The Guardian

by Greyson, Maeve

  And that was another thing. How ill-planned was this journey if they already had to stop in a village? Cook’s wagon and one of the flatbeds bulged with supplies, the other was filled with tents and tools. What could they possibly lack?

  England made him feel cross and ill-at-ease—even more so since the incident with Robbie and Wills. Their behavior nettled him. Openly disrespectful, an underlying current of hostility and treachery surrounded them. Hostility not only directed toward himself and Duncan but also at Lady Mercy. Those two were trouble incarnate.

  They needed to hasten to the Highlands. He’d decided at the onset of the trip to head to Tor Ruadh. Alexander would provide reinforcements; men Graham could trust to continue the lady’s safe passage through the remainder of the Highlands.

  “What exactly did ye send for from the village?” He’d sent Duncan along with St. Johns because he didn’t trust the man as far as he could toss him. “We’ve barely begun the trip. Did ye forget something?” Agitation crept into his voice, but he couldn’t help it. They should be marking time in this fair weather, not sitting on the side of the road. He eyed their surroundings, half expecting an attack at any moment. Ill-tidings rode the wind. He felt it.

  Graham waited. Lady Mercy didn’t answer right away, just kept sketching. Guilt filled him. He shouldn’t have spoken to her so. He’d sounded cross. “Forgive me for sounding worrisome, m’lady. It’s just…” he struggled to find the words to make her understand. “We need to get to Scotland so ye can enjoy the rare beauty of the Highlands rather than see just another English field of weeds abloom.” There. That sounded some better.

  Lady Mercy shrugged. “I understand your reasoning, but it is my hope a very important correspondence I’m expecting will have reached the village.” She glanced up at him then, those warm eyes of hers filled with a subtle plea for patience. “I sent St. Johns to check if it has caught up with us there. It’s crucial to me, Graham.”

  “An important correspondence?” A warning uneasiness prickled through the hairs on the back of Graham’s neck. He scrubbed a hand across his nape to erase the ominous tickle. “How would they know where to send it to reach ye?”

  “I sent the information on ahead. A map of sorts. Remember? Janie had Wills post it for me when we passed close to Wembley.”

  The lass had been quite stubborn about his showing her the route he’d planned to take through the Highlands. Even double-checked the notes she’d taken by showing him the simple map she’d drawn from what he’d told her. To whom had she sent the map? Her father? The king? Why would they care? They’d ordered him to take her through the Highlands. They hadn’t expressed an interest in how he accomplished it. “Who needed the map, m’lady?”

  “Beg pardon?” Mercy peered hard at the vista before her, scowling as she made careful strokes with her pencil, then measured the marks on the page for accuracy.

  Graham reached down and stilled her sketching with a touch to her shoulder. “Who needed the map of our planned journey?”

  She was hiding something. He knew it as sure as he knew his own name. Enticing as she was, she was still a noble with strong ties to the king. Such an alliance could be lethal—especially to a Scot. He’d done his best to temper his behavior around her—as difficult as that had been—and warned Duncan to do the same. But the more time he spent with the lass, the less he gave a damn about any possible risks. He found the woman intriguing and wished to know her better—befriend her even. Friend. He huffed out a snort. Well…perhaps friend was not the best word to describe his inclinations when it came to Lady Mercy, but he did wish to get closer to her all the same. It troubled him to admit he liked her. She was braw, fearless, and tempting. He felt an innate need to protect her, even if it meant protecting her from herself.

  “Who did ye send it to, lass?”

  Lady Mercy placed her pencil in the inner pocket of her journal, closed the book, then hugged it to her chest. She stared ahead, a mournful look pulling at her delicate features. “Mother Julienne.”

  Graham lowered himself to sit beside Lady Mercy. “I assume Mother Julienne is at a priory somewhere along our route?”

  “An abbess, actually.” Lady Mercy’s voice took on a hollow, pained sound. “She oversees the nunnery connected to the abbey on the Isle of Iona.” She stole a glance back at the servants milling about the wagons, then leaned closer to Graham and lowered her voice. “I know our acquaintance is quite new, but you appear to be a man of honor—and Ryū likes you.” She paused, her gaze darting about. She pulled in a deep breath before turning her smile full upon him. “If my horse trusts you—that’s quite an accomplishment.” Graham started to speak, but the Lady Mercy lifted a hand and silenced him. “You have won my trust, but I beg you confirm that trust is not ill-placed.”

  The warning tingle at the back his neck turned into a much warmer stirring quite a bit lower on his body. He’d thought often of the missed kisses and how he might finally claim them, especially when they’d sat together beside the fire in the evenings. But he’d forced himself to take the side of caution. It was risky business indeed for one such as him to dally with Lady Mercy. But caution was becoming quite the chore. He slid his hand under hers and brought it to his mouth for a warm brushing kiss across her knuckles. “I assure ye, m’lady. Ye may trust me with your life.”

  Lower lip quivering, Lady Mercy dropped her gaze and whispered, “You have no idea how much that means to me. My life as well as yours and the wellbeing of your family is at great risk.”

  Graham held tight to her fingers, cradling her hand his. “I have known ever since I was summoned to court by King William that wickedness was about, but I have yet to figure out the trap.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, “Tell me what they plan, and we shall see who is at risk and who shall be played the fool.”

  Lady Mercy studied him, her dark brows drawn together in a perplexed frown. She looked away with an abrupt shuddering and pulled her hand free of his grasp.

  What troubled the lass? And what did it have to do with him? “Ye can tell me anything, m’lady. I swear it.”

  Lady Mercy lifted her chin to a defiant angle. “I seek sanctuary at the abbey. I shall never return to London if all goes according to plan. Mother Julienne extended an invitation earlier. I await further instructions and assurance I am expected.”

  Graham frowned. A protectiveness swept across him like a raging fire. Who dared threaten this kind, gentle lass? “Sanctuary from what?”

  “My father and his political games.” Lady Mercy’s voice quivered. She focused her gaze straight ahead and set her jaw, her delicate features hardening. “Society.” She turned away. “Life,” she said in a strained whisper.

  Graham stood and held out his hand. “Come, lass. Walk with me.”

  She looked up at him, startled. “What?”

  “Walk with me. We need to speak without interruption or the fear of eavesdropping.” He shifted his attention to the others in their group currently milling about the wagons and taking the opportunity of the stop to work the stiffness from their legs.

  “Janie,” he called out in a voice that brooked no disobedience.

  Janie cut off her conversation with Percy and turned, giving Graham her full attention.

  “I am taking Lady Mercy to a better viewpoint off the path. We are no’ to be disturbed, ye ken? We shall return to the wagons anon.” Graham gave the entire group a look that dared them to argue or think less of their lady for walking unaccompanied with a man. To save Lady Mercy’s reputation further, he motioned toward a narrow sheep trail winding down the side of the grassy hill. “We shall be in plain view at all times, so dinna worry about chaperoning your lady. Ye can do so from atop this hill if ye so wish, understand?”

  “Yes, Master MacCoinnich.” Janie made an awkward bob of her head, then gave Lady Mercy a nervous dip of her chin. “As long her ladyship agrees?”

  Graham supported the young girl’s loyalty to her mistress. He turned back to Lady Mer
cy. “Ye agree, aye?”

  She responded with a soft ‘yes’ and an almost imperceptible nod.

  His arm proffered, he waited.

  Mercy took her place beside him, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow and matching her steps to his. “Thank you.”

  “For?” He had to admit, he rather liked walking this way with the lovely lass so close beside him and holding tight to his forearm.

  “For attempting to save my honor.” She held tighter as the downward spiraling of the sheep’s trail grew steeper. “That was kind.”

  “I would do nothing to dishonor ye or start tongues a wagging about your taking liberties with a Scot.” Although, deep down, he had to admit that he wished she would take liberties with him. She was a very fine woman, indeed—fine and tempting.

  “Tongues already wag, Master MacCoinnich. They’ve wagged since before I was born.”

  “There ye go with the ‘Master MacCoinnich’ nonsense again. I’ve come to realize ye always do it when ye’re upset. Have I offended ye?” He felt the tension in the woman’s grasp and the stiff way she walked beside him. The poor lass was fraught with troubles. What had her so rattled today? “Did Robbie and Wills act out again? Do I need to temper their behavior for them? Tell me what they did.”

  “I assure you, my agitation is not because of you. Nor because of the boys.” She paused, almost flinched, then shook her head. A deep sigh escaped her. “It is so complicated, Graham.”

  “Why do ye no’ explain it to me then?” Graham gave her a wink and a consoling pat to her hand. “I’m quick to catch on to things.”

  Her resulting smile warmed his heart. “I shall do my best but first, if we are to be true friends, I insist you call me Mercy.”

  Graham’s heart swelled with pride. He’d done well to think of this private walk. Usually, he struggled with saying the right thing to lassies but somehow, with Mercy, it was different. “Aye, lass.” The name suited her well—her beauty could very easily drive a man to his knees and make him beg for mercy. “Now tell me what troubles ye so much that ye seek sanctuary at an abbey.”

  “I have never belonged anywhere.” Mercy’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “While my mother and brother still lived, I knew enough love and acceptance to endure society’s prejudice and my father’s ill will, but now that they’re gone…” Her words trailed off and she stared at the landscape as though she hated it. “I am scorned because of my ancestry and how my mother survived before she met my father.” She shook her head, trembling with emotion. “It was recently made quite clear to me that she endured a great deal after marrying my father as well.”

  Graham scowled down at his boots as they walked, unsure how to respond. He wished to comfort her, but he didn’t know the best way to go about it. “Those who scorn ye because of your blood and your mother’s deeds are fools.” He came to a halt and turned her to face him. “And that includes your father.” He dared a touch to her face, cupping her cheek. “Ye’re a beauty, Mercy, and I have never seen a person so ready to care for others. Ye’re a braw, fearless woman. Ye treat your servants as family, and ye love those horses as though they be your kin. To hell with those who dinna appreciate ye for the fine woman ye are.”

  She gazed back at him for the span of several heartbeats, wistfulness filling her face. “If only it were that simple,” she whispered.

  “It can be.” Graham glanced up at the top of the hill. Janie, along with Percy, Doughal, and Cook, stood lined up like sentries along the crest of the hillside, watching them. Regret filled him as he eased his hand away from the satin of her cheek and tucked her arm back into his. For her sake, he mustn’t give the gossips any fodder. “Ignore the fools. ’Tis their loss if they rebuff your presence.”

  “The fools cannot be ignored. Not when they have become so dangerous.” She squeezed his arm. “My father means to hand you and your kin over to Jameson Campbell and his ilk with King William’s blessing.”

  Jameson Campbell. The mere mention of the name sent renewed rage surging through Graham. The bastard had attempted an assault on his eldest brother, Alexander’s keep, Tor Ruadh, and more than likely had a hand in the bloody massacre at Glencoe. Graham grit his teeth, forcing himself to maintain control. “And how does he think to do such?”

  Mercy lowered her gaze and watched her slow, methodical steps, her face hidden by the wide brim of her hat. “I cannot bear the shame of the words I need to say.”

  Graham stopped their progress down the trail, once more turned her to face him, and took both her hands in his. Mercy’s head remained bowed. “Look at our hands, lass, if ye canna find the strength to face me. Clasped together, our hands, we ourselves, are stronger for the bond. Keep your eyes on our hands and tell me. I swear I willna judge ye or shame ye.”

  “He told me to seduce you,” she whispered. The brim of her hat trembled as she spoke. “Seduce you and ensure you wanted me, then spurn you and send you away.”

  With a hard swallow, Graham took his own advice, staring down at their clasped hands as he traced his thumbs back and forth across the smoothness of Mercy’s skin. “And how would that hand me to Campbell? That doesna make sense.” What foolish machinations did Mercy’s father have fogging that addled head of his?

  Mercy squeezed his hands as she shifted with a quick shrug. “He says when a Scot wants something and claims it as his own, he takes it. Even by force, if necessary.”

  The man had a point about a Scot’s passion—especially a MacCoinnich’s—but Graham would never take a woman unless she wished to be taken. “I beg your forgiveness, but I fear I dinna follow the plot.” A laughing groan escaped him. “Mayhap I’m no’ as bright as I thought m’self to be.”

  “My father believes if you wanted me enough, you’d kidnap me. He’s heard of such marital practices among Scots.” She lifted her gaze to his. “And if you kidnapped me, Jameson Campbell could be unleashed to retrieve me and permitted to decimate the new MacCoinnich clan formed by joining with Clan Neal. Their growing strength is feared by the crown, and my father knows this. Campbell would be permitted to attack. Much as what happened to the MacDonalds of Glencoe—without fear of reprisal from the king or parliament.”

  “Poorly planned treachery, that—if ye ask me.” Although Graham had no doubt that King William would celebrate the Scots killed in such a skirmish, whether they be MacCoinnich or Campbell. More questions surfaced. The intricate connections of the plan escaped him. “Why did your father choose Jameson Campbell—or was the man the king’s choice?”

  “Some sort of debts.” Mercy looked away. “Father said Jameson Campbell owns his soul.” She hissed out a bitter laugh. “If he had a soul.” Her face pinched into a scowl. “He said his weakness with money pushed him from King William’s favor.” Her nostrils flared. “But I know the truth. The fact he can no longer offer my mother as mistress to His Majesty rendered him of no further use to the king.” She averted her gaze and pressed a trembling hand to her chest. “I am so ashamed,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “For everything.” She bowed her head and hid beneath her hat.

  The Duke of Edsbury’s desperate and weak plan became clearer. King William wanted complete obedience from the Scots through whatever means necessary. The massacre of Clan MacDonald had been brutal and triggered the opposite effect. Many didn’t fear the king. They hated him, hated the Campbells, and vowed revenge.

  But if a Scot were to kidnap a Sassenach noble, the king’s goddaughter no less, in essence—fire the first shot, it would only be natural for her to be retrieved by any means necessary, and if many Scots died in the process, so be it. Even a fellow Scot, thinking of their own daughters, might grudgingly agree. Clan wars had been started for less.

  And then there was this poor, dear lass trapped in the middle. Graham didn’t fear the foolish plot. He was a Scot and a mercenary. He’d bested worse than this. This lost lass—aye, that was something else indeed. He took Mercy’s hands back and held them tight. “Ye’ve nothing to be
ashamed of, lass. Ye’ve done nothing wrong. We canna control anyone’s actions but our own.” He let out a pained sigh. “I’m just thankful ye’re bastard-of-a-father didn’t sacrifice ye to the king as he did your mother.” Graham turned her so he could peer up under the brim of that damn hat and see her face. “I’d surely have to kill him if he attempted that, ye ken?”

  Mercy responded with a quivering smile, then squeezed his hands before slipping free of his grasp and turning away to continue meandering down the path. She fluttered her fingers as though shooing away the cares of the world. “I was recently informed that I am King William’s only godchild because of his extreme fondness for my mother and the talents she exhibited as his mistress. In a drunken rage, my father confessed to me that’s how she extracted my protection as godchild from His Majesty.” Bitterness emanated from her every move as she stopped walking and looked back at Graham. “Do not dare to judge her though. It was not her fault. She did what she had to do to survive and protect her children.”

  “I would never judge her. I have no right to do so.” Graham sensed Mercy’s pain and ached to take her in his arms. “Speak whatever weighs on your heart, m’lady.”

  She lifted her chin, swallowed hard, and fisted her hands in front of her. “My mother was no longer a prostitute when she serviced the king. She had been wife to my father for several years, but my father saw great promise in aligning himself with the young Prince of Orange by offering him my mother for his pleasure.” Pain and suffering muted the defiance in Mercy’s stance. “My mother was a Japanese high born once. Almost like an English noble—long ago before a rival lord stole her away for refusing his offer of marriage. Intent on destroying her honor, the lord sold her to pirates and a life of prostitution. King William found the prospect of such a mistress intriguing and impossible to resist.” She bowed her head. “And although King William has committed many an atrocious sin, an illicit affair with the godchild he promised to protect does not appear to be a sin of which he is capable.”