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

by Carmen Caine

  “Ye’d best pray there is still time,” Cameron swore under his breath, shaking himself free of the man’s grip. He had heard enough. He was done with the man, king or no. He continued, “If they should come to harm, I swear I’ll not be answerable for what might happen to ye. And when this day is done, James, ye’ll order Thomas held accountable for his treachery! Swear upon your life’s blood that it will be so! ‘Tis far past the time to purge Scotland of his unholy influence, afore we have no country left!”

  The king blanched but murmured weakly, “Aye … aye. We swear it.”

  But his voice held no conviction.

  Cameron sent him a withering glance. There was no doubt in his mind that when Thomas returned, the king would forget his vow. Speaking with the fool was a waste of his time.

  “Ach, I’ll no longer bandy words with ye, James,” Cameron said with a scornful twist of his lips. “I’m away to Craigmillar.” He whirled on his heel.

  “Do not leave us, Cameron!” the king begged, reaching out to stop him. “We are in danger! The prophecies have foretold it! Stay with us! Julian can go—”

  Biting back a curse of contempt, Cameron left the king in his privy chamber, ignoring the man’s cries for him to stay.

  He was done with the fool. And if any harm befell his Kate, he would see the man undone right quickly! Cameron’s throat tightened at the mere thought of her.

  Soon, his men would be ready, and he would ride to Craigmillar. Silently, he prayed that Thomas would not find her even as he knew in his heart that his prayer would go unanswered.

  Clenching his jaw, he swiftly returned to his chambers, intent on collecting their weaponry with haste.

  Julian had followed.

  “The king’s unstable in his wits,” the young Lord Gray growled, examining several slender blades before hiding them in his boot.

  Buckling his heavy sword about his waist, Cameron agreed grimly, “Aye, his actions this night have all but plunged us into a civil war, but ‘tis a matter to be dealt with later. Now, I must ride after Mar, and ‘tis up to ye to save Albany’s neck.”

  “Aye,” Julian muttered, concealing another knife in his sleeve. Then with a glint of ill humor in his gray eyes, he added, “Though I’ll shed no tears for the man should I be late.”

  Quickly inspecting his dirk with a cold detachment, Cameron thrust it into its scabbard before replying evenly, “Justice for Albany’s deeds in the Borderlands will have to wait. Take him to France, willing or no. I’ll have him gone from Scotland. I’ve not the time for him now.”

  “Aye, he’ll fit well in France,” Julian murmured in agreement, fingering the hilt of his sword. “Lies and treason are the way of life there.”

  Something in his tone made Cameron pause. Raising a calculating brow, he warned, “Ye’ll pledge his safety with your own life, Julian.”

  Julian visibly hesitated but then replied with a reluctant twist of his lip, “If ye insist then, Cameron. I’ll see the man safe. Though I would I was riding with ye to Craigmillar to save Kate instead.”

  At the mention of her name, Cameron’s throat constricted.

  He turned away.

  If Thomas Cochrane had touched a single hair on Kate’s head, he was a dead man!

  Satisfied with his weaponry, he pulled on his gloves and quit the chamber, heading for the stables at a swift pace.

  The lads were leading their saddled chargers out of the stables when Cameron and Julian arrived and they mounted at once, waiting impatiently in the chilly predawn air for Cameron’s company of men to form behind them.

  Finally, all were ready, and then without a word, Cameron sprang forward, leading them through the gates of Stirling Castle to gallop down Castle Hill and over the stone bridge of the River Forth.

  The ride was a torturous one, not only for the mad pace they set but for the thoughts in his heart as well.

  Why had he tempted fate? How could he have thought to defy his unlucky destiny? His foolishness may have harmed Kate. He could do nothing now save fight destiny itself.

  But fight destiny he would, or he would die in the attempt.

  With grim determination, he clung to a fragile thread of hope and spurred his horse on.

  Several times, he heard a pack of wolves howling in the darkness before the sky began to lighten. They followed the river as the water steadily turned silver, reflecting the gray sky above. The morning mist swirled as they passed through it, growing only thicker with time.

  Finally, the river widened into the Firth of Forth and the black, rocky crags of Edinburgh appeared in the distance.

  At a fork in the road, Cameron raised his arm, signaling the men to halt.

  It was time for Julian to part their company.

  “Ach, ‘tis cruel to send me after Albany. The man should suffer an ill fate for his misdeeds!” Julian struck the pommel of his saddle with his fist. “I should be riding with ye!”

  Cameron clenched his jaw. “While my heart agrees with ye, Julian, ye know that should both princes perish this evil day an even darker shadow will befall us. ’Tis not Albany ye are saving, but Scotland itself. Ye have no choice. Ye must go at once!”

  Julian heaved an exasperated breath.

  Pulling off his glove, Cameron leaned forward to clasp Julian’s forearm. “May the winds favor your voyage to France, my friend.”

  After a moment of hesitation, Julian sighed. And then with a dark smile, he clasped Cameron’s forearm in return, shaking it a little. “And may ye lay a snare that Thomas cannot escape, my friend.”

  Cameron’s eyes lit with a silent promise.

  And then the fair-haired young lord spurred his mighty horse forward, riding low over its neck to gallop after Albany with unparalleled speed.

  Satisfied, Cameron signaled his men to ride, and soon after, he was charging across the bright green grass to the gray walls of Craigmillar rising before him. Gripping the handle of his sword firmly, he thundered through the gates of the castle, prepared for the worst.

  The Prestons stood on high alert. Men in dark, red plaids stood brandishing swords with shields on their arms. Recognizing him immediately, they ran forward, catching the reins of his charger as he leapt from the saddle.

  “Where is Kate?” The demand tore from his throat. “And Sir Arval?”

  Guiding him to the keep, they led him down a narrow corridor, speaking all the while.

  In the middle of the night, Thomas Cochrane had arrived with Mar, bearing the king’s orders to imprison him there. But upon spying Kate’s father, Thomas had struck the ailing man severely before searching the castle for Kate. The Prestons and Sir Arval had raised their swords against them, but Thomas had used Mar as a hostage to escape, taking Kate with them. Sir Arval had nearly paid with his life before Thomas had galloped away in the direction of Edinburgh.

  “And Kate? Was she harmed?” Cameron asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Nay, my lord. She appeared hale, hearty enough to walk,” they swore, pushing open a narrow, iron-studded door and beckoning him to enter. “But Sir Arval and John are both injured sorely, my lord. Nigh unto death.”

  There were two beds in the chamber, one holding the silent figure of Kate’s father, and the other an even stiller form of Sir Arval. A monk in brown robes moved between them, dabbing their foreheads with an herb-infused cloth.

  Cameron peered down at their waxen faces. Their breathing was shallow and their eyes closed.

  Aye, this was his fault.

  “Tend to them well,” he ordered grimly. And then feeling ill, he turned away, murmuring under his breath, “Forgive me.”

  Returning to the courtyard, he leaned his head against the stone wall of the keep and closed his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to scream out of pure rage, but he knew he must remain calm if he were to outwit his cursed destiny.

  Taking a deep breath, he focused on Thomas.

  The man was an overbearing, pompous fool, and did not know the meaning of stealth. There would be talk
of him in Edinburgh.

  Taking heart, Cameron lifted his head.

  Aye, he would ride to Edinburgh and track Thomas down. He would find his Kate and pluck her from the very fingers of death seeking to encircle her. And never would he let her out of his sight again.

  “Hold strong, my heart,” he whispered softly to her, and then turning to his men, ordered in a deep voice, “To Edinburgh with haste!”

  The mysterious fog had deepened, hugging the ground. And the surrounding woodlands were strangely silent as they made their way to the town of Edinburgh, a scant three miles away. They were almost upon the gates of the town when a horse suddenly appeared in a swirl of mist to block their path.

  Cameron’s charger reared. Steadying the beast with a calm hand, he raised his voice to hail, “Who goes there?”

  “I bear a message for Cameron, the Earl of Lennox,” came the reply.

  Tilting his head to the side, Cameron dropped a hand to rest on the hilt of his sword and urged his horse forward, saying, “I am the Earl of Lennox. Give me your message.”

  The messenger waited until he was close before tossing a bundle at him, and then hastily pulling his horse back, disappeared into the mist.

  Leaning in his saddle, Cameron caught the bundle before it fell to the ground. Untying the rough hemp twine, he shook the cloth and held it up for a better view.

  His heart stood still.

  The pearl-encrusted bodice of Kate’s gown fluttered in his hand, covered in blood as a slip of parchment spun to the ground.

  He turned white.

  One of his men leapt from the saddle to pluck the parchment from the mud and place it in his fingers.

  With a cold detachment, he read the words aloud: I, Thomas Cochrane, await ye in Stirling.

  Passionate vows of vengeance sprang from the lips of his men surrounding him.

  “Then we ride to Stirling, my lord?” they asked.

  Cameron took a deep breath.

  Bringing Kate’s bodice to his lips, he silently vowed he would find her before slipping the pearl-encrusted cloth under his shirt to rest near his heart.

  Thomas clearly did not want him in Edinburgh. Why else would he have his man wait at the gates to send him back to Stirling? He must be getting close.

  Crumpling the man’s missive, he dashed it to the ground with a savage twist of his lip and ordered imperiously, “We ride on to Edinburgh and speak with every man, woman, lad and lassie until we find those who witnessed Thomas’ arrival. I’ll enlist the aid of the queen herself. I’ve not the stomach for playing games with Thomas Cochrane.”

  As one, they surged forward, clattering through the gates and riding up the Royal Mile to the walls of the ancient castle of Edinburgh where the queen resided.

  Commanding his men to begin searching the town at once, Cameron threw back the hood of his mud-spattered cloak and entered the main gates of the castle alone to beg audience with the queen.

  She saw him at once.

  Margaret of Denmark, Queen of Scotland, was a slender young woman, blue-eyed, fair of hair, and gentle of heart. Queen of Scotland from the tender age of thirteen, she had already given the king two heirs and was even now expecting a third child. She received Cameron in her privy chamber, in the company of her most trusted ladies. Resting her hand on the top of her expanding belly, she viewed Cameron with an expression of alarm.

  “What has happened, my good earl?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  With regret in causing her distress, Cameron quickly relayed the events leading up to his arrival.

  The queen gasped, falling back as several of her ladies rushed to steady her, and her clear blue eyes filled with tears. “Not Mar! Not Mar! We must search for him at once! My men are yours to command, my good earl. Take whatever you need!”

  “And when this is done, we will speak further, my queen.” Cameron bowed before her, touching his lips to her hand. Aye, he’d see her wee son, James, safely on the throne of Scotland, but first he had to hold the country together long enough for it to happen.

  Quitting Edinburgh castle with a host of the queen’s men under his command, he ordered them to search for Mar and Kate, leaving no stone unturned.

  Striding down the streets of Edinburgh himself, he questioned all who crossed his path. But it was not long before he discovered the fear of witches running rampant through the town. With a growing alarm, he made his way to the Mercat Cross next to St. Giles Cathedral, and found posted on its stones the proclamation accusing Mar of witchcraft.

  With a curse, Cameron tore the parchment down.

  In a bold script, the words named Mar a warlock, presiding over a coven of witches with the purpose to practice the black arts against the king. And under Mar’s name ran a list of others, men and women, with two scheduled for execution on the morrow.

  James himself had signed and sealed the proclamation.

  Cameron cursed again.

  The man had truly gone mad if he would allow the burning of his own subjects over Thomas’ lies. With such short notice, it would be difficult to defy the king and stop the executions, but he had to try.

  Cameron ordered a contingent of his men to search the Tolbooth prison immediately, for any sign of Mar and Kate, while the others continued to gather information from the streets of Edinburgh. After seeing them on their way, Cameron hastily returned to the castle to speak with the queen and her advisors, pleading with them to defy the king’s order and stop the executions. They discussed the matter long into the night, crafting letters to the king and his advisors begging them to put an end to the madness, but they all knew it would take time, longer than some of the prisoners had left to live.

  In the early hours before dawn, Cameron was once again searching the streets, and as soft colors painted the sky, he questioned the local innkeepers and halted travelers along their way, seeking any clue that might lead him to Mar and Kate.

  It was then, that one of his men found him.

  “Tidings, my lord!” the man gasped, holding onto his knees to catch his breath. “A lad waits for us at the Mercat Cross. With his own eyes, he saw Mar led into a house with a red door, and he’ll show us the way.”

  Drawing his cloak about him, Cameron followed his man with great haste, clutching Kate’s bloodstained bodice close to his heart and vowing soundlessly, “I will find ye, Kate, stay strong.”

  As promised, the lad awaited them, and in short order, Cameron and his men stood in front of the house with the red door. Raising his sword, his men followed suit, and they burst into the house, and swarmed up the steps.

  The skirmish was short-lived.

  Thomas’ men were too few and lacked the will to fight. Laying down their weapons almost at once, the men knelt and pointed to a door in the corner of the room.

  Still brandishing his sword, Cameron crossed the chamber in two strides and kicked the door back with his foot.

  The interior room was dark, lit only by a single taper and the dull glow of a dying fire. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to see a tall, cowled monk clad in coarse woolen robes hovering over a wooden bathtub filled with water.

  And next to him stood Thomas Cochrane, pale and shaking.

  With a red tide of anger rising to possess him, Cameron found himself in front of the man, clutching his throat and demanding in a chill, deadly voice, “Where is Kate? What have ye done with her?”

  A weak, gurgling sound from the tub interrupted him.

  Glancing down, Cameron saw Mar lying silent, still, in a strangely dark water with an overwhelming odor.

  “My lord, he … he was ill with a fever!” Thomas began to explain in a trembling voice. “The monks bled him, to save his life!”

  With eyes widening in alarm, Cameron shoved Thomas back. “What have ye done!”

  Ach, it was the stench of blood that met his nostrils!

  His heart leapt into his throat.

  Mar lay in his own blood.

  “No!” Cameron cried. Bodily lifting Mar o
ut of the water, he heaved him over the edge of the tub, collapsing with him onto the floor.

  But one look at the man’s white face signaled it was too late.

  Desperately, Cameron sought to staunch the bleeding gashes on Mar’s wrists and legs, all the while crying out for his men to assist him and beseeching under his breath, “Mar! Not like this! Not like this!”

  And then Mar’s lashes quivered feebly, and his marble lips formed his name, “Cameron.”

  With tears in his eyes, Cameron leaned down, placing his ear close to the man’s trembling mouth.

  “Promise … me…” Mar breathed in slow, rasping words. “Save James, Cameron. Promise me … that ye’ll save James.”

  Cameron closed his eyes.

  “Save … James,” Mar repeated, dropping his eyes to see his own blood pooling on the chamber floor. He lifted his lashes again to look upon Cameron in stunned disbelief. “James … didna do this, Cameron. Save … him.”

  And then with a last frail breath, his chest moved no more.

  For several moments, Cameron stared in shock at the lifeless form of the prince lying in his arms, and then, rising swiftly to his feet, he struck Thomas a mighty blow across the face.

  The man fell down, but after some groveling, regained his feet.

  “I’ll see ye hanged when this is over!” Cameron vowed, grabbing the man’s arm and dragging him roughly into the adjoining room. “But tell me first and I’ll ask ye only once. What have ye done to Kate? Where is she?”

  Thomas swallowed.

  With anger raging in his veins, Cameron pulled him to the table, kicking a chair out of his way and sweeping the cups off to clear its surface.

  Forcing Thomas’ hand down upon it, he spoke in a cold, measured tone, “Then know ye this, Thomas. Your life depends on Kate’s. And this scar will ever remind ye of that fact.”

  With a single, swift motion, he drew his dagger and plunged it through Thomas’ hand, pinning it to the table.

  Thomas screamed in agony and the blood drained from his face. “She’s at the Tolbooth Prison, to be burnt as a witch!”