Courting an Angel (42 page)

“But what if they dinna?” she asked, her worry apparent in her voice. “What if I canna fit in with them?”

What if they recognize Old Clootie’s mark on my hand? was left unspoken.

“God’s balls, lass.” Gordon chuckled. “Raise no more devils than I’m able to lay . . . I’ve brought ye a gift.”

“Why?”

“Because yer my adorable wife and soon-to-be the mother of Inverary’s heir.”

But not because he loves me, Rob thought.

Gordon produced a solid gold luckenbooth broach and pinned it to her shawl. The heart-shaped broach was customarily exchanged between a betrothed couple and later pinned to their child’s blanket for good luck and safety.

“I considered the traditional silver,” Gordon said, brushing his lips across hers, “but then I decided that particular metal much too cold for a hot-blooded woman like ye.”

When he produced a second golden brooch, Rob asked in confusion, “Why did ye purchase two?”

“Ye must pin this one on me,” he told her.

Taking the broach out of his hand, Rob smiled shyly and fastened it on his white shirt for all to see. Then she stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his lips.

“I’d love to pursue the invitation yer lips are offerin’,” Gordon said. “Unfortunately, we’re late for the memorial service. Are ye ready?”

Rob shook her head and reached inside her black shawl to free her beggar bead necklace. She laid it on the outside and said, “I dinna want to be caught unaware. Now I’m ready for anythin’.”

Leaving their chamber, Gordon led Rob through a confusing maze of corridors to a narrow, stone staircase. Three stories down, they reached ground level and walked outside into the bright sunlight. Glancing back at the palace, Rob wondered how she would find her way back to her chamber.

“There’s an interestin’ legend that goes along with the abbey,” Gordon said, leading her around to the right.

“What is it?” Rob asked, managing a faint smile. At that moment, she could not have cared less about legends. Her main concern was surviving the next several hours.

“On the day of the Holy Rood,” Gordon began, “King David I was hunting in this area and became lost from his companions. His horse threw him, and a great stag appeared ready to gore him. Suddenly, a magical mist rolled in aboot him, and a hand carrying a cross reached out of the mist. When the king grasped the cross, the stag took flight. And so King David vowed to build an abbey on the verra spot where the miracle happened.”

“Aye, ‘tis a verra interestin’ tale,” Rob said distractedly.

Gordon flashed her a sidelong smile and said, “Look over yer shoulder, angel. Do ye see Edinburgh Castle in the distance?” When she nodded, he told her, “Legend says there’s an underground passage that leads from Holyrood Palace to the castle. There’s an interestin’ tale that goes along with that theory . . . Now, are ye ready to go inside?”

Rob gazed up at her husband and noted the softness in his gray eyes as he stared at her. He was being kind and trying to keep her mind off her worries.

Reaching up, Rob placed the palm of her right hand against his cheek. “Thank ye, Gordy.”

“Damsel, the pleasure is mine,” Gordon replied, sounding very much like his youngest son.

“Ye do remind me of Gavin.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Located beside the palace, Holyrood Abbey possessed ironwork as intricate as Scottish politics. Beyond its gates, sprawling gardens surrounded the abbey. The burial place of Scottish kings, the abbey echoed with past majesty and power.

Rob grabbed her husband’s hand as they walked through the abbey’s entrance and felt him give her an encouraging squeeze. Gordon started down the center aisle, forcing her to step with him or struggle for freedom.

Crowded to overflowing with Scotland’s nobility, the chapel was dimly lit, by filtered sunlight that streamed inside through the stained glass windows. At the end of the aisle, a thousand candles brightened the sanctuary with its intricately carved font, ornate screen, and enormous pulpit.

Uncomfortably, Rob felt scrutinizing gazes directed at her as she walked down the aisle with her husband. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that her gloves hid Old Clootie’s mark.

Midway down the aisle, Rob spied Mungo MacKinnon who sat beside a red-haired woman. Much to her relief, Gordon kept walking. Rob had no wish to sit with Mungo and certainly not when he escorted the woman who’d kissed her husband that very morning.

Three quarters of the way down the aisle, Gordon stopped and gestured her into the wooden pew. Then he sat down next to the aisle.

Seeing her husband nod to the nobleman on her right, Rob peered around at him and gave him an ambiguous smile.

“So, this is the bride?” the older gentleman asked.

Confused, Rob glanced at her husband, but he was smiling at the man.

“Uncle George, may I make known to ye my wife, Rob MacArthur,” Gordon introduced them. “Angel, this old rogue is the Earl of Huntly, my late mother’s oldest brother.”

“I’m verra pleased to meet ye,” Rob said.

The Earl of Huntly smiled at her and then lifted his gaze to his nephew. “Yer bride is bonny,” the earl said. “I hope ye willna waste any time makin’ yer father a grandsire.”

“My wife and I have already taken care of that business,” Gordon told him. “Inverary’s heir is risin’ in the oven.”

Rob gasped and flushed with angry embarrassment. She cast her husband a withering look and then lifted her upturned nose into the air. She intended to set her crass husband straight as soon as they returned to their chamber.

The two men chuckled at her expense.

“’Twould appear the lass is modest too,” the earl said. “Count yer blessin’s, Gordy. Ye could have ended up with one of these Edinburgh jades.”

Gordon lifted his wife’s hand to his lips, pressed a kiss on it, and said, “I count my blessin’s each night when I crawl into bed beside my angel.”

Rob flicked him a sidelong smile and would have spoken, but the trumpets blared the noon hour and the king’s arrival. She stood when everyone else did as the king made his stately way down the aisle toward the sanctuary.

Dressed in the royal Stuart colors. King James with his reddish hair and doleful-eyed gaze marched slowly past his courtiers. Rob bowed her head as he passed their pew. However, her curiosity got the better of her, and she kept her gaze on him. Surprisingly, the king walked with a decidedly unregal, shambling gait and, if she wasn’t mistaken, his mouth dribbled at the corners.

“I didna see our fathers as we entered,” Rob whispered, sitting down after the king was seated.

Gordon shrugged. “I’m certain they’re somewhere in this crowd.”

The memorial service for Scotland’s deceased queen began with several long prayers. Unexpectedly, a metallic clinking sound reached Rob’s ears and then grew increasingly louder as the moments passed. Rob wondered if the noise was part of the service and looked at her husband. His perplexed expression told her that he was also wondering about the strange noise.

Clanking metal and voices raised in angry protest drew everyone’s attention. Bursting into the chapel, three men dressed in full armor stood at the head of the aisle. Rob glanced in alarm at Gordon and then at the king, who’d risen from his seat of honor and stood there staring in shock at what he saw.

Half rising from the pew, Rob spied the three men. Their armor had to be at least a hundred years old.

The three knights of yore stepped forward. Slowly but with grim determination etched across their faces, the three men clanked their way toward the altar. Every step they took was a cacophony of rusting, squeaking armor.

“Great Bruce’s ghost,” Rob cried softly. “What are they doin’?”

“I do believe our fathers are makin’ a point,” Gordon said dryly, the hint of an amused smile flirting with the corners of his lips.

“They’ve even dragged Uncle Percy along with them,” Rob said. “Gordy, do somethin’.”

“Relax,” Gordon whispered. “I canna do anythin’ to prevent them from makin’ fools of themselves.”

“By all that’s holy,” King James bellowed, the dribble at the corners of his mouth flowing freely. “Campbell and MacArthur, what is the meanin’ of this intrusion upon our solemnity? Our court is in deepest mourning for my late mother, the queen.”

The Duke of Argyll clanked his way five steps forward. Duke Magnus tried his best to bow, but the heavy armor prevented his kneeling. Instead, he cavalierly inclined his head at the young monarch.

“Full armor is proper mournin’ attire for our murdered queen,” Duke Magnus called in a voice loud enough for all ears to hear.

Murmurings erupted from the crowd. Rob saw several of Scotland’s ageing magnates nod their heads in agreement with her father-in-law.

“God’s balls, but I’ll need to do some fancy talkin’ later,” Gordon muttered, a muscle in his right cheek twitching.

Rob watched in growing horror as her own father, Iain MacArthur, clanked forward to stand beside his Campbell kinsman and called, “The proper memorial service for our murdered queen is a declaration of war.”

“I agree,” added Percy MacArthur after clanking his way forward to stand beside his brother.

“God’s wounds!” King James bellowed, his face mottling with rage, his dribbling flowing faster. “If ye dinna back yerselves out of this chapel, I shall pull down my breeches and show ye my arse.”

Duke Magnus held his hand up and said, “Anythin’ but that, sire.” Iain and Percy MacArthur chuckled. More than a few spectators, especially those who remembered Queen Mary’s grace, joined in their mirth.

“Arrest these rebels,” the king shouted.

“Dinna move from this pew,” Gordon ordered Rob, yanking his hand out of hers as he bolted to his feet.

Gordon marched down the aisle toward the king. Behind him hurried his uncle, the Earl of Huntly.

Reaching the king, Gordon dropped to one bended knee and asked, “Yer Majesty, may I be heard?”

King James nodded at his favorite golfing and hunting companion.

“’Tis a monumental misunderstandin’,” Gordon said, flicking a look of disgust at the three middle-aged men in armor. “These old warriors are merely relivin’ their youth and fightin’ old battles.”

“I can still disown ye,” Duke Magnus growled at his son.

“Mayhap I’ll take my lassie back and annul yer marriage,” Iain MacArthur added.

“These old warriors knew our late queen personally and worshipped the verra ground upon which she walked,” Gordon went on, ignoring his relatives’ outbursts. “Their intense emotion over her sudden death has made them unstable. However, as ye always say, rashness of action is ill-advised. Could we adjourn to a more private chamber to discuss this gently?”

King James stared at Gordon for an excruciatingly long moment, but nodded finally.

“All will return to this chapel at the noon hour tomorrow,” the king announced.

Escorted by Gordon, King James marched back down the aisle. The three clanking Highlanders followed behind them with the Earl of Huntly.

Titillated by what they’d just witnessed, the Scots nobility started talking all at once. Slowly, in groups of two’s and three’s, they left their pews and walked outside.

With her hands folded in her lap, Rob sat perfectly still. No one spoke to her, but she did catch several people casting curious looks in her direction.

What was happening in the king’s privy chamber? she wondered. Would her father and father-in-law be arrested? Would her unborn child have the chance to meet his grandfathers? And now what should she do? Wait here for her husband or leave with everyone else?

Rob rose from the pew and followed the last of the courtiers out. She would remain within sight of the abbey. Once he finished calming the king, Gordon would surely come looking for her.

Stepping outside, Rob felt the sunshine on her face and breathed a sigh of relief. After being enclosed in that crowded chapel, the day’s combination of warm sun and crisp air refreshed her.

Rob felt conspicuously out of place as she wandered across the browning lawns of the esplanade toward a spot where several oak trees stood together. Everyone milling about knew Gordon and had seen her walk down the abbey’s aisle with him, but no one bothered to approach her. Was she doomed always to play the unhappy outsider? Perhaps she should introduce herself to them?

No, that wouldn’t do. Without her husband by her side, Rob knew she hadn’t the courage to approach anyone. If only she knew the way back to her chamber, she could make a graceful exit.

Leaning against one of the massive oaks, Rob stared at the abbey and willed her husband’s quick return. From the corner of her eyes, she spied two young noblewomen advancing on her. Rob stood proudly erect but kept her gaze fixed on the abbey.

“Lady Campbell?” the brunette said, smiling.

“Yes?”

“I am Lady Elliott.” She gestured to her blond companion. “This is Lady Armstrong.”

The blonde smiled and nodded at her.

“I’m pleased to make yer acquaintance,” Rob said, but something in their polite smiles troubled her. She had the uncanny feeling that these women were not as sincere as they wished her to believe.