by Carmen Caine
Cameron felt sick at heart.
“Cameron!” the king called out, urging his horse through the crowd to peer down at him. “Thomas has found Mar! Dead! He is dead, Cameron! Mar is dead!” His face was pale, distraught.
Catching the king’s stirrup, Cameron yanked it savagely. “Aye, and ‘twas Thomas’ own hand that saw it done! I was there!”
The king blinked in surprise as Thomas pressed forward to join them.
“Mar was ill, my lord,” the man’s nasal voice inserted. “’Twas an accident, nothing more!”
“An accident?” Cameron repeated in disbelief. “Aye, the only accident ‘twas I caught ye in the act!”
“Mar was ill, Cameron!” The king frowned, shaking his head. “The royal physicians opened his veins to reduce the heated frenzy of his fever! And ‘twas Mar’s own thrashing in the water that broke open the bandages.”
Cameron stared at them incredulously.
With a wavering smile, the king staunchly insisted, “’Twas ill fortune, Cameron! Nay, ‘twas Mar’s own fault, had he not lashed out so wildly in the water, he would be with us still!”
Cameron found himself struck speechless. How could Mar have had so much loyalty to such a fool? Ach, the last words on the man’s dying lips had been concerned ones for his own brother. Cameron felt sick.
“His lordship is overwrought, your majesty. ‘Twas what caused him to strike at me so, but I harbor no ill will towards him.” Thomas murmured to the king, holding up his bandaged hand. “It seems that his mistress has also suffered some misfortune here today.”
King James’ eyes lit with a guilty relief. “‘Tis no wonder he mistook the situation. A man canna think clearly in such times. Aye, this has been a trying day for us all!”
Cameron’s dark eyes narrowed in contempt, and he moved away in disgust. It was a waste of time to be speaking with either of them.
As the king called after him, begging for him to stay, Cameron shoved his way through the crowd. He’d find his Kate and see Mar’s death avenged, no matter how long it took. And upon returning to his apartments in Edinburgh Castle, he ordered his men to continue the search for Kate.
“Aye, and send men to Stirling and her village as well. Look for any kinfolk she might have fled to.” Glancing down at the crumpled document declaring her a witch, he added grimly, “And search for the lass, Maura. Mayhap she’ll know something.”
When they had gone, he bowed his head and whispered, “I’ll find ye, Kate. I swear I’ll find ye, and when I do, I’ll never let ye go again!”
* * *
Treachery and intrigue filled the following weeks, more than Cameron had thought he’d ever experience in a lifetime.
They had scarcely buried Mar when Thomas Cochrane escalated the accusations of witchcraft. In the name of the king, he had a dozen men and women burnt at the stake, before Cameron, the queen, and the nobles succeeded in stopping the madness.
As the news of Mar’s death rippled throughout the land, a steady stream of clan chieftains flocked to Edinburgh, intent on waging war.
The country had nearly split in twain.
And as the king found his reception at court growing colder by the day, he removed himself from Edinburgh Castle and retired to Holyrood House at the opposite end of the Royal Mile, taking Thomas with him.
Through it all, Cameron relentlessly searched for Kate. He sent for Lord Julian Gray and scoured the streets of Edinburgh, interviewing countless numbers of witnesses himself. Several times each week, he rode to Craigmillar hoping that Kate’s father had recovered enough to give him some hint of where she might be. But though the man grew stronger by the day, he had lost the power of speech.
Kate had simply vanished.
And so time passed, each night growing only darker and longer, until one particularly torturous night he finally collapsed into an exhausted sleep and had scarcely closed his eyes when he began to dream.
It was a wondrous dream, images of Kate’s laughing brown eyes and her soft lips caressing his. It was a dream that he wanted to last forever, but upon waking, the pain of finding her still gone was unbearable.
With a haggard step, he quit his chambers and called for his charger, and as the sun rose on the horizon, he thundered down the streets of Edinburgh bound for Craigmillar once more—as quickly as his horse could gallop.
The Prestons guarding Craigmillar lifted their arms in greeting as he rode through the gates, and Sir Arval himself met him as he entered the keep.
“‘Tis good to see ye walking once more!” Cameron greeted the man with a warm clasp on the shoulder. “I’ve missed ye sorely.”
The grizzled Frenchman was thin, pale, and clearly still very weak. “Have you news of Kate, my lord?” he asked with a haunted look.
Cameron closed his eyes.
It was enough of an answer.
“Then that could be good tidings in itself, my lord,” Sir Arval murmured in encouragement, but more to himself than Cameron. “For it means she’s still—”
Cameron eyed him grimly. He didn’t want the man to finish the thought. He couldn’t allow himself to think she might be dead. “How fares John Ferguson?” he interrupted.
“Stronger, my lord.” Sir Arval bowed gravely. “But the power of speech still fails him.”
Taking the steps two at a time, Cameron made his way to John’s chamber.
It was heartening to see the fisherman out of his bed, sitting on a cushioned chair in the early warmth of the sun. And as Cameron approached, the man’s head tilted and his hand lifted in a gesture of recognition.
As he had oft done the past few months, Cameron knelt beside the man, holding his fingers between his own, to share the latest tidings of his search for Kate.
“I will find her,” Cameron swore softly. “Even if I must turn over every stone in Scotland, I will find her.”
The fisherman groaned, and Cameron glanced up to see the man’s lip twitching in a smile.
It was the first time he had seen the man regain the use of his mouth since his near fatal injury. He bowed his head in hope. Mayhap soon her father would regain the ability to speak and help guide them to where she might be.
They simply sat there for a time, until shouts in the courtyard below drifted through the open window.
There were voices, loud and angry ones.
Cameron’s lips drew in a thin line. Ach, ‘twas another crisis, no doubt. He was fair sick of them. Gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet and peered through the narrow window to spy Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, bellowing, “Where is Cameron! Find him at once! I must speak to him at once!”
Expelling a deep breath, Cameron moved to the door and was halfway down the stair when the earl nearly collided with him.
“I’ve just come from Holyrood!” the red-haired, blunt-faced earl roared in greeting. “The fool has made the idiot the Earl of Mar! Earl of Mar, Cameron!”
Cameron’s lips parted in surprise, and he repeated softly in astonishment, “The king has given Thomas Cochrane his brother’s own title and lands?”
“Aye, and I’ve had enough!” Archibald swore, kicking the wall. “I’ll bring Albany back from France this very night!”
Gripping Archibald’s arm, Cameron guided him to the hall as the man continued to shout threats of war, and it took some doing before the Earl of Angus was finally convinced to put such thoughts aside for a time and wait.
The shadows were long when Cameron wearily mounted his charger and returned to Edinburgh, but he did not immediately return to the castle rising high on the hill.
No, he had words he must say to the king.
Reining before the wide, green expanse of grass, he entered Holyrood House, heading at once for the royal residence in the gray-stoned abbey guesthouse.
The king was not there, but the monks guided him to the gardens. And moments later, Cameron strode down the hard gravel paths to where the king and Thomas stood under a rowan tree, clad in sumptuous, ermine-trimmed r
obes.
“Cameron!” King James’ face lit with pleasure. “’Tis well to see ye here! I would our feud would end—”
With anger seething in his veins, Cameron interrupted him coldly, “Did ye truly bestow the earldom of Mar upon this venomous serpent?” He allowed his dark eyes to rest upon Thomas for the briefest of moments.
The man’s long face reddened as the king swallowed visibly.
“Have ye no shame, James?” Cameron eyed the king with icy contempt. “I’ve told ye the truth of Mar’s death, yet ye ever turn a deaf ear on me! How can ye bequeath his lands to the very man who murdered him?”
“’Twas the fever!” The king licked his lips. “Ye’ve misunderstood, Cameron!”
Cameron graced him with a smile riddled in disdain. “I do not envy ye, James. Ye truly are cursed. Ye’ll spend many a long, sleepless night convincing yourself that Mar’s death was an accident. Aye, such torment will be a fitting punishment.”
All color drained from the king’s face.
“And I’ll never forgive ye for Mar,” Cameron grated in a low tone, permitting his eyes to mirror his disgust. “I’ll see ye undone for it.”
At that, the king’s nostrils flared. “Is that a threat, Cameron?”
“’Tis a warning.” Cameron let his voice turn rough. “Tread carefully, or ye’ll lose what little ye have left quicker than ye think.” He turned to leave.
“Wait!” the king lurched forward, grabbing his arm. “Walk here awhile!”
Shaking him off, Cameron murmured, “I’ve no appetite for your company.”
He had taken only a step before Thomas cried out, “My fellow earl, ye may think ye are untouchable with many friends, but I’ll see ye banished from court for such insolence towards the king!”
With a smile of the deepest scorn, Cameron turned halfway to reply, “Ach, I know ye to be a fool of the highest order, Thomas, and I’ll aid ye in punishing yourself. Ye’ll not walk this Earth much longer.”
Spinning abruptly on his heel, he left them standing there, mouths agape.
He returned to Edinburgh Castle then, to comfort the distraught queen and to persuade the nobles to remain united in keeping the country free of civil war. He wanted nothing more than to rid himself of James and Thomas Cochrane, but not at the risk of losing the entire country to chaos. He could not place Albany, another murderer, upon the throne, and the crown prince was yet too young. The resulting battle over his regency would be even more dangerous.
The night was nearly over when he returned once more to his chambers.
He lay on his bed, but sleep eluded him.
Painful memories pierced his heart, memories of Kate’s sparkling brown eyes, her cheerful laughter, and the way her nose wrinkled when she smiled. Memories of the nights they had made passionate love, the feel of her soft skin and warm lips against his.
Rising to his feet, he paced before the window, his long fingers clutching the gray cloth of Kate’s bodice that he kept close to his heart.
The candle on the writing desk flickered.
Moving to stare at the parchment resting there, he lightly traced his finger over the accursed document accusing Kate of witchcraft. It was his last bond to her existence. He could not bring himself to destroy it. Not yet.
“Where are ye, Kate?” he whispered as he had countless times in the past few months. “Where are ye?”
He gripped the tattered bodice tighter and closed his eyes.
Ach, fate ever sought to torment him, but he would not give up. He would never stop seeking her.
And then slowly, a deep, abiding anger welled up inside him.
It grew stronger with each passing moment, until striking the desk with his fist, he raised his voice and cursed destiny itself, “No matter how hard ye try to wrest her away from me, I’ll only hold on tighter!”
As if in answer, the candle flickered in a sudden draft.
After a moment, he leaned forward and blew it out, preferring the complete darkness. It suited his mood.
Moving to the window, he threw open the shutters. The waning moon illuminated the rooftops of the surrounding town and glistened on the waters of the Firth of Forth far below. It would have been a peaceful scene if not for the suffering in his heart.
Wearily, he ran his hand over his face.
Each day was an endless torture, another day of woe. Would the torment ever end?
Again, the anger rose, stronger this time.
Ach, if he could, he would slap destiny in the face.
He began to pace like a caged animal when a new thought struck him.
Aye, he could slap destiny in the face. He could wed his Kate this very night.
The thought caught hold, giving him strength.
Striding across the chamber, he flung the door open, shouting to his men in the darkened antechamber, “Send for a priest at once!”
He’d marry her this very day.
And as an afterthought, he added, “Send for Princess Anabella straightway!”
Aye, he’d have his marriage witnessed as well, witnessed so never again could the king force him to wed another.
The sky had begun to lighten, signaling the arrival of the sun, and as he waited, the faint glow on the horizon flowered into an array of dazzling colors, heralding in the new day.
A shaft of sunlight fell upon the parchment on his desk, and Cameron found himself peering down at the wretched document once more. With a sudden flare of anger, he caught it up and viciously ripped it into shreds. Kicking the fire back into life, he watched with a measure of satisfaction as the feeble flames rose to consume it.
The priest arrived then, a man clad in brown woolen robes and with tonsured gray hair. He listened to Cameron with kind, green eyes before sitting at the desk to scribe a document proclaiming Kate Ferguson as Cameron’s wife, the Countess of Lennox.
The man’s quill was still sliding across the parchment when Princess Anabella arrived with Lady Elsa and Lady Nicoletta at her heels. The three women stared at him in outright alarm.
“What is the meaning of this?” the princess demanded harshly. “What ill has befallen us?”
With a stoic expression, Cameron replied, “I would have ye bear witness to my marriage.”
Princess Anabella blinked. She glanced about the chamber, clearly bewildered. “Marriage?”
“Aye, this day I wed Kate,” Cameron answered through the sudden knot rising in his throat.
There was a stilted silence.
Then the princess asked gruffly, “What madness is this?”
“Call it madness if ye will.” Cameron clenched his jaw. “But never will I wed another.”
His voice caught, and he fell silent.
The priest dipped his quill in the ink, the tip scratching loudly in the silence. And then, sprinkling the wet ink with sand, he rose to his feet and bowed to Cameron. “I am ready, my lord.”
“Then we will begin,” Cameron murmured, his voice filled with emotion.
“Wait, my lord!”
Cameron glanced back to see Lady Elsa nervously stepping forward.
With fluttering fingers, she dipped into a timid curtsey. “Allow me to stand as a proxy for Kate, I beg of you, my lord. My last words to her were … harsh and unkind.” Her lips trembled and, dropping her eyes, she added in a voice barely above a whisper, “And I would seek forgiveness for such cruelty.”
Cameron hesitated, but her eyes were sincere, and grimly nodding his permission, he knelt before the priest as Lady Elsa timorously joined him in a rustle of silk.
It did not take long. It was over in minutes. And then Lady Elsa rose to move away.
But Cameron remained as he was.
Aye, he’d wed his Kate. But would he ever hold her in his arms again?
Hot tears choked his throat as a wave of grief rose to overpower him.
A low sound of despair escaped his lips as he sagged against the edge of the desk. And then with a great, shuddering gasp of air, he began to weep
. Violent, harsh sobs tore from his throat, racking his entire body.
Hushed, hurried voices sounded about him, but he paid them no heed and soon was alone. He wept as if his heart would break. Aye, his heart had broken. He could not live without her. He could not live without his Kate.
Finally, Cameron drew a long, ragged breath and fell silent with a sense of loss beyond tears.
And then he heard Lord Julian Gray’s familiar deep voice drawl, “Ach, but ye look ghastly, Cameron.” Julian approached and gave his shoulders a rough shake. “Rise up, ye fool!”
Cameron did not respond.
“Get ye on your feet, lad!” Julian groaned as he half prodded, half lifted him to stand upright before handing him a goblet of wine. “Drink this first. Ye’ll need it.”
Cameron stared at it woodenly.
“Drink it!” Julian jiggled the goblet a little, shoving it into his hands.
Cameron bolted it down in a single draught and then turned to leave when Julian blocked his way. With a grim look, Cameron murmured, “Step aside, Julian. What more do ye want from me?”
“I want ye to ride, Cameron,” Julian replied grimly, but there was a look of compassion in his gray eyes. “We leave at once. Ruan MacLeod has sore need of ye in Dunvegan. ‘Twill do your heart good to leave this accursed place. I swear I’ll find your Kate, lad.”
Cameron closed his eyes.
Ach, what evil cloud had descended upon Scotland that now it had even touched upon Ruan and Skye?
But Julian did not allow him to even think. Tossing a cloak over his shoulders, the young lord pulled Cameron out to where the horses were already saddled. And then they were galloping madly down the cobblestoned streets of Edinburgh.
Aye, Cameron thought dully, ‘twould do him good to leave this accursed place.
Julian set a furious pace, riding low on the neck of his horse as they galloped west until the Firth of Forth turned into a river. Taking a northerly road, they ran their horses over the swelling and falling moorlands, across fields of upland flowers, and through stands of birch growing on the shores of the narrow, winding lochs.
