Courting an Angel (24 page)

The largest and strongest border fortress, the H-shaped Hermitage Castle stood on the Hermitage Water between two streams and possessed an unusual double tower with central courtyard. Built in the thirteenth century by Walter Comyn, the ownership of Hermitage Castle had passed through several families until it became the property of Francis Hepburn-Stuart, an illegitimate grandson of James V and cousin to King James VI.

Their party of six reached Hermitage Castle as dusk was descending and a light mist giving way to steady rain. They rode through the portcullis entrance and into the deserted courtyard.

As they dismounted, several stable boys materialized from nowhere and led their horses away. With one burly borderer in the lead and the other behind them, they entered the castle’s main building and walked up the stairs to the great hall.

In sharp contrast to the deserted courtyard, the great hall buzzed in a beehive of activity. Bothwell’s borderers and castle servants filled the hall to overflowing.

The tantalizing aroma of roasting meats and simmering stew wafted across the air and called out to Rob when she stepped inside the chamber. Her stomach answered with an unladylike growl, and Rob hoped that no one heard her hunger’s roar.

“Ye’ll eat soon,” Gordon whispered, leaning close.

Rob blushed and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him. Why couldn’t she keep any secrets from her husband? This northward trek had been one of the most humiliating experiences of her life. This was her punishment for losing her temper and making her presence known to her uncle’s associates.

A tall, well-built man started across the hall toward them; a puzzled but welcoming smile lit his entire expression. Francis Hepburn-Stuart, the Earl of Bothwell, was a handsome man with auburn hair, short beard, and heavenly blue eyes. As he advanced on them, their two escorts disappeared into the crowd of borderers.

“Welcome to my home,” the Earl of Bothwell greeted them.

“I’m Gordon Campbell, and these are family and friend,” Gordon made the introductions. “Dubh MacArthur, Mungo MacKinnon, and my wife, Rob MacArthur Campbell.”

The earl shook the men’s hands and then turned his charm on Rob. “I can see that yer journey’s been long and tirin’,” he said, bowing over her gloved hand. “Would ye care to eat and then retire to a chamber with a hot bath?”

“Aye, my lord,” Rob answered, giving him a grateful smile. “Thank ye.”

“And what’s this creature yer carryin’?” Bothwell asked.

“Smooches, my puppy.”

The earl held his hand out to the pup for him to catch his scent. In answer, Smooches licked the offered hand.

Bothwell smiled and escorted them across the hall to the high table. At a gesture from their lord, two serving women brought whiskey for the men and mulled wine for Rob.

“Yer verra far from Argyll,” Bothwell remarked.

“Aye, we’ve been visitin’ in England,” Gordon answered. “Dubh and Rob’s uncle is the Earl of Basildon.”

“The English queen’s Midas?” Bothwell asked.

“Aye, and the lass is Elizabeth’s nemesis,” Mungo piped up.

“What d’ye mean?”

“He means my sister had the audacity to draw her dagger on Walsingham,” Dubh told him. “’Tis the reason we took to the heather.”

The Earl of Bothwell burst out laughing and nodded with approval at her. “Ah, here’s supper,” he said.

Several servants set loaves of bread, creamy butter, and bowls of hearty mutton stew on the table in front of them. Next came goblets of ale for the men and a refill of the mulled wine for the lady.

Shifting Smooches in her lap, Rob forced herself to remove her leather riding gloves. Wearing them at the supper table would be rude though that was precisely what she wished to do.

Rob fed the pup a few chunks of mutton from her bowl and then lifted the spoon to eat. “My compliments to Cook,” she said after tasting it. “’Tis delicious.”

Gordon leaned close and whispered against her ear, “Campbell soup tastes even better, angel.”

Rob rolled her eyes heavenward. “If I listened to ye, my lord, everythin’ Campbell would be considered divine.”

“And that would be the gospel truth.”

“The gospel accordin’ to Argyll?”

“Is there any other?”

Rob shifted Smooches to her right arm and reached out with her left hand to pick the last few mutton chunks out of the bowl for his supper. As one of the serving girls refilled the men’s goblets and started to turn away, Rob lifted her gaze from the pup and caught the girl making a protective sign of the cross.

Surprised, Rob froze for a fraction of an instant and then hid her left hand in her lap. Great Bruce’s ghost, how could she have forgotten to hide her deformity? Had she become so comfortable with the man beside her that she’d forgotten about the frightened reaction Old Clootie’s mark elicited in people?

Glancing sidelong at her husband, Rob felt a wave of relief surge through her body. Gordon hadn’t noticed the girl’s action. She slid her gaze to the Earl of Bothwell. He was watching her intently. Was that pity she saw mirrored in his eyes?

“Would ye care for yer bath, my lady?” the earl asked kindly. “’Tis waitin’ for ye in yer chamber.”

“Thank ye, my lord. I’d like that,” Rob answered, her cheeks pinkening because he’d witnessed her shame.

The earl gestured at two women. When she saw them approaching the table, Rob recognized the fear couched in their eyes. She’d seen that expression thousands of times in the Highlands.

“I’ll take care of Smooches,” Gordon said, lifting the pup out of her arms.

Rob flicked him a grateful smile and then stood. Without another word, she followed the two women out of the hall.

“A braw lassie,” the Earl of Bothwell said when she’d disappeared from sight. “Too bad she’s marked.”

Confused by his words, Gordon turned a questioning look on him. As far as he was concerned, his wife was pure perfection. Well, perhaps a mite headstrong at times, but that was a problem Gordon could easily solve.

“Dinna misunderstand,” the earl added. “I dinna hold with superstitions. As ye know, I’m called the Wizard Earl behind my back, and my royal cousin fears me. But, life can be harsh for a tarnished angel like yer wife.”

“There’s nothin’ tarnished aboot my sister,” Dubh insisted. “The flaw lies with the beholder, not the bearer of that mark.”

“What are ye talkin’ aboot?” Gordon demanded, rounding on his brother-in-law.

“That flower stain on the back other left hand frightens the misinformed,” Bothwell told him.

“Old Clootie touched her for sure,” Mungo piped up. “She’s the devil’s handmaiden.”

Both Gordon and Dubh reached for MacKinnon at the same moment. Gordon moved faster, though. He grabbed his friend by the throat and threatened, “I’ll kill ye if ye dinna take that back.”

“The man canna recant while yer chokin’ him,” the Earl of Bothwell said, and then placed a hand on Gordon’s shoulder. “Peace, Campbell. He canna help bein’ ignorant.”

With a warning growl, Gordon released his friend.

“I — I amna ignorant,” Mungo gasped, slowly regaining his breath.

“Superstition is ignorance.” The Earl of Bothwell turned to Gordon and advised, “Dinna present yer wife at court, man. Jamie believes in demons and witches. Yer lass will get hurt.”

“’Tis merely a birthin’ blemish,” Gordon said, shaking his head at such foolishness. “And a pretty flower at that.”

His wife’s enemies were his enemies. He’d kill the man who tried to hurt her.

* * *

“Wake up, angel.”

At the sound of the familiar husky voice whispering in her ear, Rob swam up slowly from the deep depths of sleep. Was she dreaming? Or had she actually heard her husband uttering the three words she’d begun to hate?

“I said, wake up.”

That voice was no dream. Rob opened her eyes and saw her husband still dressed for riding.

“Are ye comin’ to bed?” she asked.

“’Tis mornin’,” he told her.

“Where did ye sleep?”

“Beside ye.”

“Why dinna we rest here for a day or two?” she suggested, her voice a drowsy plea.

“Here’s food on this tray,” Gordon said, scooping Smooches into his arms. “Meet me in the courtyard, and dinna keep us waitin’.” At that, he left the chamber.

Rob wondered if her husband was beginning to enjoy tormenting her, but she did as she was told. After washing her face and dressing hurriedly, Rob grabbed a piece of brown bread and a chunk of cheese and then headed for the door. She had no doubt that if she lingered within the chamber, her husband would return to shove the food down her throat and to dress her himself.

Dawn’s orange streaks were brightening the eastern horizon when Rob stepped into the courtyard. Her husband and her brother spoke together in hushed voices. Near them, three horses stood saddled and waiting.

“Is MacKinnon stayin’ at Hermitage?” Rob asked.

“No, I’m stayin’ behind,” Dubh answered.

“But why?”

“Yer safe from the queen’s men now, and I’ve a mind to go raidin’ the borders with Bothwell,” he told her. “‘Twill be my own private revenge for Mary’s murder.”

“I wish I could go raidin’ with ye.” Rob looked at him through eyes that mirrored her worry. “Ye’ll be careful, won’t ye?”

“Of course.” Dubh gathered her into his arms and gave her a hearty squeeze. “I couldna allow Ross or Jamie to inherit Dunridge. Those good-for-nothin’ brothers of ours would pauper the family within a year.”

Rob forced herself to smile. She felt sad at the thought of leaving her favorite brother behind, but understood his motives. Part of her sadness was pure selfishness. Though she knew her husband would protect her with his life, Rob had felt along the journey from London that Dubh was protecting her from Gordon. Now, from the borders to the Highlands, she would be forced to rely solely on Gordon. How absurd that one moment of foolishness, making her presence known to Elizabeth’s ministers, could have such far-reaching consequences on the rest of her life.

Drawing their attention, Mungo MacKinnon hurried into the courtyard at that moment. Instead of looking rested, the man sported horribly bloodshot eyes and a pale-greenish complexion.

“Are ye hurtin’, Mungo?” Gordon asked in an overly loud voice.

The blond man grimaced. “I’ll never drink and dice with another borderer as long as I live.”

Gordon grinned and slapped his back so hard the force of it nearly toppled the other man over. He turned to Rob and asked, “Are ye ready, angel?”

Rob threw herself into her brother’s arms a final time and kissed his cheek. Then she stepped back a pace and nodded at her husband. Gordon set Smooches into her satchel and helped her mount.

“Dinna fear for her safety,” Gordon told Dubh, reaching to shake his hand. “I’ll be guardin’ her with my life.”

Gordon, Rob, and Mungo left Hermitage Castle and rode northwest. At Selkirk, Mungo took leave of them and headed northeast toward Edinburgh.

Feeling strangely relieved at his departure, Rob watched her husband’s friend ride away. As she turned back to Gordon, she happened to glance down at her star ruby. Its color was fading into serenity. Puzzled, she looked at MacKinnon’s retreating back and then her magical stone. Could there possibly be any connection between her husband’s friend and the stone’s color? Could the stone possibly be reflecting MacKinnon’s negative feelings for her?

“Is aught wrong?” Gordon asked. “Or are ye back to checkin’ yer titties again?”

Rob forced the fret from her expression. With a mischievous smile, she answered, “I want to be certain ye havena lifted them off my chest.”

“Ah, lass. I told ye before and I’ll tell ye again —” Gordon began.

“Ye dinna need to steal what ye already own,” Rob finished for him.

Gordon grinned at her. “Yer a quick learner, angel. I believe I’ll keep ye around.”

“Unless I outwit ye by slippin’ through yer fingers.”

“Outwit me?” he echoed. “’Twill never happen, lass.”

“Dinna bet the family fortune, my lord.” She flicked him an unconsciously flirtatious smile and teased, “Everyone knows that MacArthurs are smarter than Campbells.”

Gordon burst out laughing. “Yer incorrigible. But, I guess we’ve got the next forty years to put that theory to the test.”

Continuing northwest, Gordon and Rob passed through Lanark and Stirling, the jewel that clasped the Highlands with the rest of the world. Leaving Stirling behind, they rode into the Highlands of Scotland.

Like an unwelcome guest, winter lingered longer in those higher altitudes. A heavy blanket of snow muffled the sounds of the wilderness, its meadows remaining empty of animals. Only pawprints revealed the existence of life.

The howling voice of February’s winds swirled around the brooding mountains, echoed through the hauntingly deserted glens, and tippled across once-serene lochs. Winter, the loneliest time of the year, was a season of solitude when people sought refuge from the elements within their humble dwellings and passed the hours weaving fantastic tales of yore.