He laughed, infuriating her that he found his birthright a matter of jest.
“Why d’ye want the weight of our clan’s survival on yer shoulders?” he asked her. “Find a husband and have babies, sister.”
Oh, she wanted to punch him in the face. She never wanted to punch anyone so badly. “Adam, ye—”
“I say that because I love ye,” he cut her off. “I dinna’ want to see ye carry such responsibility on yer back. Ye dinna’ understand how crushing being chief will be.”
“And ye do?”
“I’ve been groomed fer it my whole life. I have a better idea than ye have aboot it.”
She didn’t care. It didn’t matter how hard it was to be chief. It was all she wanted. And she almost always got what she wanted. She was strong, independent, and loyal to her clan. Her father knew she was as stubborn as him, and that was why she remained unwed. She wasn’t opposed to marriage. She was opposed to marriage to a man who wasn’t right for her. She would know her future husband when she met him, and until then she would remain unwed.
“’Twas a letter from the queen,” she told her brother, wanting him to hear her decision from her own lips. “She knows of Mother’s existence.” Ah, finally, a reaction other than a glib smile. “Queen Anne has commanded Mother to travel to London with English guards.”
“She canna’ go.”
“She isna’ going. I am.”
He laughed again and she smiled with him but there was no humor in her eyes. Let them all think she was mad or foolish. This was her clan and she wasn’t going to let harm come to them because of a queen’s command.
“And Faither has agreed to this?” her brother asked.
“He will. If I dinna’ go, the queen has promised to send an army here.”
They discussed it more, with Adam finally taking the matter more seriously. The thought of him leading the clan someday riled her. Thank God that she came from a line of strong, fearless women who knew what they wanted and took it. They would support her. They had to.
She was going to England with or without her father’s permission, and one day she was going to be chief.
Chapter Two
General Daniel Marlow of the Order of the Garter remained still while his valet dressed him. Hell, he hated formal a
ttire, with all its pomposity and lace. His thick embroidered brocade waistcoat and justacorps made him feel heavier on his feet. He could barely move his damn head around the magnitude of heavy lace at his throat. His wrists, too, were shackled in it. And who in damnation decided to make shoes with high heels for feet the size of his? His squashed toes only added to his increasingly foul mood. He’d rather be wearing his uniform, though even that was a bit stiff and overdone.
“Think the queen would take offense to me arriving in my coat, breeches, and boots?”
His valet patted the creases in his turned-out lapels and shook his head. “No, my lord. Her Majesty takes no offense in anything you do. But it’s always to your benefit to please her.”
Aye, the queen had bestowed many gracious gifts upon him. She made him the Duke of Darlington, granted him the rank of captain-general of her entire army, and made him a knight of the Order of the Garter, the highest order of chivalry. She didn’t have to grant him such honor. He had pledged his loyalty to the throne, as his father and grandfather had done before him. Regardless of who sat there or what they gave or didn’t give him, he would serve them. Presently, he served Anne Stuart.
“She is so madly in love with you, I doubt she would care if you arrived in a moth-eaten sack.”
Daniel flashed a glare at the old man but didn’t admonish him for speaking so of the queen. Albert Carlisle had been in his service for fifteen years and Daniel was quite fond of him. What they spoke of in private was no one’s damn concern.
Besides, Albert was correct. It was obvious to all that the queen loved him. Her husband either knew or he was a fool. Of course, Daniel didn’t share her feelings, and up to a few weeks ago, she hadn’t overly pursued him. But that changed; when last he saw her, she had commanded his body to her bed. Adultery was not part of chivalry, but instead of outright refusing her, he agreed to attend one of her indulgent balls and to meeting her somewhere alone after that.
“If you intend on giving her her way tonight,” his valet pressed on boldly, “I wouldn’t suggest a bed where you have to undress. Dropping your hose and—”
“I don’t,” Daniel cut him off, “intend on giving her her way tonight.”
“A command was given, Sir Daniel,” Albert reminded him, leaving his side to reach for the powdered wig on Daniel’s dresser.
“No.” Daniel halted him from lifting it to his head. “I’ll not wear that ridiculous thing. And I won’t disobey her. I know how to speak to her.”
He hooked his finger under the layers of lace at his neck and tugged. “She’ll see my way of thinking is best.”
Albert shrugged his frail shoulders and bent to tie the bows on Daniel’s shoes. “I hope you’re correct, my lord.”
Daniel took him by the shoulders and straightened him. “I’ll tie them. I’m not an invalid.”
Albert nodded, as stone-faced as he had been the day Daniel met him. Only now his skin was more weathered, his eyes, wiser. “If you’re incorrect, though, shall I have the cooks prepare breakfast?”
Daniel smiled at him, then ushered him out the door.
Alone, he tied his ridiculous shoes, then combed his fingers through his short hair. On the way out the door to his dressing chamber, he untied the colossal bow around his neck and let it hang open in lacy waves down his coat. He ignored Albert’s disapproval at his less than formal appearance when he descended the stairs and passed him on the way to the foyer.
“Is the carriage ready?” he asked while the butler pulled open the front door to allow his exit.
“It is, my lord,” Albert answered him, hurrying forward.
“Good. I’ll be home by midnight.”
“Very good, sir,” his faithful valet called out just before the door closed.
Daniel stepped out into the brisk night air, put on his feathered tricorn hat, and stepped up into his carriage.
He was a decorated warrior, honored in battle on three separate continents. He’d fought for many causes over the last fifteen of his thirty-one years of life. He’d never lost a battle or a brother on the field. Whatever he faced, he faced with firm conviction and without fear.
But tonight his heart beat harder and his nerves grew as stiff as his justacorps.
Tonight he was going to refuse his queen.
The palace was brimming with every haughty nobleman in the kingdom. When Daniel stepped into the queen’s ballroom and swept his tricorn from his head, their daughters and some of their wives turned their heads to watch him. Almost all of them smiled. He set his eyes on the woman at the end of the long chamber, seated on an elaborate throne, her expression harder to read.
“Sir Daniel?” She grazed her dark eyes down the length of him then back up to his neck and bare head. “You appear before me in undress?”
“Hardly, Your Majesty.” He smiled, bowing to her and then straightening again. “I merely prefer comfort to propriety. Besides”—he lowered his voice and looked into her eyes while he stepped boldly closer—“I thought you might like this.” He pulled the lace from around his neck and handed the pile to her. “The lace is imported from Spain. It would better serve you.”
“You presume to know what I like, Sir Daniel?” She kept her eyes on his while she raised the fabric to her nose.
“It’s my duty to know everything about you, my lady.”
Finally, she smiled at him, handing her lace over to a handmaiden at her side. “And your wig? Did you think I might like that, as well?”
He shook his head and returned her smile. “Not the wig but the true fire beneath.”
Her gaze rose to his deep auburn hair and she sighed with delight. Aye, he knew her well. He hated himself for it sometimes, but taking advantage of her affection was sometimes the only way to escape her. He gave her what she wanted; the assurance of his devotion. And in return, she granted him freedom to mingle.
His smile broadened on Lady Anabelle Saunders, the Duke of Hanover’s daughter. But he didn’t go to her. Instead, he cut a path to Jeremy Embry, Viscount of Stockton, and his wife, Amanda. He’d known them both for years and sought their friendship among his enemies.
“Tonight they’ll dream of hacking off your bare head.”
Daniel pivoted on his damn high-heeled shoes and raked his eyes over every eye that looked at him unkindly because of jealousy and resentment. He didn’t give a rat’s arse what they thought of him. The only opinion that mattered was the queen’s. And he kept it favorable with a few well-timed words and a gift now and then.
“Why must you provoke them to dislike you more?” Stockton asked him, handing him a drink.
“I don’t provoke them. Their inadequacies do.”
Amanda laughed and slipped her arm through his. “When are you coming to dinner at our home? We’ve missed you at the last two gatherings.”
“You know how much I dislike all this, Manda.”
“How am I supposed to find you a wife if you never attend any gatherings?”
“I’ve no time for a wife.”
“Oh nonsense, Daniel.” She slapped his arm softly and looked up at him. “You protect women from her.”
“What’s wrong with that?” he asked and smiled at her husband.
“It leaves you with an empty bed and empty arms.”
She might be correct, but there was little he could do about it presently.
“His bed isn’t always empty,” Stockton told his wife quietly. “He’s simply discreet about his affairs.”
Daniel cut him a quick glare before offering a pretty raven-haired woman a slight smile. “As I wish you were, Stockton.”
“Whom have you been with?”
Daniel laughed, moving his gaze to Stockton’s wife. “Amanda, that’s not a proper question to—”
“Lady Eleanor Hollister, for one,” her husband confided.
Daniel stared at him while Amanda gasped and opened her eyes wider.
“She’s pretty enough,” Amanda decided, still holding on to his arm. “But her
father is a heavy gambler. He’s known at all the tables and is slowly losing the family fortune.”
“I don’t plan on wedding her, Manda.”
“That’s wise, dear.” Stockton’s wife smiled at him and then scowled at the man coming toward them with the queen on his arm.
Richard Montagu, Duke of Manchester and the queen’s cousin, quirked his thin lips into a sneer when he reached Daniel and his friends. His salutation was brief but his eyes lingered on Daniel long enough to make Amanda squirm beside him. Daniel’s body, on the other hand, went stiff with the authority of his rank and confidence of his skill.
“What is this wise thing you’ve done, Darlington?” Montagu asked. “Tell us”—he glanced at Anne, then continued—“so that we may believe in the impossible.”
The queen deserted her escort, much to Montagu’s indignation, and took Daniel’s arm from Amanda’s grasp. “Pay him no heed,” she offered her favored knight and ignored her cousin. “He is jealous of the favor I show you. Are you not, Richard?”
Montagu turned two different shades of crimson and glowered at Daniel’s ill-concealed smile. They were enemies. Daniel didn’t care who knew it. “Nay, ma’am, I am merely…”
“Riddled with resentment, Richard. Do not deny it.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Montagu gave in with no further quarrel.
Daniel had offered him friendship over the years. Montagu had refused, choosing instead to let his covetous heart rule him. He constantly brought his false accusations against Daniel before the queen, trying diligently to discredit him in her eyes. Daniel had no use for him and preferred being away from his company.
“You are dismissed.” The queen waved her hand at him, then turned to Daniel, dismissing her cousin from her thoughts as well.
Her cousin didn’t want to go and remained in his spot, casting his murderous glare on Daniel.
Daniel showed him no mercy and smiled in return. “That will be all then, Montagu.”
Standing to his right, Stockton snickered.
“You’re nothing but a guardsman’s son,” Montagu accused through clenched teeth. “You may have my dear cousin fooled, but I see right through you.”
