The Thistle and the Rose

by May McGoldrick

  “But I do look like him, don’t I, Nanna?” she asked hopefully. Her mother had always said that Fiona resembled her father.

  “Aye, lass. You look like him. And you have his wit. And his restlessness, and his high spirits, as well. You are his very own child, Fiona.”

  There had never been any question whose child Margaret had borne. He had been here at Drummond Castle beside her when Fiona had taken her first breaths in this world. Nanna had seen the tears of joy washing his handsome face. And then, later on, Nanna had seen the tears of sorrow on that face when he had to go.

  As the woman braided the little girl’s locks, she thought of how often she had done this same simple task for her mother as well. Margaret Drummond, eldest of three daughters of John, Lord Drummond, had grown up to be one of the most beautiful and sought-after maidens in all the realm. As a young lady of the court, Margaret had been pursued by princes and earls and lairds as well as by knights of every caliber. But she had turned her face from matches that had promised security and respectability. Instead, Margaret had accepted an impossible love. She had been swept away by a man beyond her reach. A man whose life and destiny were not his own to control. Nanna had watched her grow from childhood, and had always known her charge would never accept anything less than the union of two souls. For Margaret, impossible as it was, this love was forever.

  Margaret had known the consequences of the relationship and had left the society at court when she had found herself with child. She had withdrawn to Drummond Castle, away from the prying eyes of the court gossips. She had secluded herself, even from much of her own family, content to raise her child alone, hoping all the while for his return.

  And then he had followed her, to be with her during the pain of her labor, to share with her the tears and later the joy, to bask in a brief glow of happiness before the world had pulled him away—as it would again and again—but always with the departing promise that he’d come back as soon as he could.

  But then one summer day he’d left, and he hadn’t returned. This time had been different. His world had kept him away. Two long years had come and gone before the news of this impending visit had reached Drummond Castle. The skirmishes, the politics...all had conspired to keep them apart until now.

  Nanna knew that through these past two years, Margaret had clung to the certain knowledge that she was loved by the man who had fathered her child. Time had passed, though, and the Nanna often wondered if he had changed.

  But now...now he was about to make Margaret’s dreams come true. Their dreams, Nanna thought. All of their dreams.

  The sound of the door’s latch startled the old woman from her thoughts, and she sat bolt upright. The door opened and Margaret rushed into the room, pushing the heavy oak door closed behind her. Her eyes flickered across the room in search of her child. Finding her on Nanna’s lap, Margaret’s face visibly registered her relief. Fiona leaped up and ran into her mother’s arms.

  “Mama, is it time?” the little girl asked hesitantly, sensing something was wrong.

  “Oh, my poor baby,” her mother responded in anguish, hugging the child tightly to her. In an instant she turned her troubled eyes toward the older woman. “Nanna, we have no time. Take the back stairs down to the Great Hall. Find Sir Allan and have him come up here immediately. Then go out to the stables and have them ready three horses.”

  “What’s wrong, m’lady?” the older woman asked, rushing to her mistress’s side. Margaret’s bright eyes flashed toward her daughter; loose tendrils of blonde hair fell around her perfect face, now filled with obvious distress. “What I have feared for the past few weeks has finally happened,” she answered quickly, struggling to fight back tears. Her face was flushed with her effort to restrain a thousand emotions. “You must take Fiona away from here. But first go and do as I have said. I will send her down with Allan. And please hurry.”

  The older woman was torn between the desire to know more of her lady’s distress and the need to comply with the urgency of her command. But one look at the fear in Margaret’s eyes catapulted her into action, and she bustled quickly out the small door at the rear of the chamber.

  As the door closed behind the retreating woman, Margaret’s hand went to the leather purse in the pocket of her dress. Wrapping her fingers around it, she could feel the dead coldness of Andrew’s broach, and, beside it, the ring, its heat burning her fingers through the leather. She had to hide them, and she had to hide them now. Her eyes swept around the room.

  Oh, God, she thought. Oh, God! But where?

  And then she remembered. With a sharp cry, she ran across the room to the fireplace. Counting several stones over from the opening, Margaret pulled one from the wall. Fiona just stood there in the middle of the room, confused, but knowing deep within her heart that something was wrong, terribly wrong. She could see the small dark space behind the wall and watched her mother yank a small leather purse from the pocket of her dress, jamming it into the hiding place. Quickly, Margaret shoved the stone back where it had been and whirled on her daughter.

  “Fiona, my love,” she said, crossing the floor quickly. “Run and get your heavy cloak and the leather purse I gave you.”

  “But Mama,” the girl protested. “What is wrong?”

  “Go, child! Hurry!” the mother said quietly, trying to control the panic in her voice. “I will explain in a moment.”

  Fiona ran to the pegs by the door and pulled down her winter cloak. As she turned back, she could see her mother writing furiously at the small study table. Tripping to the chest by her bed, Fiona took out the purse. By the time the little girl reached her side, she had folded her letter and tipped candle wax onto the paper, which she then sealed, using her ring.

  “Give me the purse, Fiona,” Margaret said, reaching for the bag. She stuffed the letter in the purse and removed the ruby and emerald-encrusted cross that was hanging from the gold chain around her neck. Drawing Fiona to her, Margaret placed the chain around her neck and discreetly tucked it inside her dress.

  “Mama!” Fiona looked wildly at her mother. For as long as she could remember, her mother had worn the cross close to her heart. “You said Papa gave you this.”

  “Aye, my love,” Margaret answered, tears now coursing freely down her cheeks. “But I’ll not be needing it, and you shall.”

  “But Mama! I don’t understand! Papa is coming!”

  Margaret looked at the bewildered daughter. She was hardly more than a bairn. How would she survive this?

  “Listen to me, child. We have only a moment.” Margaret looked around furtively. Time was running out, but where were Nanna and Allan? She continued. “An evil man has come into our home. Not your papa. Do you understand me? Your papa does not even know of the evils that surround him. He is innocent of this.”

  Fiona tried to understand her mother’s words. What did she mean? The words swirled through her head. Papa was not coming. Innocent. Of what? Why did her mother no longer need her cross? Who was this evil man?

  Fiona began to cry, hiccupping and sobbing as her mother tucked the leather purse inside her clothes. Margaret then wrapped the heavy cloak over Fiona’s shoulders and tied the leather thongs at her neck.

  “Listen to me carefully, Fiona,” Margaret continued. They were both weeping now, and she wiped her daughter’s tears from her flushed face. She cupped the innocent young child’s face with her shaking hands and looked intensely into the worried eyes. “I need you to be very brave. You have to go away...to a place where you will be safe. And you have to stay away until your papa comes to get you.”

  “But why isn’t he here?” Fiona cried. “Where is Papa now?”

  “I wish I knew, Fiona. But the evil men are already here. These men will hurt us, my love. It is too late. You must go. They...But, listen to me, this is most important.” Margaret knelt beside her child and held her tightly with one arm as she pointed to the wall where she had hidden the packet. “When your papa brings you back here, show him what i
s behind that stone. He will punish the evil ones who have come here tonight! I promise you, he will!”

  Margaret hugged Fiona fiercely, and the little girl clung to her mother.

  They both jumped at the sound of the gentle knock at the small rear door.

  Holding her sobbing child against her, Margaret called for her knight to enter.

  Sir Allan entered the room, his face dark with concern.

  “M’lady...should you not...should I not be down with Lord Andrew...” he began courteously.

  “NO!” Margaret interrupted. “You must take Fiona far away from him...away from here. He...”

  With a resounding bang, the heavy oak door of the room burst open, and a half dozen soldiers rushed in, drawn swords in their hands. Instinctively, Allan pulled his own sword from its scabbard, stepping in front of his mistress.

  Margaret gripped Fiona’s hand and started backing toward the rear chamber door. As her heart slammed in her chest, she knew that it was not her own life that she feared for, but the life of her own precious child.

  Holy Mother, Fiona is an innocent, she found herself praying. Please help her. Please save her.

  “What is the meaning of this outrage?” the knight bellowed.

  Instead of answering, four soldiers charged at him.

  Gallantly, Allan parried the first blows of the onslaught, managing to shove one of the assailants clear across the room. Slashing at the soldiers, Allan managed to plunge his brand into one of the men where the shoulder meets the neck, but before he could pull his sword out of the dying man, two of the other soldiers found their chance; their swords pierced his chest and his back, the blades crossing somewhere between his ribs.

  The valiant knight was dead before he hit the floor.

  The assailants then turned on Fiona and Margaret, who watched in horror as the killers approached them.

  Quickly recovering, Margaret drew Fiona behind her as she pulled a small dagger from her belt. Slowly, they continued backing toward the door.

  “Stay behind me,” Margaret commanded in a voice that shook with emotion. “These animals will not dare to harm—”

  Suddenly, Fiona felt herself being lifted high into the air. Twisting her body, she tried desperately to dive toward her mother. But a huge man, bigger than Sir Allan, held her with a viselike grip that sent shockwaves of pain shooting down her arms. Turning her head, she glimpsed the ugly, scarred face and the wild, unkempt beard of the grinning madman who held her.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw that another man had taken hold of her mother’s arms and wrenched the knife from her hand.

  Reacting to her mother’s cries, Fiona felt her body stiffen with anger. Suddenly something snapped within her, and all her fear vanished. She was a whirlwind of motion, arms and legs flying in all directions at once. Wildly, Fiona kicked hard at the man’s stomach, sinking her teeth into his massive paw at the same time. Her attacker snapped his hand away, and Fiona swung loose for a moment. Twisting her arm, she kicked again hard at his midsection, this time causing the man to throw her away from him.

  “The devil…”

  Fiona landed on her hands and knees, but quickly scampered to her feet, eyeing the ugly man defiantly.

  “Are you going to let this wee thing best you, m’lord?” one of the soldiers sneered.

  “She is a demon,” the Goliath roared, taking a step toward the girl.

  Fiona looked around her wildly. She could see that both doors were blocked. There was no way out. Running to the window, she picked up the stool and rushed toward the men who were holding her struggling mother. Throwing the stool at one, she bit down on the hand of the other before being grabbed by the hair from behind.

  The man yanked her head back roughly and jerked her around to face him. His fist hung in the air, his eyes clouded with fury.

  “I’m going to teach you how we deal with demon bairns where I come from.”

  Fiona’s eyes shot darts of defiance into the Highlander’s face.

  “If you hurt me,” she hissed. “My papa will kill you.”

  A look of shock flickered into the man’s face as his fist opened. Then his black eyes narrowed into a hardness that froze Fiona’s blood.

  “Where you are going, your almighty papa will never find you,” he growled menacingly.

  Dragging her toward the rear door, past Margaret, who had been gagged, the leader flung the little girl at one of his men.

  “Take her down,” he spat. “Now!”

  “Should we wait for you in the courtyard, Torquil?” the man clutching Fiona asked. Fiona tried to jerk her hand free, but her captor twisted her arm behind her back, taking hold of her hair with vicious force.

  “No, I will catch up,” the man responded gruffly. He turned with a sneer toward Margaret. “We have a very sad occurrence that needs to take place here.”

  A look of horror came into Margaret’s eyes, and she cast a final look at her daughter as they dragged the screaming child from the room.

  Lord Gray, Margaret Drummond’s uncle, was the first to discover his niece’s body. The shocking news traveled like a thunderbolt through the countryside.

  From what could be gathered, earlier in the evening a group of strangers had kidnapped Margaret’s daughter, Fiona. On the eve of such momentous expectations, after waiting two long years for the child’s father’s return to them, the shock of this loss had proved too much for Margaret—she had lost all sense. In despair, she had taken her own life, poisoning herself in her daughter’s room. They had found the note she left, professing that life was not worth living without her child.

  People searched high and low throughout the Scottish countryside. But the fruitless effort was curtailed a fortnight later when the worst gale in fifty years tore across Scotland, spreading havoc and destruction from the Outer Hebrides and the Isle of Skye to the Firth of Forth and Edinburgh itself.

  Neither the child nor her kidnappers were ever found, and those who loved her wept, thinking her dead.

  Here's an excerpt from May McGoldrick's latest Historical Romance

  Ghost of the Thames

  CHAPTER 1

  “It is not time, Sophy. Take my hand. Wake up.”

  The voice was in her head. A dream. A woman, calling to a stranger.

  “Sophy,” the voice persisted. “Take my hand. Come with me.”

  She knew no Sophy. She knew no one.

  She opened her eyes, immediately stunned by the thick cold surrounding her. She was under water, sinking in a long, black funnel. The weight of the water crushed her. She opened her mouth to cry out and swallowed filth.

  A hand reached for hers. She took hold of it. A lifeline of hope, pulling her upward. Kicking her feet, Sophy burst through the surface, sputtering, gasping, and coughing up the foul water.

  As her coughing subsided, she became aware of chill air slapping her face. She was in a river, floating with the icy current. Wiping slime from her eyes, she glimpsed a distant embankment through the fog. Shadowy openings of stairs and rickety docks led from the river to dark alleys. Far above the hulks of boats crowding the water’s edge, the dim light of a lantern shone for a moment in a dingy window high up in a dark building. A moment later, the current had taken her past it.

  “Swim ashore, Sophy. Come with me . . . come.”

  There was no one else in the water with her.

  “Where are you?” she croaked.

  “Here! Come toward me, Sophy. Follow me.”

  Sophy turned in the water and saw her. Golden hair floated around the young woman’s shoulders. Her face was bright, like a full moon breaking through the clouds.

  “Come, Sophy. I need you. I need your help. Come.”

  Sophy kicked her feet and swam toward her. She seemed to get within an arm’s length of her guide’s outstretched hand, but could not reach her. Sophy’s lungs were burning, her arms and legs leaden with exhaustion. Her head felt ready to explode.

  “I . . . cannot.”

&nbs
p; One foot, then the other, touched the muck at the bottom of the river. Holding herself firm against the current, she looked up to see the girl was already ashore, a few yards away, standing by the rotted piling of a decrepit pier, waiting for her. Boats lay side by side along the muddy bank, lines running up toward the river’s edge and disappearing ashore.

  A couple of unsteady steps and Sophy was standing waist deep. The blast of cold air cut through the thin knit shirt plastered to her skin. She fought the urge to sink back down into the murky river.

  “Here. This is for you.” A dark cloth lay half submerged.

  Sophy forced her legs to travel the last few steps to the water’s edge. Her body shivered and her fingers trembled as she wrapped herself in the coarse rag of what was once a blanket. Climbing onto the dock, she sat heavily. Her head was pounding, and she pulled the makeshift cloak around her.

  Sophy tasted blood and grime in her mouth. The aching pain in her head didn’t ease, but grew worse as moments ticked by. She wanted to sleep.

  Huddled beneath the wet blanket, her body wracked with the cold, Sophy looked up at the young woman standing not ten feet from her. She appeared to be dry, dressed in a flowing white gown, totally unaffected by the cold. She was young, little more than a girl. Too young to be moving about in a city all alone.

  “You cannot stay here, Sophy. We must keep going.”

  “Is that my name?”

  “Your friends call you Sophy.”

  “I don’t remember anything. My name . . . or any friends. Or what I was doing in the river.”

  “You will, in time, remember all of it. But now we need to be on our way.”

  “Why? Where are we?” Sophy asked, shivering.

  “You are in London.”

  She knew of the city, but she could not recall if it was her home or not. The name evoked no memories, at all. The sudden realization that she knew nothing of her past was paralyzing.

  “Who are you?”

  “That’s not of any importance.”

  “Are you my relation?”