A Highland Knight's Desire (A Highland Dynasty Book)

by Amy Jarecki

  The leaping flames mesmerized him. He took another sip of whisky. It was pathetic that his only comfort was the spirit. He longed for the gentle touch of a woman. But he abhorred the idea of spending the night with a passionless wench who cared more about a few coins than she did for him.

  He emitted a rueful laugh. Ever since he’d met Lady Meg, he hadn’t thought about wenching. Before, he’d had an insatiable lust for any pretty, buxom lass wearing a kirtle. He’d made great sport of wooing women until they swooned into his outstretched arms. And he’d always been ever so eager to oblige them.

  Now the thought of swiving any lass aside from Meg held little interest. Worse, he never should have stolen her virtue in the first place. As the flames danced, he pictured her hair, and the way the wind picked it up when they’d ridden together, sending the mane of curls sailing into his face. She smelled of sweet honeysuckle and roses. Her smile had given him an airy lightness, as if he’d walked outside on a glorious summer’s day. Now he’d never feel that kind of joy again.

  Duncan rubbed his fingers along his arm and dreamt of running his hand from her breast, down the curve of her waist and up the arc of her hip. If only he could talk to the Lord of Angus and ask for Meg’s hand, but that wouldn’t be right. He’d rescued the lass. The earl would consider his suit impertinent and an abuse of their business transaction. Would he not?

  Another tap at the door sounded. Duncan snapped from his trance and groaned. “Come.”

  Her dressing gown belted tightly around her body, Lady Margaret stepped inside and quietly closed the door.

  Duncan stood, crossed the floor and took up her hand. “Mother, I thought you’d be abed by this hour.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Nor could I.” He led her to the chair opposite his. “Would you like a tot of whisky to calm you?”

  “Aye, a wee portion, please.”

  Duncan poured her a goblet, thinking a full cup would ease her woes. “You spoke to John?”

  “Many times in the past, but I agree with him. ’Tis time he followed his own dreams. If he remains here, you’d soon have him carrying out another mission for the king.”

  “But I need him. The men need him.”

  She took the goblet from him and sipped. “Aye, but think of your brother. All his life he’s lived in your shadow. ’Tis time he came into his own.” Mother set the drink on the table and dabbed her lips with her finger. “John has always been a gentler soul. I must admit, I am happy for him. He shall make a fine priest.”

  Duncan nodded and stared at her for a moment. Though his birthmother had died giving him life, he’d always recognized Lady Margaret as his ma. She’d acted as mother to him in every way. “And how are you holding up?” he asked.

  “Still numb, I suppose.”

  “If only I would have listened to him . . .”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself. Your father chose his path long before you were born.” She smiled sadly. “I remember when Colin was called away for his third crusade. It was early December. You were but a bairn in arms, and I was left alone to provide Christmas cheer to the castle, when all I wanted to do was hide in my chamber and wallow in misery.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Do you remember Mistress Effie?”

  Duncan’s tension eased when he recalled the nursemaid. “Aye, she was very old when I was but a lad.”

  “She was indeed, and outspoken.” Ma raised her goblet. “On Christmas morn, she reminded me of my duty as lady of the keep. She also told me that I set the tone for the clan. If I was sad, my mood would affect the others. As their leader, all eyes were on me to provide a stoic example of strength.”

  Duncan regarded his mother with reverence. Indeed, she was hewn of strong Highland stock, and he’d always admired her for it. “What did you do? Surely you could not mask your heavy heart forever.”

  “Nay, but I could sit tall and conduct the business of Glenorchy lands fairly, with honesty and respect for all who pay us fealty. For the feast, I donned my best gown, trod down the stairwell and opened my arms.” Mother spread her arms wide. “I welcomed all to the feast, and after, I danced until my feet could take no more.” She rested her elbows on the armrests, her smile a bit happier. “From that day, I knew I could manage your father’s affairs until he returned.”

  “You are truly a remarkable woman.” He meant the compliment from the depths of his heart.

  “And you are an even more remarkable man, Duncan. ’Tis time for you to take up your father’s mantle and wear it with pride. ’Tis what I and the clan expects. Moreover, ’tis what you were bred for.”

  With the door cracked open a mere fraction, Isaac hid in the privy closet while the groom prepared a bath for the Earl of Mar. Of all the unsavory tasks Lord Percy had assigned him, this was by far the most reprehensible. Isaac had been trained to be a warrior, not an assassin.

  The sound of water being poured into the washbasin rushed through the air, sending prickles up Isaac’s spine.

  “The water’s nice and hot, m’lord.”

  Isaac recognized the groom’s voice from their earlier conversation.

  “Thank you. A bath brings a semblance of comfort to ease my troubles.”

  The earl didn’t sound like someone who would incant a spell of witchcraft. But then, who was Isaac to judge? Perhaps the earl had made abominable threats against Scotland’s king. Isaac smoothed his sweaty palm over his dagger’s pommel. Yes, that was it. This man was a traitor against Scotland. He had committed unforgivable acts against the king. Any man committing abominable crimes must be dispatched swiftly.

  Isaac held on to this thought and focused on the black hole of hatred forming in his heart. He would carry out his duty and rid the earth of a barbaric tyrant.

  He visualized the plan in his head and listened. The groom had been instructed to leave the earl alone and close the door loudly.

  Fingers slightly trembling, Isaac waited. His breath rushed in his ears as if it were a gale. The water sloshed. “’Tis warm indeed,” the earl said.

  Some rustling resounded from the chamber. “Oh dear, I must have forgotten the soap. I shall fetch it forthwith,” the groom said.

  “Take your time.”

  Footsteps clapped the floorboards.

  Hinges creaked then the door slammed. Isaac’s insides jolted. He sucked in a deep breath to steady his hands. One thought filled his mind: Finish him.

  Pulling his dagger, he cradled it firmly in his hand so the blade pointed downward for the most powerful and deadly strike. Without a sound, he pulled the privy door open and stepped inside.

  The earl had his back to him, dribbling water with his hands while he reclined.

  With his eyes wide and his heart pummeling his chest, power surged through Isaac’s limbs. In three strides, he reached the basin.

  The earl’s gaze shifted to Isaac, and his eyes flashed with horror.

  Before the man could gasp, Isaac slashed the dagger across John Stewart’s throat.

  With gurgling croaks, the Earl of Mar uttered his last audible words. “Jesus Christ.”

  Blood turned the bathwater red. As the man’s face faded from a healthy pale to blue, a lump the size of a cannonball formed in Isaac’s gut. He ran to the privy closet and vomited over and over until there was nothing left. Worse, he had to walk past the earl’s corpse again to exit the chamber.

  My God, I’ve allowed the Earl of Northumberland to turn me into a monster.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Meg was afraid to move for fear of being skewered by a straight pin. She huffed impatiently. Why on earth was Arthur spending coin on these fancy dresses? She wanted nothing to do with court or the pompous men who all slathered themselves with entirely too much scented oil. Even the tailor pinning her into the latest contraption smelled like he’d doused himself with lavender oil that morning in an attempt to cover up the sickly odor of male sweat. Meg lifted her nose and tried to inhale air less permeated by
the man’s stench. She coughed. Unfortunately, there would be no getting away from Master Tailor until he’d managed to prick her at least a dozen more times.

  Elizabeth sat at Meg’s table beside the hearth. Out of the corner of her eye, Meg watched her sister study the herbology notes she’d taken.

  Elizabeth held up the parchment. “What is this?”

  “I’ve been studying with Hubert.”

  “The old gardener?”

  “Aye, he kens a great deal about the healing arts.”

  Elizabeth tossed the parchment on the table and huffed. “You, my dear, are incorrigible.”

  “Why?” Meg lowered her arms.

  “Up,” Master Tailor garbled with pins filling his mouth.

  “I think you take pleasure in torturing your victims.” Meg rolled her eyes to the ceiling frieze and lifted her aching arms. She turned her attention to Elizabeth. “Every woman should have a sound knowledge of herbal remedies.”

  “A general understanding, aye, but herbology is for healers and gardeners like Hubert.”

  “I disagree. There is not always a healer on hand.” Oh, how Meg would have loved to tell Elizabeth about Duncan’s arse, but she bit her bottom lip.

  Elizabeth stood and eyed the tailor’s work. “As a future lady of a keep, you’ll need to have a healer in your employ. A crofter’s wife usually suits.” Elizabeth pulled on one of Meg’s sleeves with a critical eye. “These must extend at least three inches past her ladyship’s fingertips.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” the tailor said in a clipped tone.

  Elizabeth had never been overly practical. But she’d married an earl. Practicality wasn’t necessary, nor was it expected from a countess. Meg sighed and looked at Master Tailor’s weathered face as he fastened yet another pin. “I cannot hold my arms up any longer.”

  “A moment.” He took a step back and eyed the garment as if it were his greatest masterpiece. “Lower slowly. I shall attend the skirts whilst you rest.”

  Elizabeth resumed her seat by the table. “Have you heard about the Earl of Mar?”

  Meg rubbed the outside of her arms. “That he’s been charged with witchcraft against the king?”

  “Worse.” Elizabeth drummed her fingers atop the table. “Word came this morn that he’d been murdered in his bath.”

  Gasping, Meg clapped a hand over her mouth. “Do they know who did it?”

  Elizabeth shrugged, as if murder were a minor affair. “Some are blaming King James—after all, he’s the one who had the earl arrested—but Arthur said there is already a long list of suspects.”

  Meg turned her head away. Duncan had brought the earl from Kildrummy to Edinburgh. Had he anything to do with the murder? Surely not, especially after his father had been badly injured. She hadn’t received news from Kilchurn. Not that she expected to. Duncan would be too busy to think about her.

  She chewed her thumbnail. If only she could find a way to see him.

  Would Duncan attend court for the Easter plays? She glanced at the top of Master Tailor’s bonnet while her heart fluttered. Perhaps being fitted for new gowns was not such a bad idea. If only she could see Duncan once more before Arthur married her off.

  Is there any way to ensure he’ll be there? I must give that notion some thought. Sending him a missive would be uncouth. Hmm . . .

  The Lord of Northumberland waited while the valet announced his arrival. Today he would take his nooning in private audience with King James.

  After he was escorted into the king’s inner chamber, they exchanged pleasantries until a meal of boiled pheasant and turnips was served.

  The king raised his goblet. “I prefer to drink watered wine to avoid dulling my wits so early in the day.”

  Percy raised his goblet in kind. “Smart of you, your grace.”

  When at last the servants exited the chamber and closed the door, the king frowned. “You said all suspicion for my brother’s death would be drawn away from me.”

  “I assure you, sire, presently no one knows what to think. There are as many murder suspects as there are monks in Holyrood Abbey.”

  “There is practically anarchy on the streets of Edinburgh, and the chief suspect is me.” The king picked up his eating knife and waved it under Henry Percy’s nose. “I told you I would only make payment if a scandal is avoided. You said you would draw suspicion away from me, damn you.”

  Percy shifted away from the accusing blade. The sooner he left Scotland, the better. He couldn’t care less if the sniveling Scottish king was led to the gallows on the morrow. However, as emissary to King Edward, he must play his part. “’Tis precisely why I deemed your idea for a private audience fortuitous. I’ve found the perfect pawn, but I must commandeer a Scottish contingent of men to arrest him. If English involvement is suspected, my plan will not work.”

  The king stroked his fingers down his beard. “Aye, all Englishmen are suspect this side of the border. An English army would be suspicious indeed. How many men do you need?”

  “A retinue of twenty fighting men, led by your most skilled man-at-arms.”

  “Very well.” The king thumped his fist on the table. “You’ll have your men, but I want none of my subjects killed.”

  “We shall do our best on that account, though I’ll not be able to keep your men from defending themselves.”

  The king grasped Lord Percy’s shoulder. “If you, sir, make a mockery out of me, it will not only mean the end of the truce between Scotland and England, I will personally see that your line is removed from the earldom once and for all.”

  Percy lowered his eating knife. Months ago he vowed he would murder anyone who threatened to take away his title, and the King of Scotland wasn’t so regal he was absolved of that oath. He licked his lips and regarded the king’s long neck. If anything went wrong with his plan, it would be an easy throat to cut.

  The king reached for his goblet. “Now tell me, what is the name of the unfortunate bastard to whom you are referring?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  In the courtyard, Duncan sparred with Eoin, thrusting his sword in short jabs. Wearing his partner down, he advanced with each strike. Duncan’s chest still tight with remorse, he drew on the inner demons. It was as if his father’s soul had taken over Duncan’s body, driving him to fight like never before.

  He spun with a sideways strike. Eoin’s blade clattered to the cobblestones. Panting, the MacGregor man gaped in disbelief. “Are you possessed by the devil?”

  Duncan lowered his weapon and waited for Eoin to pick up his sword. “You’re growing soft.”

  Eoin stooped for his blade. “Bloody hell.”

  “The king’s riders,” hollered a sentry from atop the guard tower.

  Duncan looked at Eoin and then his other men. They all shrugged. “Open the gate.” After sheathing his sword, he removed his helm and wiped his face with a drying cloth. It wasn’t unusual to receive messengers from the king, though it didn’t happen often. Duncan figured it was merely a formal proclamation until twenty mounted sentries all wearing royal tunics emblazoned with the lion rampant, rode into the Kilchurn outer bailey.

  The man-at-arms dismounted and strode to him with purpose, followed by a half-dozen other guards.

  Duncan planted his fists on his hips. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The guards surrounded him while the leader unrolled a piece of vellum. “By order of his majesty, King James of Scotland, you are hereby accused of murdering the Earl of Mar and Lord Colin Campbell of Glenorchy.

  Duncan’s insides turned to ice. All six men latched on to his arms. “This is preposterous.”

  The man-at-arms made quick work of removing Duncan’s weapons.

  Eoin sidled up to the soldier. “You know these charges are contrived. Even the king saw Duncan leave for Kilchurn after he’d delivered the earl to Craigmillar.”

  The king’s man shrugged. “That is not for me to determine.”

  Eoin drew his sword. “I’ll not stand to see m
y lord wrongly accused.”

  “No!” Duncan struggled beneath the sentries’ grasp. “We fight for Scotland, and uphold the laws of this land. Fear not. I will stand absolved of these false charges.”

  The man-at-arms whipped a hemp rope around Duncan’s wrists.

  Lady Margaret rushed out from the keep. “Remove your hands from my son!”

  The worry on his stepmother’s face hit Duncan in the gut. Regardless that the charges were contrived, it tore him apart to see Lady Margaret so visibly upset. He tried to reach for her, but the guards wrestled him away.

  She took the missive from the man-at-arms and read whilst the guards led Duncan to a mule. She crumpled the vellum and glared at the king’s man. “These charges are completely false. My son has been by my side since he delivered the earl into Sir Preston’s hands.”

  “Aye?” said the man-at-arms. “Of course the accused’s mother would perjure herself to see her son released.”

  “Mother, go back inside and tend to the girls. There has been a misunderstanding, which should be easily resolved.”

  Lady Margaret stood stoically. Eoin moved to her side and placed a protective arm around her shoulders. “We shall follow and come to your aid, m’lord.”

  Forced to mount a mule, hands bound, and being led like a common criminal, Duncan gazed at his closest friend. Their brief eye contact communicated more than a thousand words. Eoin would not only follow, he would use their Edinburgh resources to delve to the bottom of this charade.

  True, the Campbells of Glenorchy had a great many enemies. That happened when tasked with the unsavory mission of bringing order to a land as rugged as the Highlands.

  Who has the king’s ear? Or does the king himself need a scapegoat? On the charge of killing my father, I would gladly plead guilty if it would bring him back to the family . . . but the charges of murdering the Earl of Mar? I smell a rat bigger than Kilchurn Castle itself.