Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (23 page)

35

The royal court at Edinburgh was all Sorcha imagined it would be.

Men and women of rank were dressed in rich, rustling fabrics, jewels adorning their necks and rings gleaming on their fingers. Earls, chancellors, chamberlains, ambassadors, administrators, courtiers, clerics, nobles and ladies mingled with members of various clans. The finest foods and wines were served. There were musicians and entertainers. Sorcha was surprised to see Maira at court, but then she remembered she was the daughter of John Maclean of Lochbuie, a man of some rank. Maira’s eyes watched Malcolm almost everywhere he went but Sorcha put it from her mind.

The first two nights were spent enjoying the festivities and the food. On the third evening, there was a masked ball. Dancers swirled. Malcolm proudly wore his plaid and topaz brooch, every inch the Highlander. Everyone wore masks they held to their faces and the young king’s mask was the most ornate, black and gold with a long snout and encrusted with glittering jewels.

A seamstress had hastily altered several gowns for Sorcha and tonight she wore a silk gown of dark green, pearls at her throat, her auburn hair swept high on her head. The dancers moved fast, changing partners often, and Sorcha felt as if she floated and dove through a mad sea of silks and wool. She lost track of Malcolm as partners changed and changed again. And then she found herself expertly maneuvered by a mysterious male partner and swept into a moonlit alcove. She was alone with a man in a black mask with ruby trim.

“I canna believe it,” he said. He was tall with dark blonde hair, his eyes a vivid blue behind the mask. “I would ken those eyes anywhere, for they ha’e haunted my dreams for the past three years. And now lass, ye will finally tell me yer name.”

He removed the mask and for a moment Sorcha was at a loss. Who was this tall stranger? The puffy and jagged scar that ran from the tip of his chin across his right cheek all the way to his eye jarred her memory.
The Englishman. That day in the woods, when she’d been attacked. Could this be the man who had saved her? She remembered running through the woods, her heart pounding, looking back and seeing one of the men slash a dirk across his youthful face.

             
“Aye, ye do remember me. I can see it in yer lovely green eyes. It’s the scar. Should I put the mask back on? Does it offend ye?”

              “Nay, it doesna offend me. Ye received that scar while ye were saving my life.”

              The man standing before her now was lean and handsome, with a square jaw. How well she remembered his startling blue eyes. Dark blonde stubble shadowed his jaw and he boldly lifted a finger to caress her cheek. “Yer name, lass. Ye owe me that at least.”

She let her mask fall and he sucked in his breath, clearly pleased by what he saw. “I am Sorcha Douglas.” She shook her head. “Sorcha Maclean now.”

              “So, yer married. A shame.”

              “And yer name?”

“Jamie Bertran, at yer service, lass. Always.”

“I ne’er got a chance to thank ye, Jamie, for…that day in the woods. Ye saved my life and risked yer own when the other men attacked me. I prayed often ye survived. Ye were brave that day. How did ye survive?”

              “I’m a vera good fighter.” He smiled crookedly. “It helped that the others had had too much whisky, which slowed their reactions. I fought them off and ran like bloody hell through the woods, but only after I managed to land a few good punches of my own. I was able to steal a horse and make my way back to Edinburgh and eventually board a ship back to England. I dunna ken what happened to those men.”

Sorcha frowned, remembering the day the villagers had gathered on the shore. “I ken. There was a great storm that night. They must’ve set out on a small boat. Their bodies washed ashore. They drowned.”

“Justice then,” he said, his blue eyes intense.

“Why were you in the woods that day?” she asked.

“I’m ashamed to say. I was young and foolish. One of the men was my cousin, Otis. We were raiding. I didna want to go and I didna go with the intention of harming anyone. Just lifting a few cattle perhaps and enjoying some Scottish beef. I didna realize Otis’ mean streak until that day in the woods. I didna realize he would attempt to kill his own kin to get what he wanted.”

Sorcha studied his face. He was handsome but there was a harder edge to him now.

“Are ye married?”

“Nay. I…ha’e been waiting. Since the day we parted, I prayed daily to meet ye again. I dreamt often of those startling green eyes, lass. And now here ye are, practically in my arms. But it seems I’m too late.”

She realized just how close he was standing and stepped away from him.

His lips turned up in a lazy smile.

“I most certainly ne’er expected to see ye here, in a Scottish castle, Jamie.”

              “’Tis no secret yer King James the Third wishes peace with England. Some call him a traitor for it. Some call him weak. But I am nae here as an Englishman. I left my country and returned to Scotland not long after the incident in the woods. I decided I needed a new life. I went back to yer village a few times, back to those woods, but I couldna find ye, Sorcha. I had to be discreet when I asked questions because I’m English. None of the villagers would tell me who ye were when I asked about ye and described yer looks, e’en though they surely must ha’e kent I was asking about Sorcha Douglas. They protected ye well.”

Sorcha was silent, thinking of that day in the woods long ago, of the men’s bodies washed ashore, their skin grey, their mouths gaping like dead fish. She did not want to think on it.

“Eventually I became one of the king’s guards.”

“Well, then, should ye nae be guarding the king?”

He laughed and stepped closer again, caressing her cheek. “Yer e’en more beautiful now than ye were then. Tell me, do ye love yer husband?”

              “Yea, let us hear, do ye love yer husband?”

              Malcolm stood in the shadows, his amber eyes unreadable, his jaw taut. His arms were crossed over his chest, his mask clutched in his hand.

In her shock at seeing the Englishman unmask himself, Sorcha hadn’t heard Malcolm approach. She locked eyes with him. Her heart beat erratically and she swallowed. “Yea, I do love my husband, vera much.” Sorcha held her breath, wondering if she’d been foolish to let Malcolm know, wondering if all he felt for her—if all he’d ever feel—was affection. Malcolm’s eyes never left her, even when the Englishman excused himself. He stood so still she thought he was angry.

              “Are ye angry with me, Malcolm? I….”

              He didn’t let her finish whatever it was she was going to say. He pushed her against the wall, his kiss punishing and commanding, thoroughly possessive. He caught her lower lip gently with his teeth and then kissed her hard again. “I love ye so much, Sorcha, it scares me. I dunna like seeing ye with another man. Do ye…love me?”

              She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Aye,” she said, her heart bursting with joy. “As much as I tried nae to, I canna help but love ye, Malcolm Maclean. There is no man like ye.”

              “Say it again.”

              “I love ye, Malcolm.”

His lips trailed down her neck and across her bare shoulder. “And I love ye Sorcha. So ye best tell me what ye were doing here in this dark alcove with that Englishman.”

              His hand cupped her breast and the thought of being caught like that only excited Sorcha more. Her hands wound themselves into his dark hair.
He’d said he loved her. Her heart soared with elation.

“Do I ha’e to remind ye, here and now, that yer mine?” he growled.

              “I havena forgotten.”             

“Let’s be sure about that.” He pushed her skirts up above her hips and the air tickled her bare skin. His hand stroked her inner thigh while the other tucked the folds of her dress behind her to secure it. “Yer skin is so soft,” he murmured.

              “What if someone discovers us like this?” she breathed.

              “We’re alone.” He shoved his trews down to his knees. He was hard with need. His warm fingers slid between her legs and she moaned.

              “Touch yerself,” he said, his hand guiding hers. Shyly, she uncurled her fist from his hair and stroked her wet folds while he watched, his jaw taut with desire. Then his fingers joined hers, delving into her wet core.

He raised his head at hearing her quick intake of breathe. “Oh, I kent ye’d like that, Sorcha.”

He knelt down and Sorcha glanced about, making sure they were indeed alone. “Malcolm?”

He responded with his hot mouth on her thigh, his lips trailing her skin and licking her pulsing core. His teeth nipped her tiny bud, making her even more breathless. Her taste pushed him into an even harder aching arousal. She writhed in pleasure against his mouth, unable to hold back.

“Wife, I can ne’er get enough of ye.” After a while he stood and kissed her fingers, slipping one into his mouth and sucking it. She was trapped by his gold eyes, spellbound by the heat in them, mesmerized by his sensual lips. “Taste yerself, Sorcha.” He guided her fingers to her mouth and she sucked them gently.

              “Dear God,” he said, lifting her. “Wrap yer legs around my waist and hold on while I remind ye I’m the only man for ye.”

She obeyed, mindless with passion, unaware of anything now except for Malcolm. The feel of him, the smell of him, the taste of him mingling with her own taste. His dark hair, his dark eyes, his deep, husky voice, his broad shoulders and the bunching play of his muscles as he took her. The sound of music and laughter from the banquet hall floated in the darkness as her complete surrender undid him. He began to move with wild abandon and she gripped his buttocks to pull him closer, reveling in the way it made his muscles clench and harden. He came quickly, the power of his orgasm making his back arch and triggering her own; her flesh contracted wildly around him ad she shuddered in sharp waves of passion.

              Her thighs still trembled when he left the alcove. When Sorcha had rearranged her skirts, she joined him at one of the long dinner tables, her face flushed from his lovemaking.

The banquet hall was filled to capacity. There were probably a hundred people there. She was surrounded by noblemen dressed in long, colorful, exotic jackets of silk and velvet, with their long hose and long-toed shoes. The Highlander men with their plaids, bare knees, and rawhide brogans stuck out like sore thumbs but were no less noble-looking for their odd dress. Some of the women, dressed in flowing gowns and elaborate headdresses, whispered they were handsome, for
savages
.

“Who is he, Sorcha?” Malcolm asked, sipping his wine.

              Sorcha told him about the attack in the woods when she was fifteen, how Jamie saved her, and how she hadn’t seen him again, until tonight. “Jamie left England for good a few years ago and now he’s one of the king’s guards.”

              “An odd coincidence,” Malcolm remarked, watching Jamie across the hall.

              While life at the royal court was all Sorcha thought it would be, the king was not who she thought he would be. He was only seventeen, young to be a king, and he gave the impression he was a sensitive, troubled soul. He was to be married next year to Margaret of Denmark, the islands of Orkney and Shetland pledged in lieu of a promised dowry. He lacked charm and authority and something about him aroused mistrust.

Some said he was a good man but an inadequate king. He preferred the company of shoemakers, masons, and musicians to nobles and this did not please the nobles. His attention to the business of government was uneven. Unlike his vigorous father, he had little enthusiasm for war or foreign policy. He was eager to be at peace with England, just as Jamie had said. But like his father before him, he did have an avid interest in astrology, and it was said he was constantly afraid of what might befall him.

The king stood and a hush fell over the crowded banquet hall. “And now my royal magician shall perform the most wondrous illusions for my guests!”

              There was applause and appreciative murmurs as a man in a purple robe entered the banquet hall, followed by assistants who carried a table of curious objects.

              “My God, it’s Jehanne,” Malcolm whispered.

              “Who?” Sorcha said.

              “Jehanne. When I visited Edinburgh as a lad, he was here too, the son of a magician. He is the king’s royal magician now.”

              For the next hour, Jehanne enthralled the crowd. He cut the head off a goose, chanted and then set the head of the bird on the ground and pressed it back onto its body. The bird got up and waddled away. He lifted heavy objects with his eyes alone and walked barefoot on hot coals without being burned. There were card tricks and coin tricks. There were balls of smoke that flew magically from his hands. He levitated his female assistant several feet in the air. For his final, grand trick, his assistants assembled a boxed stage and placed a cage on it with a monkey inside. Jehanne’s arms threw balls of smoke once more and when the smoke cleared, a live tiger prowled inside the cage.