by Carmen Caine
“The Dreaded Earl of Death does not allow others to fondle his mistress, ye lout!” Kate planted her hands on her hips, taking him to task.
None had ever dared to name him a lout before, either. Affronted, he rose to his feet. As he had thought, she didn’t even come up to his shoulder. “Have a care, lass,” he advised in a chilling tone. “I only took what ye named mine!”
Kate’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Ach, ye must be drunk! I’ve half a mind to send the Dreaded Earl to knock some sense into that thick-witted head of yours!”
“Then, do so!” Cameron replied in a soft, chilling tone. But then again, his annoyance vanished, and even though his cheek still stung, and he was less than pleased to discover his own reputation as the Earl of Death, he found a perverse amusement in the situation. With a cynical gleam in his eye, he added, “I confess that I’m quite anxious to meet the man!”
He stood close, towering arrogantly over her in a manner that had oft before intimidated many a man, but the lass merely jabbed his chest with her finger.
“Surely, ye aren’t such a muckle fool?” She clucked her tongue. “He’s a jealous lover and canna bear another man to even gaze upon me! Just be off afore ye’re never seen again … alive.”
Folding his arms, Cameron replied dryly. “Ach, lass, I do believe I’ve nothing to fear from your Dreaded Earl of Death.”
Clearly irritated, Kate’s voice took on a storyteller’s lilt as she splayed and theatrically wiggled her fingers. “Ye should be quaking in your boots! The man has slain countless men and even his own seven wives, each on their wedding night, and the first he killed when he was a wee lad of eight!”
His humor dissipated.
He hadn’t expected her to speak of his ill-fated marriages. And she wasn’t even accurate.
Icily, he felt compelled to correct. “The first wedding was at the age of eleven, and ‘twas purely an arrangement of titles and land. The English lass was ill on her deathbed, but she lived a week.” Because of the massive amount of land involved, the church had overlooked his young age and blessed the union under the pretext that since the bride was from England, the marriage should adhere to English church law.
Kate’s lips parted in surprise. “Then, ye have heard of him!”
“Perhaps.” Cameron lifted a long finger, signaling that he no longer cared to continue the conversation. He was not inclined to discuss his past wives with the lass, no matter how pleasurable he found her kisses. And even though he thought of his past often, he simply never discussed the matter.
She didn’t take his hint. In an exaggerated tone, she continued, “Then, ye know that he murdered the next wife, a poor innocent wee bairn, not even five years of age!”
Of all his wives, the murder of Anna still haunted him. He closed his eyes, unable to prevent the memory from returning full force. He had only been eighteen when political interests sent him off to England once again, to a child-bride named Anna. He had given her a doll and had straightway returned home to Scotland. Several years later, he found himself once more at her estate, standing at her funeral.
“Some say ‘twas poison—” Kate was saying.
“The Keiths murdered Anna!” He raised his voice in displeasure, his fingers clenching imperceptibly. No one dared to speak of Anna in his presence. They all knew better.
“Ach! Why would that be?” Kate snorted, piqued at the interruption.
With his lips tightening in a thin line, he replied curtly, “To bolster their claim for the land! They argued the marriage was against church law from the start.” Aye, he was still fighting some of them on the matter to this very day.
Kate slapped her palm on the table, clearly aggravated. “Ach, ye must have a different tale to tell of Elizabet and Cecilia, then?”
At least she had the names right, though he doubted anything else would be.
“Beheaded, both of them!” She inserted before he could stop her.
“Nonsense!” Cameron roared, striking the table with his fist.
He blinked, taken aback at his uncommon loss of control. Rarely did he lose his temper, and why he was doing so now, he was at a complete loss to understand. Perhaps it was because he simply never discussed his unfortunate marriages with anyone, save Ruan, and even then, only when he was drunk and on the verge of being traded yet again, like a horse at the market.
Quickly composing himself, he replied in a restrained tone. “Elizabet fell victim to the plague, and Cecilia died of milk fever!”
“Only a fool would believe that when the poor bairns he got on them have been locked away in dungeons ever since!” Kate disagreed stubbornly.
Taking a deep breath, he answered evenly, “The wee lassies are safe in Inchmurrin.” They certainly weren’t his children. He’d never shared a bed with any of his wives, yet Cameron had claimed the bairns as his own in exchange for land, titles, and political influence. It had seemed a fair bargain at the time. Now, he wasn’t so certain.
“He hung the fifth wife!” Kate was clearly enjoying herself.
“The fifth ran off with her lover, and their horse plunged over a cliff in the darkness of night.” Cameron differed in a cool tone.
“I know not where ye heard such tales!” Kate snapped.
In the interests of ending the conversation quickly, Cameron continued impassively, “The sixth drowned.” Aye, she’d been so terrified to wed him that upon hearing of his impending arrival, she had thrown herself in the loch. Clenching his jaw, he finished, “And, lastly, the seventh wife, Heloise, died in childbirth last year.”
He had agreed to wed Heloise, at the behest of the king to ward off the queen’s wrath, but also at the request of his peers to prevent Thomas Cochrane from acquiring a title. At the time, it had seemed an irrelevant decision. Now, with the rumors of Cochrane’s growing power, he wasn’t so sure.
He winced to find himself thinking of court intrigue in the very place he had come to escape from it.
Kate had been watching his face with her dark eyes flickering in annoyance. “Well, ye’ve listened to the wrong folk,” she finally insisted. “I should know the truth! Ye’d best tread carefully. The earl is a jealous man who will have your head if he hears ye dared kiss me!”
With a huff, she stepped away, but there was something in the way she moved the made his blood run hot. His hand snaked out and he rose to twist her around, pulling her close against his chest.
“Then perhaps ye should not let him know how ye responded, Kate,” he whispered in her ear. “‘Twas almost as if ye enjoyed it!”
The color rose high in her cheeks. Jerking free, she snatched her basket from the table and sailed to the back room, not once turning back to look in his direction.
Cameron watched her go with a riotous mix of frustration and desire, and then with an aggravated growl, he ordered the lad to fetch his cloak.
Not in the best of moods, he quit the place and strode through the trees to where his man had waited with his charger the entire afternoon. Informing him that he would return to the Brass Unicorn Inn on foot, he sent them away and wandered through the town of Stirling, hoping the fresh spring air would clear his mind.
High above him, Stirling Castle perched on the rocky outcrop overlooking the town like a hawk. Soon, he would enter its walls to engage in the inevitable scheming trickery required of him. He detested court life. It always left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and inhaled the crisp, clean smell of spring. A soft, warm breeze blew gently on his face, carrying with it the scents from the highlands. He sighed, wishing he could mount his horse and ride away to gallop for miles through the heather and hills.
Grimly, he opened his eyes and made his way through the gray stone houses hugging Stirling’s cobblestoned streets. Ach, but that lass was a meddlesome one! He’d much rather be thinking of her kiss and not the pain of the past her words had summoned. Perhaps she truly was a witch, sent to remind him that by merely keeping
company with a woman he would dispatch her to a speedy death.
Aye, perhaps he should take to calling himself The Dreaded Earl of Death. He wondered how many had called him that and for how long.
It took some doing, but after wandering through the bustling town for a time, he finally succeeded in driving Kate and her wild tales from his thoughts as concerns of court rose to take their place. He wasn’t so sure that was an improvement. He eyed the great gray castle above him. He had yet to step foot in it and he was already weary of it.
He would have to announce his presence soon.
He had been at the inn for almost a week, secretly meeting with select nobles, listening to the latest tidings and court gossip, and plotting the most advantageous time for his return. He never arrived at court without knowing what he was stepping into, but this time, what he had learned caused him grave concern.
In the past years, the king had handpicked artisans from low birth to attend him at court and had engaged in ever increasingly scandalous conduct with them, but the men came and went in quick succession. But not so with the mason, Thomas Cochrane. The nobles had thought he would soon disappear as the others had. But he had not only remained, he had succeeded in garnering a considerable amount of power since Cameron’s last visit to court.
The shadows had grown long when Cameron finally turned down the lane that led to the Brass Unicorn. The dying sun cast a golden glow on the ivy-covered walls of the buildings clustered around him, and he eyed the scene spreading out before him with a twinge of longing. Moss and ferns grew on the slate roof of the stables. An ancient tree huddled in the center of the courtyard, the early buds of leaves dusting its branches in a fine green mist.
Often times of late, he dreamt of leaving his wealth of titles and land, to become a humble innkeeper of such a place.
He stood there, savoring the peaceful simplicity for several long moments before the sounds of merriment drifted through the open door, beckoning him, and he entered the modest establishment to find a traveling minstrel regaling the common room with a tale.
The low-hanging sun slanted through the window, and the air was already growing chill. Taking a seat next to the fire, Cameron stretched his long legs and listened, not to the minstrel, but to the chattering of the people about him. Closing his eyes, he savored being a nameless face in the crowd with no one begging favors or showering him with false compliments for their own purposes.
“I’ve saved ye a fine trout, sir.” The Innkeeper’s wife broke into his thoughts. “And some of that fine Rhennish wine ye favor.”
Cameron’s long lashes fluttered open. The old woman knew quite well who he was, but she knew how to keep a secret. And he made it worth her while, paying her a princely sum to keep her most well-appointed and spacious lodgings free for his personal use.
“And I thank ye, Morag,” Cameron replied, lightly brushing his lips over her wrinkled hand.
“Ye should be saving yer kisses for lassies, lad,” the old woman protested, but she was smiling and her green eyes gleamed as she threaded her way through the crowd.
The mention of kissing brought unbidden thoughts of Kate. Cameron turned his dark gaze to the fire, recalling her soft lips under his. The passion in her response had startled him, but he knew he would never pursue it. He had little time for women and no desire to tempt Death’s hand yet again. No, his lot was with the king and his court, not in a wife and son like his friend, Ruan MacLeod. If he were honest, he would recognize the wave of loneliness that swept over him, but he was adept at ignoring it, and the bottle of Rhennish wine that Morag was carrying his way would only aid in that pursuit.
Morag set the wine and a wooden platter of fish down on the table. Pursing her lips with a sly grin, she said, “Why dinna I see ye here with a fine lass on your knee, lad? A brawny lad like ye should nae be alone!”
Permitting his eyes to smile, Cameron deepened his voice and replied easily enough, “And, why would I have need of such when I am in your company, fair Morag?”
“Ach, now, ye foolish lad.” Morag cackled. “Ye’ll make these withered old cheeks blush.” With a laugh, she moved away.
The crowd parted and Cameron spied a richly dressed figure lounging against the far wall, watching him like a hawk. And any semblance of peace he had managed to gain fled in an instant as he recognized the long and narrow face of Thomas Cochrane.
Thomas Cochrane was a young man with brown hair, a sleek beard, and a wiry frame, but with the bad coloring of one who indulged far too often in wine and other vices. Sporting a fancy hat with a blue feather and an embroidered satin mantle lined with pearls, fit for a king, he was clearly out of place in such a humble inn.
The crowd milling around him paid little heed, knowing he was just like them, low-born and holding no real power. But Cameron knew that was changing. The rumors from court clearly indicated that Thomas was moving from a mere nuisance to a potentially formidable enemy.
As the man approached, Cameron pushed his food away untouched. His meager appetite had disappeared entirely.
“My lord!” Thomas bowed before him. “’Tis surprising to find ye in such a lowly place.”
Keeping his face outwardly composed, Cameron nodded cordially. “A good day to ye, Thomas. Pray join me.”
The man took a seat opposite him, and even though his thin lips smiled, his green eyes held a glint of anger. “I have been remiss in offering ye my condolences for the loss of the Countess Heloise. I confess I’m still astounded at her passing. She was so young, filled with life, ere her fate, and I canna help but think I could have done something to prevent …” He allowed his voice to trail off suggestively.
Years of court experience allowed Cameron to conceal his annoyance. It had been almost a year since Heloise’s untimely death. Obviously, Thomas still regretted losing the chance to gain a title. Aye, the man had grown bolder since their last parting, or else he would not have dared to utter such words in his presence.
“Aye, ‘tis unfortunate.” Cameron inclined his head slightly. “And I thank ye for such kind words, but tell me what brings ye to the Brass Unicorn? ‘Tis not a place ye are wont to frequent.”
Thomas eyed him, absently stroking his sleek beard, and then with obvious pleasure replied, “Aye, I’ve come on the king’s business.”
Cameron eyed him with a detached curiosity and gave an indifferent shrug. “And what business would the king’s Mason have with me? I know naught of building castles.”
Thomas’ long face adopted an almost gleeful expression. “I’ve come to speak of your impending marriage, my lord. We’ve decided to forge new bonds with France, and …”
Cameron drew back, greatly displeased.
Royal affairs had clearly deteriorated far more dramatically than any had thought, if Thomas brazenly spoke using we in forging bonds with France. And it was beyond preposterous that the king had allowed a low-born mason to discuss the marital affairs of an earl and his own cousin, a Stewart no less.
By the Saints, the evening was worsening by the moment!
The man was smirking. “Ye look a wee bit upset, my lord. Allow me to pour ye some of this fine Rhennish wine.”
Accepting the offered mug, Cameron drained it in a single draught.
It was wiser than speaking.
The man was clearly engaged in some unsavory plot of power and revenge. A prudent course of action would be to befriend the man, but Cameron knew he was incapable of it, at present, when all he wanted to do was reach across the table and throttle the pompous fool’s neck. Coolly reminding himself that allowing anger to guide a decision was the hallmark of a fool, he cleared his throat and remarked in a reserved tone, “These matters are best not discussed outside castle walls. I will see the king on the morrow.”
Clearly disappointed with his reaction, Thomas gave a reluctant nod.
And then unable to bear the man’s company a moment longer, Cameron rose to his feet. “I’ve a matter of the most pressing nature to attend. I p
ray ye forgive such a hasty departure from your company.”
Rising to his feet as well, Thomas nodded, but there was a sense of gloating about the man that Cameron found intolerable.
Aye, so Thomas thought to match wits? Adopting his most benevolent expression, Cameron clasped the man’s shoulder and pulled him close in a brotherly embrace. “And I’ve weighty matters to discuss with ye as well. Of late, ye’ve proven to be a trustworthy man.”
The man’s brows furrowed in momentary confusion.
Aye, Thomas had grown in the ways of the court, but he hadn’t been steeped in it since birth as Cameron had. He couldn’t mask all traces of emotion. Let him remain confused, unsure if Cameron was his friend or foe.
Striding away, Cameron ducked into the kitchens and made his way to the back door of the inn to stop in a small, walled herb garden.
Aye, if Thomas was now meddling in an earl’s marriage prospects, it was time to discover what he was dabbling in.
Marriage.
Cameron closed his eyes and swallowed.
He could not allow himself to be wed off again. Kate was right. He was the Dreaded Earl of Death. He shuddered. He could not watch another woman die. A kiss in the alehouse was as far as he would go.
Suddenly, the herb garden walls around him seemed to be closing in.
Pox and Pestilence, but he wasn’t going to stay there and smother!
Quickening his stride, he kicked the back gate open and, pulling his hood down over his face, once again restlessly wandered the streets of Stirling.
Chapter Two - Can a Man be Changed?
Kate bid the alewife a hasty farewell, and clutching the shilling tightly in her hand, ran through Stirling’s cobbled streets. It was difficult to do. Her worn shoes offered little protection from the uneven stones.
Why the brawny outlaw had given her a shilling for a charmed stone that he hadn’t even bothered to take with him was far beyond puzzling.
The sudden thought that he had likely stolen the shilling gave her a momentary pause, but only for a moment. She was in desperate need and using the coin for the benefit of the poor was a worthy destiny, particularly for a stolen shilling.
