Heaven and the Heather (4 page)

She rose to her feet and raced from the abbey, from the stink of burned wood, from decay, into the vast palace garden where the heady air of early evening was resplendent with the fragrance of hundreds of flowers and herbs.

Despite the beauty that surrounded her in the rising moonlight, desperate thoughts rattled in her head as she walked the cloistered gardens. Beyond the manicured rose bushes, fruit orchard, and fragrant knot gardens lay a wild and untamed country. She knew this to be true though she had to take it on faith and from the stare of that untamed MacGregor.

Sabine closed her eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of the sprays of lavender blossoms about her. The color blue loomed on her mind’s horizon, the blue of this waning Scottish summer, and the blue of the eyes that had captured her soul for one unforgettable moment. Her heart missed a beat, startling her.

She placed her right hand over her left breast, over the black and crimson velvet and silk of her gown. She had sewn it herself, the stitches uneven, yet sturdy enough. Many times during her sewing she had to stop and relieve the cramp in her twisted fingers, and listen to common sense implore her to use her left hand to do the work.
Non.
That would not do for Sabine, ever.

She opened her eyes to the soft slope of the green hills swelling above the garden walls. Such a lovely green. Hills wore many cloaks depending on the season. This rich green mantle was Sabine’s favorite color next to the blue of late summer sky. The thought was comforting, but she needed to think of harder things. To ease her mind. Then she might remember where she could have lost her
sac
.

She wandered past the knot garden to a small orchard of fruit trees, plum and fig. Under the soft boughs, in the dappled light, she found private sanctuary.

Slowly, she reached into the top of her gown, between her breasts, and withdrew a scrap of paper no bigger than her palm. The ragged edges were decorated with fragments of Her Majesty’s elaborate script. The paper was something the Queen had crumpled and dropped on the floor, rubbish to anyone but Sabine. She did not notice the words, could have cared less. She knelt on the dew-damp ground and smoothed the paper over one thigh.

Sabine gripped the charcoal tighter in her gnarled right hand. She took a deep breath and soon her hand glided across the rough surface of the paper. She easily became unaware of anything other than the motion of the stick over the paper. Her right hand cramped and protested. When she could ignore the pain no longer she dropped the charcoal and stared down at her sketch.

Sabine gasped.

The MacGregor looked up at her. The soft and strong lines, contours she had sketched were enmeshed into one vivid, captivating image. She had sketched his hair in a wild mass of lines jutting from his head and flowing around his strong, corded neck. She had drawn his grin, a razor’s edge smile that pierced her heart and haunted her dreams, and framed it with furrowed dashes on the corners of his lips. The bold cleft in the center of his chin was there as well. Sabine surprised herself for remembering so many details about him.

Her art did not to suffer from the damage in her drawing hand. It flourished fresh and new. The lines more expressive. Was this because of her daily prayers to Saint Giles? Or was this because of her new subject?

“Le MacGregor….,”
she breathed. Her heart trembled, or was it the wilds of her imagination?

Her once beloved, always remembered,
le maître
, her instructor before she had to look to Saint Giles for strength, would have been so pleased. He would have adored this sketch of the wild Scottish creature. Sabine lifted it high over her head. Maybe he could look down from Heaven and see her coveted creation. But he would not be satisfied she had not taken that next step, the step he could not have taught her because he had left her forever. She had not used color, had not gathered the pigments. Yet, in her memory, this Scottish MacGregor savage was replete with color.

Sabine closed her eyes and summoned the MacGregor’s colors, locked them in her memory. The colors found in Heaven and placed on one who surely was one of Hell’s minions.

“And a thief!” she shouted to the stars.

Oui!
Of course! She had been a fool not to guess he had stolen her
sac
. And why had she not guessed it from the start. She looked to the sky as if the stars and the silver moon would give her answers when all she had to do was look to her foolish heart. It had blinded her to the very real possibility that the MacGregor had stolen her hope. His azure eyes had pierced her soul and her good sense.

She shunted her eyes to the west, to the high stone garden wall, and beyond to the moon-shadowed hills. Far beyond those hills savages dwelled.

She clasped her arms about her body, suppressing a cold shudder that rose up from her toes. The cold quickly yielded to the building anger fire that originated in the pit of her soul.

The MacGregor had, in all likelihood, taken her
sac
to his lair, burnt her sketches to keep warm for a moment, and spent all of her gold on drink and whores. That was what men did. Especially savages.

Her
sac
and all in it were lost forever. She would not see this MacGregor again except in her memory, and in the sketch she held in her hand.

Her first instinct was to tear it to as many bits as there were stars in Heaven. She acted on her second instinct, folded the paper and tucked it between her breasts. She might need it. That hope remained with her like a burr on wool.

“Where are you, silly girl!” Lady Fleming screeched from the direction of the palace.

The Scotswoman shoved aside the low boughs, ducking her veiled head, before stopping abruptly before her charge.

“Why did you leave Her Majesty’s chambers without a by your leave?” she asked, one thin brow raised, arms folded across her bosom.

“To pray,” she replied.

“Do you still mourn the loss of your father?”

“Mourning is never over, m’Lady,” Sabine replied, throat tightening. “Not while the heart is alive.”

Lady Fleming narrowed her gaze. “Why do I suspect that it is not your father you mourn for?”

“Because you knew him, m’Lady. He gave me to you.”

She nodded. “What a willful child you were then. What a willful child you are now. You should be grateful, with….” She paused and glanced at Sabine’s hand. After a swallow, she said, “Your father is not cold in his grave, and you show not the slightest remorse.”

Sabine displayed her hand to the woman. She forced her twisted fingers to straighten. Lady Fleming’s eyes widened. “’Tis a miracle or witchery,” she breathed.

“
Non
, m’Lady,” Sabine said. “’Tis Sweet Saint Giles who gives me strength. Remorse, as you say, would only further cripple me. Perchance, that is what you wish?”

Lady Fleming straightened and cleared her throat. “The Queen requests your presence in her outer chamber.
Now.
”

Numbly, obediently, Sabine followed Lady Fleming out of the orchard, past the lavender and germander knot gardens, past the rose hedge, and through a dreary grey stone archway into the palace.

Their footsteps on the waxed wood floor echoed around the great length of corridor, up to the ceiling with its painted and gilded floral carvings. They stopped before an ornately carved door of flowers and fruits, the same one Sabine had rushed from a lifetime ago.

Lady Fleming rapped briskly on the wood.

“You may enter,” Her Majesty said.

Lady Fleming opened the door.

Mary sat in a chair that made the rich carving on the door leading into her outer chamber humble by comparison. Embroidery rested on her lap. To one side of her chair, the hearth blazed with great snapping and hissing logs. Even the damp of this country found its way into the queen’s chambers. Sabine stepped onto the woven rush carpet and into a low curtsy.

“You may rise,” the Queen commanded.

Sabine jumped upright. “
Ma Reine.
”

“Your period of mourning has come to an end.” Mary tipped her chin up a bit. Gold and black pearl earrings swayed lightly from her earlobes. Then she smiled. “We feel quite strongly that our attendants have abiding happiness.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sabine said trying to conceal the suspicion in her voice.

“Come forward.”

She did as she was commanded. How was Mary going to grant her happiness?

“You shall marry Lord John in a fortnight.”

Sabine halted. What?

“The wedding must take place soon, as a promise we made to your father. We promised him that you will marry a good man. Lord John is such a man.”

“A fortnight,
madame
?” Sabine asked. Because of a promise to a man who was now quite dead!

Sabine wished to speak further, to thank Her Majesty for her generous concern, and to tell her that she was in no way endeared to Lord Campbell, to tell her the truth of her father.

The door burst open.

She turned about, into Lord Campbell’s path.

He threw himself into a deep bow, sweeping his hat from his head. The stiff skirt of his dark doublet pointed to the ceiling.

“Rise, Lord John,” Mary said. “We have taken the liberty of expressing to our Sabine your wish to marry her in a fortnight. We give you leave to speak to her in privacy.”

“Yes, yes, Your Most Gracious Majesty, we shall take our leave.”

Lord Campbell backed toward the door past Sabine, trailing a scent one would have to find in a
parfumerie
. She stared at him, mouth open, her eyes wide. Love did not exist in her heart for this man, but that was not a reason to marry, was it?

“Come,
Mademoiselle
,” he whispered a hint of urgency in his tone.

“Our Sabine, we have given you permission to see Lord John in private. We suggest you take the opportunity before you attend to your other duties.”

“Your Majesty,” Sabine began, “I beg your forgiveness and appreciate your generosity. I…I do not….”

“You do not…?” Mary asked one thin red brow raised.

Sabine let out a long breath. “I do not know how to aptly express my appreciation for Your Majesty’s concern for my happiness…and for the memory of my father.” After that lie, she offered Mary a low curtsy, bowing her head.

“Take your leave…and you as well, Lord John.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said bowing in front of Sabine giving her a good view of his better side concealed by velvet pantaloons. For the briefest moment, she mused as to what the MacGregor looked like beneath that woolen skirt he wore, then as quickly crushed it from her mind.

“
Oui, Madame.
” Sabine backed toward the door. Suddenly she wanted to run as far away from the palace as she could, until her heart burst from her flight.

Lord Campbell was waiting for her. There was no escape. The once familiar weight of her
sac
inside her gown was a ghostly feeling now. One brought to her by that MacGregor. He had gifted her with hopelessness.

She forced in a deep and nourishing breath and slipped around the door.

Lord Campbell immediately grasped her left wrist and pulled her toward him.

“I can see in your eyes, Mademoiselle, that you’re much surprised by my proposal,” he said, lips glistening.

Sabine tried to pull from his hold. “You have proposed nothing to me,
Monsieur
.”

He towered above her, pressing her into a niche along the corridor. She grasped his arms trying to free herself from his presence. There was nowhere for her to escape from the cramped space.

“I love a fiery spirit. You French are reputed to have such passion in everything you do. One thing in particular intrigues me above all else. That I wish to discover on our wedding night.”

“Wishes, Lord Campbell, are for the very young. Are they not?”

“’Tis not a dream, Mademoiselle, ’tis an edict from your Queen.” He released her. “That you cannot deny.” He stared her up and down.

Sabine thought of the MacGregor. Entrapped by Campbell, her will betrayed her and softened to another truth about the Highland thief. He had looked into her eyes that misty morn and, for a moment, had freed her soul with his fierce gaze. He had not rudely sized her up like meat in a butcher’s like this supposed “noble” was doing to her now. Despite his untamed exterior, he had not been as rude as Lord Campbell was being at the very moment. The MacGregor probably never had to force his will on any woman. Or get a Royal command to have a wife.

She blinked and tossed those foolish musing aside.

“You should be grateful, Mademoiselle,” Lord Campbell said, “that I have made allowances and can overlook your, uh, affliction.”

Fire burned to her very core. “There can be no allowances made for your rudeness,” she snapped. “You’re the one who is ‘afflicted’!”

Campbell’s eyes grew dead. Sabine felt the same in his stare.

“I’ll take my leave, Mademoiselle, to prepare for Her Majesty’s welcoming masque on the ’morrow. At which time I will formally announce our engagement to all present. Do me the honor of countenancing your pleasure at that time.”

He slid away from her, a man of influence and wealth, a man twice her score of years. That was all she knew about him. It was all she cared to know.