With a cry of alarm, Mary was thrown from the saddle, instinctively kicking her feet to free them from the stirrups before she would be trapped underneath him.
All the breath was knocked from her lungs as she landed on the—thankfully soft—ground, but a glance to her left showed that the horse was still sliding, and might crush her. Rolling further away, she spun herself out of reach—and into greater danger. For there was no longer soft ground underneath her, but only a dank quagmire that trapped her in its filthy grip.
In seconds her clothes were soaked by the icy black mud that surrounded her and sucked her inexorably into the foul depths of the bog.
"Help!" she cried, struggling to heave herself out of the mire. But it was useless. As much as she attempted to pull herself forwards, the mud sucked her further under, the heavy skirts of her riding suit dragging her down and making the situation worse.
Is this what it has come to? Had she survived the machinations of her rebel lords, a difficult childbirth and the assassination of her secretary, only to lose her life on this godforsaken Borders hillside?
Sending up a silent prayer, she stopped struggling and composed herself. I am in God's hands now. If it is His will, He will save me.
Chapter 29
ALEX'S MIND WAS in turmoil as they traversed the steep hill. Her heart warred with her ambition; her desire to be her own woman and seek her destiny as a horse trainer warring with her desire for Michael. For, of all the men she had ever met, he was the only one to touch her emotions and kindle a fire in her belly.
But if they could not reconcile this issue of where to live, how could they be together? She could see no way forward, and it blackened her mood.
A commotion behind roused Alex from her introspection. Glancing over her shoulder, her heart leapt into her mouth at the sight of the queen tumbling down the hill, with her palfrey scrabbling on his back as he slid after her, trying to right himself.
Throwing herself off Duke, Alex raced down the bank to where the queen had fallen. When she hit the edge of the bog Alex stopped short.
Ahead of her, Mary floundered in the mud, her face a mask of fear and panic.
"Lie still!" Alex commanded. "Spread your arms." Casting her eyes around the hillside, she looked frantically for a long branch or other implement they could use to reach the queen. But on this barren moorland there was nothing save bracken and grass.
Pulling off her boots, she tossed them behind her. Lying on the wet grass, she shimmied forward cautiously as Michael slid to a stop beside her. "Hold my feet," she threw over her shoulder.
Michael's big hands gripped her ankles, but he tried to pull her back. "Let me go, lass. I'm stronger."
"And heavier. You'll sink easier," she gasped as the cold mud hit her skin.
A few yards in front of her, the queen was sinking, her eyes wide and her mouth moving silently. She'd spread her arms, as Alex had said, but she was being sucked quickly into the bog, an inch at a time. It was past her waist now, and when it got to her shoulders Alex's job would be almost impossible.
Spreading her body as wide as she could, she slithered forward until she felt Michael's grip tighten. "I canna go any further, lass, I'm sinking too."
We're close. So close. The queen's hand was only inches away. If only I had something to throw. A rope. A… With a cry of triumph, she remembered the cord on her wrist.
The mud was up to the queen's chest now; there was not much time left. But the act of untying the cord from her wrist had been enough to make Alex sink a little too. She needed to save Mary quickly, or both of them would die.
"Your Grace!" Alex got the queen's attention. "Catch this, and hold tight." She quickly fashioned a knot in the end, then cast the rope at the queen. But it curled in the air and fell into the black bog. With a groan of frustration, Alex pulled it back and tried again. This time, the extra weight of mud helped the cord to fly truer, and it landed near the queen's hand.
Mary reached for the rope as she sank to her armpits in the bog.
"Hold on," Alex said, knotting the other end of the cord around her good wrist. "Michael, pull!"
At her command, a steady pressure started on her ankles, and she was dragged slowly backwards. After only a few inches, the rope pulled taut, and progress slowed. "Be strong, Mary," she said, forgetting protocol in her worry. Because the strength—or otherwise—of the queen would determine whether they could save her.
Other hands had joined Michael, and the pressure on her ankles grew. "Not too much!" she shouted in alarm. "Slowly, so the queen can hang on."
They must've heeded her warning, as the drag became more slow and steady, and Alex almost cried with relief to see the sodden lace of Mary's chemise poking through the mud.
Mary grasped the cord with her other arm, risking sinking further so she'd have a better grip.
"Pull again," Alex commanded, ignoring the pain where the cord dug into her skin, already raw from Bothwell's bonds.
But their rescuers were over-eager, and their latest efforts were so strong that they pulled the cord right out of Mary's hands.
Michael watched in horror as Alexandra and the Queen slid further apart, and the queen began sinking again.
"No!" Alexandra shimmied forward like a lizard, and this time she was able to grab the queen's hands. "Now!" she shouted back at the men. "But slowly. Our grip is slippery."
Inch by inch, he and Sir Thomas—who had joined him and held Alexandra's left ankle—pulled the ladies out of the bog. It seemed to take forever, and by the end of it they were all muddy and exhausted, sitting in an unceremonious heap on the rough grass at the edge of the bog.
"My thanks," the queen gasped, her teeth chattering.
Sir Thomas swept off his cloak and wrapped it around the queen. "We need to get you warm, ma'am." The queen was hustled to the side, attended to by Flam, Maitland and Libby.
Alexandra was almost as muddy as the queen, and Michael's cloak was soaked too. While Ferniehirst rustled up some more dry cloaks from amongst the lords, Michael retrieved Alex's boots as she wiped her feet on the rough grass.
"D'ye feel up to riding?" he asked.
She nodded, looking over at the queen, who was in worse shape. Absent-mindedly, Alexandra re-wrapped the gold cord around her wrist, tying it carefully.
Does she still care? Michael wondered. She had saved the cord after their hand-fasting, and now she saved it again, even though ruined. Could they put their argument behind them and find a way forward? He hoped so. Despite their differences, there was a lot to tie them together, not least the cord around her wrist.
On her feet once more, Alex's eye was drawn by the queen's palfrey, who was being led back to the path by Huntly. Covered in black mud and slime so there was little of his white coat visible, the horse limped noticably.
Assisted by Maitland, the Queen approached and grasped Alexandra's hands. "You saved my life," she started to say, and then shivered violently. Her hair was plastered in mud, as were her underclothes.
"We need to get you moving, ma'am," Flam said, pulling the cloak tighter around the queen's shoulders, "and into some dry clothes."
Michael jerked his chin northwards. "We should ride for Stobs with all haste. I will send word to get hot baths prepared—and fresh clothes."
"But the queen's horse is lame." Alex pointed at the palfrey, who now stood resting a hind leg. She turned to the queen. "You can ride Duke, ma'am. He will keep you safe."
Mary inclined her head. "I would be 'onoured."
Taking Alex's elbow, Michael gave her a sideways look. "Ye can ride wi' me then. Spirit is strong enough to take two." Then he caught Ferniehirst's eye. "Sir Thomas, would ye ride ahead to Stobs and ask Mrs Beattie to prepare two baths? Ye know the way, do ye not?"
Ferniehirst nodded. "I would be glad to." Hurrying off, he mounted quickly and galloped away up the glen.
The rest of the party also made their way to the horses, leading them onto flatter, dryer, ground before climbing
aboard and following at a warming trot.
At the head of the group, and with the persistent drizzle on her left cheek, Alex would have quickly chilled to the bone, had it not been for Michael riding behind her. She felt sorry for the queen, who, although flanked on either side by stout nobles who would shelter her from the wind, did not have the benefit of a strong man sharing his body heat with her.
And not just his body heat.
As they rounded Hawk Hill and started along the tops towards White Hill and down to Stobs, Alex became aware of a growing pressure on her lower back. Despite their fierce argument and the forced betrothal, it seemed Michael still found her attractive…
Some of the tension left her shoulders. Perhaps she could persuade him to join her in Edinburgh after all. Mayhap there is hope for us yet.
Chapter 30
LUXURIATING IN THE warm water, Alex felt her muscles relax and her worries melt away. Now that Mrs Beattie had stopped fussing and had gone back to attend to the queen, Alex had the room to herself, and she gazed with interest around Michael's chamber.
Simple wooden furniture sat against the walls, but pride of place was given to the four-post bed, hung with heavy drapes and, if she remembered Michael's boast correctly, adorned with a feather mattress. Mrs Beattie had left a drying-cloth and some clean clothes on top of the green coverlet.
The castle was larger—and grander—than she had imagined. Whilst not on the scale of Hermitage, it was solidly built in grey stone, with an impressive vaulted entrance-hall on the ground floor and an oak-panelled great hall above that. A spiral stairway led to the upper chambers, including this one and the one where the queen recovered from her fall.
I hope Her Grace has not caught a chill, Alex thought as she stepped out of the bath and began to dry her damp skin. She herself had recovered quickly, but the queen had suffered the worst during their ordeal and hadn't had the benefit of Michael to warm her on the way to Stobs.
Pulling on yet another set of borrowed clothes, Alex eyed the large bed. It looked so tempting. Could she just give it a try?
Without further consideration, she impetuously flung herself onto the mattress, bouncing softly as she hit the inviting surface. It was delicious. Possibly the most comfortable bed she had ever lain on. And it could be yours, a traitorous thought whispered, if only you weren't so stubborn.
Michael hesitated outside his chamber. He didn't want to interrupt Alexandra, but he, too, needed clean clothes before they met with the queen again. For their presence had been requested, now that the queen had bathed and dressed.
He rapped on the oak door. "May I come in, Alexandra?"
"Yes," came the reply, and he pushed the door open to find Alexandra sitting on his bed, her hair curling damply around her shoulders and her skin glowing softly in the candle-light.
Even in mis-fitting, borrowed clothes, she was breathtaking.
In two strides he had crossed the room and crushed her into his arms, his lips seeking hers and his hands tangling in her hair. He had acted on instinct, without thought of their estrangement, but to his joy she returned his kiss with passion.
Caught between them, her hands moulded themselves against the muscles of his chest, and a soft moan escaped her lips.
Breathing harder, he pulled her closer, cupping her backside in his hands and wrapping her legs around his thighs so she would press against the length of him, for he was once more undone by her mere presence.
She gasped and then took his face in her hands, deepening their kiss and writhing her hips, causing sensations so delicious his legs started to buckle.
Pushing her backwards onto the bed, he half-knelt on the mattress, arms braced either side of her, gazing down at her heavy-lidded eyes and flushed skin.
Under his ardent gaze, she swallowed, nervously wetting her lips. "Sire," she breathed.
"Yes, m'lady?" he touched his lips to hers, then rained butterfly kisses along her jawline until he nuzzled her earlobe. "What would you have me do?"
In lieu of reply, she reached up an arm to pull him down. "Hold me," she whispered.
Leaning on one arm, he trailed the tips of his fingers down her side; trickling over her ribs, skimming her waistline, brushing over the swell of her hips and down her thigh. "I thought you were mad at me?" he teased.
A smile tickled her lips. "Likewise."
He laughed, and it broke some of the tension between them. "Much as I'd like to, we should tarry here no longer. The queen awaits."
Standing, he pulled her back into his arms for one last kiss, then looked down at her. "Now, Alexandra,"
"Sire, if you're going to kiss me like that," she interrupted, "mayhap we should be less formal. Call me Alex." Her eyelashes fluttered. "My friends do."
He nodded, and touched a finger to the tip of her nose. "Alex," he emphasised, then pointed down at their clothing, "we need to dress properly, and go to the queen."
Mary sat in a heavy oak chair, her secretary, Maitland, and her lady, Mary Fleming, by her side. Wearing borrowed—but blessedly dry—clothes and wrapped in a blanket, she had finally stopped shivering. A fire glowed in the grate and her hands were wrapped around a posset of wine and milk that warmed her insides. She was ready to face the next part of this long day.
When Michael and Alexandra entered the room, Mary was pleased to notice that he had a possessive hand laid on the small of her back. Perhaps they have reconciled, she thought, but kept her face straight.
"I asked you to join me," she looked each of them in the eye, "to extend my gratitude for your 'eroic actions earlier. You saved my life, and on be'alf of the people of Scotland, I want to 'onour you for your bravery.
"Alexandra," she indicated for the girl to take a step forward. "If it was not for your courage and quick thinking, I would 'ave drowned in that evil mire. As a mark of gratitude, I wish to confer some lands on you—Gilston Peel near Oxton, forfeited by my rebel lords. 'Tis closer to Edinburgh, and will be more convenient for when you work wiz me."
Alexandra gasped. "Your Grace! 'Twas not for reward that I helped you. I would've tried to save anyone—" Her cheeks pinking, she put a hand to her mouth. "Forgive me—I didn't mean to imply that you are just anyone, ma'am, but—"
"I understand." Mary stifled a smile at the girl's discomfiture. "But I still wish to compensate you. You could 'ave died. And," this time she allowed herself a smile, "as a landowner, you will become a citizen of Scotland," she glanced sideways at Michael, "which means you are free to marry a Scotsman, should you wish."
Then she turned to her secretary. "Maitland, give me your sword."
Weapon in hand, she stood up. "Cranstoun," she pointed at a point on the floor in front of her. "Please kneel."
The laird's brows creased, but he did as she asked.
"Michael Cranstoun of Stobs, for acts of bravery and loyalty to your sovereign," she tapped him with the flat of the sword, first on the right shoulder, then the left, "I, Mary, Queen of Scots, dub thee knight, in the name of God and in the presence of these witnesses. Arise, Sir Cranstoun."
He blinked at her. "Ma'am?"
Mary flicked upwards with the tip of the sword. "Arise," she repeated.
A dazed look on his face, Michael got to his feet.
"And when—if—you are wed, Alexandra will be Lady Cranstoun." She raised an eyebrow at the Englishwoman. "Per'aps that will convince your father to allow the marriage."
Chapter 31
IT WAS WELL past dinner-time when the queen's party finally arrived back in Jedburgh. The queen had borrowed a fresh mount from the stables at Stobs, and Alex was riding Duke once more. She rode wide-eyed through the cobbled marketplace and down towards the queen's house near the river. The town was bigger than she'd imagined; the ruined castle above and the shadows of the hulking abbey below giving the impression of a place of import.
"There are stables behind the orchard." Michael nodded at the stallion. "I will bed him for you, if you wish to join the ladies?"
She shook her head. "It has been a strange day for him," she said, laying a hand on the horse's shoulder. And strange for me too. "I'll see to him myself."
Ten minutes later, she had Duke unsaddled and settled in a fresh straw bed, tucking into a manger of oats.
She, for propriety's sake, was to bed in the queen's house, sharing with Libby Preston, since she could not be with Michael until they were wed. If they were wed.
What if Father says no? Would she ever see Michael again? The thought chilled her, and she hurried from Duke's stable—straight into Michael's arms.
Hands circling her waist, he leaned down to kiss her, but she put up a hand to stop him.
"If Father forbids us to marry," she said, the words tumbling out, one on top of another, "will I ever see you again?"
Michael paused, and drew back a little. His face grew serious. "It pains me to say this, but…I dinna know how we could. 'Twould not be right."
Inside her chest, Alex's heart twisted. "But…"
"If we canna be wed, then I daresay your father will find you another. You will be someone else's bride." He traced the outline of her lips with a forefinger. "And I will be a broken man."
She shook her head defiantly, even as his touch sent a delicious shiver down her spine. "I will not marry, save to you. But you—you should find another, if we cannot…" A tear trickled down her cheek. "Mayhap that Mary Fleming, who attends the queen. I believe she thinks well of you."
"Aye, Flam. She is a flirt." He tilted Alex's chin towards him and looked her in the eye. "But I dinna care for her. If I canna marry you, I wilna marry another. I…" He grimaced. "My heart couldna stand it."
That took Alex's breath away. "But you… We… You hardly know me," she finished in a rush.
In the lamplight, the blue of his eyes was so intense that it burned into her soul. "Mayhap that is true. But I know enough to be sure that my heart is lost to ye, and that I will never love another."
A Love Divided: A Scottish Historical Romance (The Reivers Book 1) Page 12