The Bedeviled Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series)

by Carmen Caine

  As the king’s favorite passed Albany, the prince leaned forward and viciously thrust his dagger to the hilt into a haunch of venison.

  Cameron grimaced.

  Ach, but the man was a fool in overtly challenging Thomas so. Why did the royal Stewarts all seem to believe they were immune to danger?

  Then the king entered in a grand procession, slowly making his way to his canopied chair. He paused briefly behind Mar, but as the youngest prince rose to greet his brother, the king brushed past him, not even granting a cool nod his way.

  Mar frowned in disbelief.

  The feast began, elaborate course after course arrived, but Cameron found he had little appetite. It was an endless affair, filled with empty words and tasteless fare.

  He had all but made up his mind to leave when a sudden gust of wind roared through Stirling’s Great Hall.

  The candles guttered.

  The king paled.

  “Your majesty!” Thomas rasped, standing abruptly. “’Tis the sign! ‘Tis as the sorceress claimed!”

  “Then bring her at once!” The king gripped the edge of the table.

  Curiously, Cameron watched as a woman swathed in a red-hooded mantle was brought forth to stand directly before the king, and as she drew back her hood, he caught his breath in surprise.

  It was the lass he had rescued that very morning.

  With growing suspicion and a great sense of dread, he watched her curtsey low before the king.

  “This is Maura, your majesty,” Thomas introduced her, bowing before her in respect. “She has walked among us for a time as a lowly chambermaid, seeking to gain a deeper understanding of her visions, my lord.”

  Cameron held still.

  Maura.

  He clenched his fist. No doubt, she was the same Maura that Kate had spoken of, the very same woman who had planted the letters in Albany’s desk.

  Ach, but the beating made perfect sense now.

  She had begun to weave back and forth, rolling her eyes into the back of her head. And then in a low, hissing voice, she claimed that a spirit had visited her during the night, imparting the final words of prophecy for the king.

  “And those words?” The king’s voice rose to an almost hysterical pitch.

  She paused for effect, and then answered in a loud, ringing tone, “A lion in Scotland shall be slain by one of his own kindred, your majesty.” She stressed the word.

  “Kindred?” The king sprang to his feet. “Not whelp, but kindred?”

  “Aye. Kindred, your majesty.” Maura curtsied low.

  Albany abruptly banged his goblet down onto the table as Mar rose to his feet in disgust. And as one, both brothers left the hall.

  When they had gone, the hall erupted into the sounds of shocked, loud voices and Cameron decided he had quite had enough.

  “Shall we leave the table?” he asked the princess at his side.

  “Aye.” The woman sighed. “I am weary of these fools.”

  He sent his men to fetch Maura immediately, but they returned a short time later.

  She was nowhere to be found.

  * * *

  A torturous week passed. A week that saw the tense relationship between the king and his brothers grow even more strained, and one that saw Thomas strutting about the castle with a perpetually pleased expression.

  Cameron and the princess repeatedly suggested to both Albany and Mar that they should escape to France, but they refused to listen.

  By the end of the week, there was still no news of Julian, and even though he knew of no other man that could match Julian’s courageous daring, Cameron sent one of his own men to the Borderlands for news.

  The only joy that week brought was the secret missive from Sir Arval informing him that Kate was safe at Craigmillar, and had been introduced as his distant cousin, Lucinda MacKenzie. For some odd reason, the name made him smile.

  The uneasy days marched on.

  Cameron’s man returned with the news that the Lord Julian Gray could not be found. Cameron responded by sending more men, but a week later, they returned with the same tidings.

  Growing more concerned by the day, Cameron focused on banding the nobles together and relentlessly eroding Thomas’ support at court, and for the most part, succeeded quite well in all respects, save one—King James remained Thomas’ faithful protector.

  And then one evening, as the month of June was nearing an end, Lord Julian Gray finally strode through the door of his private chambers, travel-stained and weary.

  “Julian!” Cameron exclaimed with relief, rising to clasp the man’s shoulders.

  Heaving a long sigh, Julian collapsed upon a chair, running his hands through his fair hair. “I rode to the Borderlands and found even more crimes to lay at Albany’s feet. But half were lies spread by the Humes and Hepburns so that they might gain his lands. They care little for true justice even though Albany truly is guilty of murdering John of Scougal.”

  “Aye.” Cameron nodded courteously. He did not have the heart to tell Julian that he already knew it.

  Julian read his expression anyway. Rolling his eyes, he snorted in disgust. “Ach, Cameron! Why do I exhaust myself if ye pry the news from others afore I can return?” He grinned, but shot him an exasperated look.

  “I sent men after ye thrice, Julian.” Cameron handed him a goblet of warm, spiced wine. “Where did ye go?”

  “London,” he replied grimly.

  “London?” Cameron raised a curious brow.

  “Edward is indeed eyeing Scotland as a tasty morsel, ready to be eaten. Already, he is planning with the Duke of Gloucester to levy taxes to wage war against us. Ach, ye were right, Cameron.” Julian clenched his jaw. “We canna afford to reveal Albany’s crimes. Half the country, though weary of James, would rise to defend him, whilst the other half would dance with joy, calling for his execution forthwith. We’d split asunder.”

  “And deliver ourselves into Edward’s hands,” Cameron finished for him, tapping his long finger lightly on the arm of his chair.

  They exchanged grim looks.

  “Thomas is up to some new devilry, but he has few supporters now,” Cameron said after a time. “And the king remains in his chambers, speaking only with Thomas and fortune tellers.”

  “How is it that Thomas yet lives?” Julian growled.

  Cameron grimaced. “He does not stray far from the king’s side, and when he does, he is heavily guarded. Even I cannot find a way to slay him now.”

  They spoke long into the night, sipping spiced wine. Gradually, exhaustion and the fire entranced them both.

  It was almost dawn, when Cameron leaned his head back against the chair and closed his burning eyes. The last thing he recalled was smiling over Julian’s loud snores of exhaustion and then men were shouting.

  Both Cameron and Julian sprang to their feet, awake in an instant.

  The door to the chamber crashed open.

  “My lord!” one of his men gasped as he entered. “Albany has ridden to Dunbar to prepare for war!”

  Cameron’s lips parted in surprise.

  “Why?” Julian demanded harshly.

  The man paused, clearly shaken. Licking his dry lips, he continued, “In the dark of the night, Mar was rousted from his bed and accused of consulting with sorcerers and witches to conspire against the king’s own life! Thomas Cochrane spirited him away, imprisoning him this very night!”

  They stared at the man numbly.

  “Where?” Cameron pressed. “Where did Thomas take him?”

  “Craigmillar, my lord.”

  Cameron felt all color drain from his face.

  What strange twist of fate had sent Thomas Cochrane directly to Kate?

  Chapter Twelve - Craigmillar

  Kate leaned against the round tower housing the pigeons at Craigmillar, taking enjoyment in their soft, peaceful coos while soaking in the last warmth of the setting sun.

  Already, she had been at Craigmillar for over a month.

  After
pounding through the mist-shrouded woodlands on the back of Julian’s charger, they had arrived at Craigmillar before the noon bells tolled in the nearby town of Edinburgh. And after Julian had introduced her to the kind Lady Preston, he had stayed by her side until both her father and Sir Arval had arrived. Then with a brotherly kiss on the top of her head, the young lord had bade her farewell, and mounting his horse, had galloped off to the Borderlands. She had watched him go with a sense of loss.

  But the days passed pleasantly, and while her father recuperated comfortably in a well-cushioned chair before the fire in Craigmillar’s main hall, Sir Arval insisted on teaching her how to read and how to ride a horse.

  She detested the reading lessons but adored cantering through the surrounding woodlands, around the outskirts of Edinburgh, and amongst the herds of cows and flocks of sheep in the nearby green meadows.

  And though her days bustled with activity and more than a little laughter, she grew lonelier with each passing day.

  Oh, how her heart ached for Cameron.

  Standing beside the cold stones of the tower, her face began to crumple with the sudden threat of tears. Ach, but the mere thought of him was too painful, and she pushed it away quickly.

  Carried on the summer wind, the baying of hounds sounded from somewhere far away, breaking her thoughts and reminding her that she was late for the evening meal.

  She eyed the castle keep which rose formidably before her in a somewhat forlorn manner.

  She could hardly believe that fate had brought her here as a guest, dining on trout and strawberries under an ornate iron chandelier with pure white wax candles. Ach, she should be in the kitchens, serving others the venison, fresh bread, and almond cakes whilst wistfully drooling over bowls of oranges. She should not be eating such delicacies herself. Fate was playing an odd game with her.

  With a yawn, she slowly made her way back to the keep.

  She had been curiously tired the past few days and a little pale, enough so that Sir Arval had refused to take her riding that day. Instead, he had suggested she should simply rest. She had resisted, but once stretched out upon her feather bed, had soon fallen asleep.

  Climbing the stone stairs, she entered the main hall and spied Sir Arval waving from a table next to her drowsing father still sitting by the fire. She eyed him with a twinge of worry. His health was still very frail, and she wondered if he would ever be strong again.

  “Did you read the page, ma chérie?” Sir Arval greeted her with a challenging twinkle in his eye.

  Kate sent him an exasperated look. He knew quite well she hadn’t. Ach, why did the man hound her so?

  The Frenchman gave a fond growl. “Then you’ll read twice as long tonight!”

  “’Tis a waste of a good evening,” she grumbled, slipping onto the bench next to him.

  “And did ye hear of the Candlemaker’s daughter?” A voice giggled.

  Both Kate and Sir Arval glanced over their shoulders to see a thin, wispy lass carrying a basket of bread. She stopped to speak with a middle-aged woman setting the table nearby.

  The women exchanged knowing looks.

  “Ach, the Candlemaker’s daughter?” The other woman began to cluck. “She’s with a bairn now, isn’t she? And nae a husband in sight!”

  “Aye! She’s a fallen woman.” The wispy lass gave a superior sniff. “What would ye do, Hilde, if ye carried a bairn out of wedlock?”

  “I would die of shame!” The woman fanned her cheeks. “’Tis the worst disgrace!”

  Chattering, they moved away.

  Kate quickly dropped her gaze.

  She was almost certain now that she carried Cameron’s bairn, and if she did, then soon, they would be talking about her like that. Hoping she was mistaken, she took a deep breath and stared down at her trencher of waterfowl in fig sauce with a sudden queasiness.

  Clearing his throat, Sir Arval leaned forward and patted her hands. “The earl hasn’t abandoned you, ma chérie,” he murmured softly.

  Kate jerked back as color stained her face. Why had he said that? Did he suspect she carried a bairn? ‘Twas it that obvious?

  Discomfited, she tore a chunk of bread and dipped it into the fig sauce, but no sooner had she tasted the morsel then she felt her stomach heave.

  Desperately, she clapped her hands over her mouth and pushed it away.

  “You should rest, ma chérie,” Sir Arval suggested kindly.

  She shook her head in protest, but the motion triggered a stronger wave of nausea.

  She paled. Ach, she truly was carrying a bairn. She already knew it in her heart. There would soon be no denying it. Everyone would know. A myriad of conflicting emotions welled up within her—awe, fear, excitement, and most assuredly shame.

  “His lordship will see you well taken care of.” Sir Arval was patting her hand. “He is not a man to love lightly, child. He’ll protect you and—”

  Strangely wanting to weep, she jumped to her feet and escaped up the steps to her small chamber. Leaning against the narrow window, she clutched her stomach, rocking back and forth a little on her heels.

  She was no longer a respectable woman. Ach, she was now a fallen woman. And womenfolk would soon be tittering over her and her poor bairn.

  The thought was an upsetting one. While she could become accustomed to whispers and outraged looks, her poor bairn would find it far more hurtful.

  She closed her eyes.

  The road ahead was most certainly a hard one.

  She was not a fool. Cameron would never be allowed to wed her and make her a proper wife. And while he would assuredly provide for his bairn, he would never be able to give the child his name—the name of kings.

  Hot tears loomed, but she bit her lip, stubbornly refusing to shed them. Having disgraced herself, she should want to die of shame. Yet, she still couldn’t bring herself to regret anything. The moment she thought of Cameron’s chiseled lips and dark, passionate eyes, she dreamt of tumbling into bed with him again.

  Why was she such a wanton fool?

  Ach, what would her own bairn think of her?

  But even as shame threatened to consume her, a fierce wave of protectiveness rose to overwhelm it.

  She was truly having a bairn.

  She couldn’t deny the little leap of joy in her heart thinking of a bairn with wee fingers and toes, a bairn to hold close to her heart through the long, lonely nights, and a bairn she could tease into giggling with a tickle under the chin.

  Her lips curved into a guilty smile. Whatever fortune the future held, she would provide her child with a life filled with as much love and laughter as her own had been. She could simply show the lad or lassie how to cover their ears to ward off the painful words of others.

  Feeling suddenly drained, she sank to the edge of her bed and slowly stretched out to rest for a moment, but instead quickly drifted off into an uneasy asleep.

  It was some time later, in the inky blackness of the night, that Kate awoke with a jolt.

  Slowly, she sat up, disoriented, and then she heard a woman scream from the hall below.

  Leaping to her feet, she ran to the door.

  Men shouted, and the woman shrieked again.

  Without hesitation, she rushed towards her father’s chamber but nearly collided with a blonde-haired woman holding a torch aloft.

  “Kate?” The voice was familiar.

  Kate glanced at her again and then gasped. “Maura?”

  “So, ye’ve been hiding here!” Maura smirked, arching a fine brow.

  Angry voices filtered up from below, and Kate pointed to the dark stairs winding below. “Do ye know what is happening, Maura?”

  “Aye.” Maura’s eyes glittered coldly in the torchlight. “Come with me.”

  Something in her tone made Kate hesitate. “But I must find my father—”

  “Ye haven’t a choice, Kate,” Maura hissed, reaching out and grabbing her arm.

  As Maura began wrestling her back, Sir Arval’s lean figure suddenly sta
ggered from the stairwell. He stumbled towards Kate, clutching his side, and even in the faint, flickering light, she could see a dark stain spreading beneath his fingers.

  Her heart leapt to her throat.

  “Kate!” Sir Arval gasped. He only made it several steps before collapsing to his knees and then pitched forward unconsciously to the floor.

  With a shriek, Kate lunged toward him, but Maura was strong and yanked her back.

  “Ach, ‘tis too late for him and your father,” the woman informed her coldly.

  Seized by fear, Kate whirled and grasped her shoulders. “Father? What do ye mean, Maura? My father?”

  Dimly, she heard Maura reply as if from miles away, “’Twas the fool who gave ye away when we saw him sitting by the fire. And ‘twas enough to tell us that—”

  “Father?” Kate screamed, but several strange men appeared and grabbed her from behind, pulling her down the corridor in the opposite direction. “Father!”

  “He’s dead.” Maura followed with a frown, covering her ears in annoyance. “Ach, be silent! Ye shrill worse than a fishwife! But then, ‘tis what ye are—”

  But Kate was no longer listening to her.

  Dead?

  Her father couldn’t be dead.

  No, not after she’d nursed him back to health—brought him back from the brink of death!

  Desperately, she fought the hands that dragged her, but it was futile.

  And then for the first time in her life, she fainted.

  * * *

  Gradually, Kate became aware of voices. One voice was deep and sounded weary. The other was familiar, an annoyingly nasal tone.

  Slowly, she lifted her lashes. Her head ached. She was lying on the cold, stone floor. Dazed and stiff, she propped herself up on her elbow, and then a pair of booted feet paused before her. She heard a nasal laugh.

  It was Thomas Cochrane.

  Dressed in sumptuous green velvet, and with his heavy gold chain about his neck, he hunched over her with his hands clasped behind his back.

  With an expression of pleasure upon his long face, he said, “I have been blessed this day. Not only do I have a title to an earldom within my grasp, I will soon have Cameron crawling before me, weeping tears of despair.”