by Lily Baldwin
Alex shook her head. “Ye’re wrong. ‘Tis the word of an Englishman against that of a Scotswoman. My title lost its value the moment the English king invaded.”
“Then ye must go into hiding,” David said.
“And leave my people alone and vulnerable?” Alex replied. “If the king’s men come seeking the truth and discover I fled, that would only prove my guilt.”
Alec stepped forward then, speaking for the first time. “If ye do not run, ye’ll be taken and put in the tower—ye’ll die.”
“Then I shall die,” Alex snapped, meeting his hard, black eyes. “I will not be a coward.”
“Wait,” Rory said, drawing their gazes. “She won’t die.” Then he turned to face Alec. “But she will have a funeral.”
“What are ye talking about?” Alex said. Rory and Alec had locked eyes, and she noticed for the first time a smile playing about the edges of Alec’s lips.
“Ye said ye did not see her death,” Rory said softly. “Only her funeral.”
“Ye want me to pretend to die?” she gasped.
Rory reached for her and cupped her cheek. “Yer people believe ye’ve already taken ill, remember?”
She nodded, recalling her last words to Mary, advising her not to let anyone into her chamber, including Michael and William. That was only six days ago. She could guess at Rory’s plan. They would sneak back into her chamber and have Mary and Rosie spread the word that her fever had worsened and she had caught the pox Rory initially argued had been too severe an illness to fake. Fear of contagion would allow them to continue the charade until it was fitting to say that the illness had robbed her of her life. Given her options—the risk of being taken to the tower to meet her actual death, fleeing and allowing her people to suffer the wrath of King Edward, or killing a man in cold blood—pretending she had died appeared to be the best course of action.
She turned to Alec. His dark, blank eyes held hers. Her heart heavy, she said, “It would appear as though ye did indeed foresee the future. I’m to have a funeral after all.”
Chapter Twenty
Alex sat astride her mount on the brink of the cliffs of Torna Doon. In the distance, Luthmore sat swaddled by sloping moors and a ribbon of stone. Despite its true, towering height, it somehow appeared small and fragile. Mist clung to the walls, drifting up from the surrounding moat, pacifying the stone, which labored day after day to contain the life within its hard embrace, all the laughter and tears, joy and sorrow. Countless souls had drawn their first breath within those walls and some their last. Her mother and father had lived and died there. Her own girlish squeals of delight used to ricochet off the towering ceilings of the great hall while she chased Mary around the lines of trestle tables. She clutched the reins hard between her fingers while her aching sorrow grew.
She had become a woman there, striding purposefully down the halls and across the moors of Luthmore. She had been taught to care for her people—to give her back to the plough, her shoulder to cushion their tears, her will to protect them, and her heart to love them all.
But her soul did not reside within that distant stone—not anymore, mayhap it never had. Her restless spirit had always looked outward. Still, for her people, she would have silenced the wolf within her and forever put her duty first. But now duty demanded she leave her clan.
Rory brought his horse alongside hers, and rested his strong hand gently against her back. She closed her eyes, banishing the image of Luthmore castle from view. Shifting in her saddle, she opened her eyes and gave herself over to Rory. Brows drawn, a sad smile curved his lips. She grabbed his hand, pulling the backs of his fingers to her lips, which were pressed together in a thin line to contain her heartache. He reached for her, but she brought her other hand between them in a silent bid for him to wait. She had to speak, but first she needed to fight the turmoil within her heart. Peace and acceptance awaited her; she could feel their promise, but they had to be earned. With both hands, she clasped his and kissed his roughened knuckles. Then she uncurled his fingers to feel his hard, calloused palm against her cheek. Drawing a measured breath, she drank in the comfort of his touch.
“My whole life,” she began, her lips quivering, “I have given my heart to my people.” She closed her eyes against the wave of emotion that tightened her chest at the mention of her kin. She allowed the pain to wash over her, but she did not nurture it or cling to what was. “And then one night, I asked a rebel to undress me in a dark forest while the thrill of the cause coursed through my veins. I looked into his sky-blue eyes and found myself unexpectedly in their exquisite depths.” Those same blue eyes burned soul-deep as she continued. “A piece of my heart will always reside in Luthmore. But my soul lives in ye, Rory MacVie: my own rebel thief. I love ye, ye and no other. I—”
The rebel thief stole once more—this time the very words from her lips as his own claimed hers with a force that burst the well of emotion building within her heart, her soul—all for him.
He pulled her onto his lap, his lips never leaving hers, and kissed her with crushing strength, his heart pounding. Then he tore away and stared deep into her violet eyes, still brimming with a flood of unshed tears. “I love ye, Alex, simply and wholly. Ye’re my life. I care not where we go or of the struggles we face. I ask only one thing from ye on this day, and never more will I ask another. Just take me with ye. Wherever ye go, I go with ye.”
She grabbed his tunic, nodding fiercely. “We are one, ye and I.”
He cupped her cheeks and crushed his lips against hers. He could barely draw breath as he struggled to contain the enormity of his emotion. So great was his love, he imagined it might break through the surface of his skin, shooting streaks of fiery passion from his very soul. She clung to him, breathless, her heart pounding against his chest, urging his own to beat faster, to want more. Rory dismounted and, bringing an arm beneath her legs, he cradled her, laying her on the ground. Their lips moved in an erratic dance of longing and love. She gripped his back, pulling the full weight of his body onto her. His strength surrounded her. She stroked his wide back, down to his tapered waist. Running her thumbs along his waist, she lifted her hips, her body seeking release.
He rested his weight on his elbow, slowly easing her tunic past her knees, then to her waist. She spread her legs wide for him. Covering her once more, she cried out when he entered her—a chord of sinful harmony blessed by love’s admission. He lost himself to the ache and longing that filled him, to the love that threatened to consume him. Even the rock beneath them, as old as the world’s very beginnings, reveled in the coupling of two bodies, two souls so perfectly matched.
*
Alex rounded the narrow stairs, lit by the torch Rory carried behind her. Reaching above her head, her fingers disappeared into shadow and grazed slatted wood. She flattened her palms against the trap door, ready to push, but the door swung open and the tip of a blade came into view.
“Och, Mary and all the Saints be praised. ‘Tis ye,” Rosie exclaimed. The sword in her hand clattered to the ground as she grabbed Alex by the arms and yanked her up the rest of the stairs and into a fierce embrace.
“Rosie, I can hardly breathe,” Alex laughed.
“Leave something of her for me to hug,” she heard Mary say excitedly.
Rosie released her, and straightaway, Mary seized her. “Ye cannot imagine how I’ve missed ye, dear cousin.” Mary said. “I ken ye weren’t gone long, but so much happened in yer absence.”
“Indeed, it did,” Alex whispered, folding her arms around her beloved Mary. An acute pang cut straight through Alex’s heart. How would she get on without Mary? Then the ache within her grew when she considered how Mary would get on without her. Alex took a deep breath to steady her racing heart. She knew her cousin would be heartbroken, but she also believed in Mary’s quiet strength. She would become a great Lady of Luthmore—better even than Alex, for Mary possessed all of Alex’s compassion and goodness but none of her rebellion.
“I have mi
ssed ye too,” Alex said.
Rory cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s gaze.
“Welcome back,” Rosie said, stepping forward to relieve Rory of his now doused torch.
Mary dipped in a low curtsy before saying. “Ye’re both back and in good health. How much longer must we carry on with this pretense?”
Rosie stepped forward. “I can go now and announce that yer fever has broken. Then at least Michael and William can come and visit ye. They’ve both been hounding me night and day to see ye. I refused them as ye said to, although I know it hurt William’s heart to be denied. Ye’re going to have to hug him with all yer might when he arrives.”
Mary’s face brightened. “Go now, Rosie. Make the announcement and fetch Will.”
“Wait, Rosie,” Alex blurted.
Rosie turned around and looked at Alex with brows raised. “Why?” Then she smiled. “Och, of course!” She stormed at Rory, shooing him away. “Back down the stairs with ye. Ye’ll have to fetch a horse somehow and make a show of yer return to Luthmore through the front gate.”
Rory threw his hands up. “Whoa, Rosie. There’s something ye don’t know.”
Alex’s chest tightened. She tried to speak, to tell Rosie that she couldn’t go downstairs and tell the clan she was on the mend—not when she was about to feign her death. Her stinging tears could no longer be denied. She covered her face with her hands and dropped to her knees, her heart already mourning the loss of her family and beloved friends. Mary’s arms came around her shoulders. Alex turned toward her cousin, resting her face against her chest while Mary rocked her. “There, there, love.”
“What is the matter with her?” Rosie demanded of Rory.
“Our last mission did not go entirely as planned,” Rory said.
At length, Alex garnered her strength and curbed her tears. Rory shifted the chairs around and made room for everyone to sit by the hearth, and while Alex held Rosie’s hand to her left and Mary’s to her right, Rory began his account of their latest mission. “We robbed the king’s palace in London.”
Mary’s eyes widened with alarm. “Ye must be jesting!”
Mary and Rosie both looked at Alex expectantly.
Pressing her lips into a thin line, her only answer was to nod her head.
Rosie fanned herself with her free hand. “I feel faint.”
“Steady now, Rosie,” Rory said, his voice firm. “I need ye both to be strong. Something has occurred that cannot be undone.”
Alex alternated between soothing Mary and then Rosie while Rory finished recounting the details of the heist. “Nick and Paul carried on to Haddington with the treasure while Alex and I raced back here.”
For a moment, Rosie and Mary sat in silence, wearing dumbstruck expressions. “But what happened to Richard?” Rosie said at last.
Rory reached over and squeezed Rosie’s free hand. “David is taking him to Dover. He’ll force Richard to sign a commission on a merchant ship. I told David to seek out Gustav Bellerose, the merchant captain with whom my brother, Quinn, used to sail. Gustav will push him hard. He rewards those who are honest and hardworking, but cross him, and his wrath is swift and severe. If Richard survives the voyage, he’ll be taken as far as Venice, which will ensure his silence, at least for a good while.”
“But he still could return,” Mary gasped.
Rory nodded. “He certainly could, but he may also decide to remain in Venice. With the current unrest among the noble families, the region is ripe for an opportunistic swindler. He could thrive there.”
Alex snorted. “Which is more than he would have done here had we not intervened. He never would have found a merchant willing to touch the royal treasure, and so he never could have profited from his crime. What’s more, when you consider how many people were involved in his plan, I do not doubt the king will learn the name Richard Ash the very moment he realizes he’s been robbed.”
Rory nodded. “We may have saved his neck in the end.”
“I wish ye hadn’t,” Rosie blurted, dabbing at the tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “I wish ye’d let that Nick fellow slit his throat.”
“Rosie,” Alex exclaimed, surprised by her maid’s blood lust.
“What? ‘Tis the truth!”
Rory reached over and patted Rosie’s leg. “One day, I’ve no doubt someone with looser morals than Scotland’s agents will slay Richard. But yer lady is no killer, nor am I.”
Mary straightened in her seat and squeezed Alex’s hand. “We are Christian women, first and foremost. Blood should not be spilled. But I do not understand why ye must leave. Luthmore will stand against anyone who threatens ye.”
Alex scooted to the edge of her seat and turned to face her cousin. “Luthmore did not agree to my actions. I have been thieving and secreting messages that many would have killed to read, putting myself in dangerous situation after dangerous situation. I must answer for my actions, not Luthmore. Despite our hope that he will not return to England, vengeance alone may bring him back.”
Rory nodded. “If he returns, he will do so with the name Lady Alexandria MacKenzie on his lips, but he cannot make anyone believe him if by all accounts she took to her sickbed during the heist and died soon after.”
Alex took a deep breath. “There is no other way. If I flee, then I will look guilty. If I remain, then it is only my word against Richard’s—the word of a Scotswoman.”
“Who else can know the truth?” Mary asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Alex turned to her and took her hands. “Only William and Michael, and, of course Abbot Matthew. If ye remember in his letter he promised to journey here in thirty days’ time. That is only a few days away. He will be able to help us make arrangements.”
“Ye mean, he’ll be able to help us plan yer funeral,” Rosie huffed.
“I’m afraid so, Rosie,” Alex said softly.
“’Tis too much to bear,” Mary cried. “How will the clan survive without its lady?”
Alex leaned closer and cupped Mary’s cheeks, but her cousin’s eyes remained downcast. “Look at me,” Alex said softly. “Our clan will thrive as it always has because of ye, Mary. Ye are now Lady of Luthmore.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Alex pulled the tapestry away from her casement just enough to peer down into the garden below where Mary sat on the stone bench, her elegant back straight and long. She was a picture of gentility and grace. Adam sat beside her, but only as close as propriety truly allowed. Alex held her breath as she watched Adam lean across the bench to whisper in Mary’s ear. Soft pink highlighted her cousin’s cheeks. Then Adam sat back and looked at her with gentle expectancy. Mary’s blush deepened but she turned, shifting her body toward Adam before she nodded. A nervous smile tugged at Adam’s lips. His hand rested on his thigh, then shifted to grab the bench, then his thigh once more. Finally, he clasped his hands together and leaned forward. Mary slowly did the same. Both sets of eyes closed and lips touched, tentatively at first, a whispered caress, then deeper, more tenderly. Moments later they pulled away, each to their respective sides of the bench.
Alex released a wistful breath before turning away from the window. She had just witnessed Mary and Adam’s first kiss—perhaps Mary’s first kiss ever. Then she thought about her first kiss with Rory. She had grabbed him, boldly pressing her lips to his.
“How different I am from Mary,” she said, joining Michael who sat beside the hearth, staring pensively into the small fire. “She possesses what some might argue are my greatest strengths and none of my flaws. She is the better lady to watch over Luthmore.”
Michael shook his head, still watching the flames. “Neither of ye is better or worse than the other, just different.”
Alex arched a brow at him. “Yer sentiment over me leaving is making a liar out of ye.”
Michael sat up straight in his seat and reached across the divide between their chairs and covered her hand with his. “If I could take back every rebuke, every scolding word I wou
ld.”
Her throat thickened with tears. “Stop all that. Ye’re going to make me cry again. And I spent all morning in tears comforting William. Ye ken I do not wish to go, but ye now know my deeds.” She swiped a hand at her tears. “And I would not undo what has been done, not even if I could,” she said resolutely. “I have been proud to take up Scotland’s sword.”
Michael’s white brows drew together, his face haggard. “’Tis just that I’ll miss ye, lass.”
Her heart twisted harder, squeezing out her tears. “Me too, old friend. But remember, we do not part ways forever. When ‘tis safe, ye can journey to wherever I end up, and until that time, ye’ll be so busy instructing Mary in her duties as lady of the keep, ye won’t even notice my absence.”
“Ye’re wrong there,” Michael said, a sad smile lifting his frown. “Mary will need little instruction.”
A soft laugh interrupted her dripping tears. “I ken,” she said, hiccupping. Then she sighed. “If ye consider the future of our clan with yer head alone, ye’ll see that Mary is the better choice. My disregard for convention would likely have been seen as a weakness by other clan leaders, but Mary is goodness and virtue; whereas, I am a Scottish rebel with a taste for rugged outlaws.”
“’Tis true, my love,” Rory said from his seat on her bed. She smiled, meeting his sky-blue eyes.
“Trouble, ye are,” he said. “Trouble through and through, but don’t worry, Michael. I’ll make sure she never changes.”
A gentle rapping drew their attention. Rory stood and crossed to stand in front of Alex, then motioned for Rosie to open the door. She opened it just enough to peek into the hallway, then with a gasp, she threw the door wide.
Alex leaned to look past Rory and met crinkled warm, brown eyes. “Abbot Matthew,” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet.
He opened his slim arms in preparation for the assault of her hug. “Ye’re quite fit for someone who will soon succumb to the pox.”
“Nick and Paul told ye everything then?” she said, pulling back to look at his kind face.
