Heaven and the Heather (8 page)

Niall took another step forward and bowed low before the queen. She nodded.

He stood upright and spread his arms wide.

“Round and round!” he cried out. “This ginger fox roams!”

His blue eyes gleamed through the holes in his mask. The grin wavered a bit then disappeared. He looked ceilingward.

“Uh….”

Then monsieur Le Canard’s anxious whisper from the side, “An errant Highland—”

“Oh,” Niall said, lowering his gaze back to his audience. “Aye…aye.” He aimed one hand at the ceiling. “An errant Hieland beast without a home. Away from sight of those that prey, to run by night, rest by…uh…day….”

He allowed his words to fade away, his gaze becoming more fierce, like the beast he portrayed.

He took one step forward closer to the queen. Sabine held her breath and dug her nails into the arms of the chair.

Monsieur Le Canard whispered urgently, “And, so, I travel from—”

“Wheesht!” Niall whispered back. He closed his eyes for the span of a gnat’s age, before opening them and centering his stare on Sabine.

“Oh, to find peace,” he said, his words slow, determined. He stepped forward arms open. “Oh, to find peace, where death haunts me not! ’Tis best my blade—” He reached down, the movement so quick Sabine barely noticed, and pulled his knife into view.

The entire assemblage gasped in horror.

Niall held the blade aloft. Sabine wondered how anyone could be so blatantly stupid.

“’Tis best my blade stills my heart,” he said.

Someone’s blade will still this fool’s heart.
Sabine glanced at the agog faces surrounding her.

“What beguiles my spirit to live, to soar?” Niall asked the air. Then he thrust his free hand inside his doublet and pulled out Sabine’s
sac
. He cut a direct path to her with his steady blue gaze. “What beguiles my spirit to live?…to soar? But this key I return…uh…as I’ve found the door.”

She could barely find the strength to move, then stared into the eyes of the Highland fox. He smiled at her and bowed, low before his queen. Before
her
.

Applause drowned out Sabine’s confusion and dizziness.

“Enchanting! Delightful!” the queen proclaimed.

Sabine was not relieved. She took a deep breath but could not steady herself. The wine. No food. Not good.

Niall continued to bow.

“We are most amused,” Mary said. “Rise.”

Niall stood upright. Sabine tried to watch his every move. He concealed his knife back in the brocade wrapped about his calf.

The queen regarded Niall curiously. Then she smiled. “We are not familiar with your work, good player. ’Twould please us to know you.” She waved a hand toward Niall’s mask. “Would you be so kind…?”

“
Non,
” Sabine whispered. Inside her head took a nasty spin. She grabbed the arms of her chair.

He bowed slightly and reached up and grasped the bottom of his mask with his strong thumb and forefinger.

“Aye, Yer Majesty. ’Twould be an honor,” he said.

No one is that bold or foolhardy. No one but this savage Highlander.

“Sweet Sainte Giles,” Sabine breathed, closing her eyes. “Help
us
.”

And the goodly Saint shoved her backward into darkness.

chapter 4

Deep in the Royal Lair

N
iall stared down at Sabine. His purpose for being in Holyrood Palace was suddenly replaced with concern for her.

He stood with the others: ladies-in-waiting, attendants, men in fancy doublets, women in gowns worth as much as a half-dozen cattle. They stared down at Sabine crumpled on the floor beside her chair. Her mask still covered the top of her face, and she looked like a conquered bird, forever a part of the earth.

She had imbibed too much spirit. He could smell it on her.

The prospect of marrying Campbell too much for her to bear sober.

He swore he caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes before she was so quickly introduced to this finely waxed Scots pine floor.

The queen remained calmly seated, her gaze on Sabine, and on the bored fop beside her who yawned and waved his goblet for more wine. The many elite who had come to this party stood behind Niall, wrapped in hushed whispers, no doubt perturbed that their masque had been disrupted by one fainting lass. Perchance they were used to two or three fainters in one evening.

Niall knelt beside her and gently removed her mask. She never looked lovelier than this moment in unwonted sleep and not insulting him to his face.

“What is this disruption?” a familiar voice shouted. A shadow soon fell over Niall. He looked up, over Sabine, through the holes in his mask.

Campbell stood over them like a dark menace. His eyes narrowed behind the raven’s mask he wore. Mask or no mask, Niall knew that bloody scourge anywhere. Campbells always sat shoulder to shoulder with the Scottish monarchy no matter what the Royal bloodlines. He took in a deep breath. If he had not hidden his claymore in the garden by the wall he could silence this bastard right now. And as a consequence lose all chance of a word or two with Her Majesty. It was a chance he was willing to take. The good of his clan came first.

He rose to his feet. It was time for a MacGregor to find favor with the Crown. First he had to pretend he was someone else.

Sabine stirred. Lord Campbell insinuated himself over her, lifted her arm and dropped it to the floor.

“You servants!” he ordered. “Repair
Mademoiselle
de Sainte Montagne to her chamber.” He centered his dead-eyed gaze on one of the attendants, a fair-haired wilting flower of a lass. “You! See that the
mademoiselle
is revived and returns to this masque soon and in good spirits. I desire to wait no more than an hour or I shall attend to her condition
myself
.” He paused then bowed to the queen. “If it pleases you, Your Royal Highness, of course.”

The queen nodded. “It pleases us that you have concern for our Sabine.”

Niall gripped Sabine’s mask hard with one fist. His first instinct was to stuff it down Campbell’s wretched throat. He dug his fingernails into the feathers and papîer-mâché. He had to be someone else, for his sake, and, quite possibly for Sabine’s

He stepped back into the crowd, keeping Sabine in his sight. Two servant lads lifted her from the floor. The onlookers dispersed to their food, drink, and dancing. Niall turned to follow Sabine and stood eye to throat with Campbell.

“I believe that is
Mademoiselle
de Sainte Montagne’s mask,” the bastard said, the feathers of his mask stiff and steady, dead.

“Aye…
oui
.” Niall kept his tone even. He held the mask harder, the papîer-mâché within crunched in his fist.

Campbell held out one hand. “Give it to me.”

The queen suddenly rose, placing her hand in Lord Darnley’s. Niall bowed as did Campbell. The glorious couple whisked by them without so much as a glance, to the center of the great hall. The musicians struck up a lively tune and Her Majesty danced with her man-child in dark velvet.

Niall stood upright, this time into the cloud of Campbell’s growing annoyance.

“Give the mask to me.”

“’Tis only a prop for the farce, m’lord,” Niall said, almost gagging on the politeness of his words. “I must return it to
Monsieur
Le Canard.”

“A farce,” Campbell repeated. “’Twas a most interesting farce, and one unfamiliar.”

“’Tis the latest farce from Paris,” Niall said. “This is the first time it has been presented outside of Fraunce.”

Campbell cocked an ear toward him. “
Fraunce
? Did you say?”

“Aye—I mean
oui
,
Fraunce
.”

He tried to erase the Highland Scots in his voice, but was doing as poor a job of it as when he had recited Canard’s verse. Niall had composed the second part of the verse himself as he stood before the queen. Sabine’s doubtful and terrified look had been his inspiration. He had proved her thoughts about him wrong. He was no
sauvage
. Well, perchance in bed, but there was little chance she would find that out about him. Being in her presence was temptation enough for him to reveal it, though.

“You, sir, are most odd a French player,” Campbell said. He raked his gaze over Niall. “Your height dictates that, aye, you could be French, but your brawny figure indicates a man who has spent much time afield, perchance, too much time for one in your profession.”

Niall rolled his eyes. How did Canard behave when he dressed him in this odd mixture of plaid and silk? He was a man who certainly enjoyed his work. That was the most kind thing Niall could think of for that sort of man. If he did his best imitation of such a man Campbell was surely to leave him alone. Of course, with MacGregor luck, Campbell may be the type of man who sharpens both sides of his sword and would take Niall up on his false offer. He had to try anyway.

Choking down the bile rising in his throat, Niall stepped forward and flared his eyes at Campbell.

“My figure, as ye so kindly put it, m’lord, is betrayed by this costume? Would it be that ye would wish to see more of it, to satisfy yer keen eyes?” Niall stepped back a little. Bloody hell! Had the course of his life come down to this? This was a new low for Clan Gregor, one the bards would never sing about, much less know about.

Niall was besieged with the sudden urge to take up his dirk, end his flamboyant guise, and dispatch this bastard to his reward in hell. It ebbed when Campbell suddenly blinked and walked away, quite quickly, to the table burdened with enough food to feed a Highland family for a year.

“Another day, ye bastard,” Niall whispered. “I’ll see ye sent to the Danes for what ye’ve done. Ye’ll wish ye were in hell then.” He sighed. “I could do with an ale myself. Oh, aye, I could….”

“There’s no ale to be had in this fancy place,” Rory said, the stupid bear mask still on his face. Niall had been aware, but had not acknowledged his champion’s absence until now. The food, no doubt, had been too tempting for his friend.

Niall looked past Rory to the small doorway where the servants had taken Sabine.

“Ye need a shave, lad,” he said pushing around him.

“Enjoying the repast?”

“Oy, that’s grand funny, that is,” Rory said wiping his lips with back of his hand. “I was watching ye from the table waiting for ye to give Clan Gregor’s auld enemy a kiss.”

Niall swung around, seized Rory by the throat and slammed him back into the shadows from which he came. “Say it again, Buchanan, and I’ll show ye my dirk,” he growled.

“Like ye were gonnae do to Campbell a moment ago?” he asked managing a sly smile. “Show him yer
dirk
?”

Niall released him. “If that was the case, a dirk would pale in comparison to my
claymore
.” With a wink he turned and walked away to the door where Sabine had been carried.

Rory fell into step beside him. “So, where are we going now, oh, great leader?”

“Through yon door.” A guard was posted there. Niall told himself there should be no problem. He was a royal player after all, allowed access to the depths of this privileged lair.

“Och, why would ye leave this grand festival? I’ve no’ had a sample of the drink.”

“Stay, if ye will. I’m going—” Niall began before he felt trouble approach.

“Get into another costume!
Vite! Vite!
” Canard shouted stepping in their paths.

“Sorry, big lad,” he said. “But I’ve done enough play-acting to last my bloody life.”

“And what will
mademoiselle
Sabine say when Her Majesty’s guards chop you into little pieces?”

“Being glib doesnae fit a man of yer stature, Canard.”

“
Monsieur Le Canard,
” he corrected.

“Aye, aye, whatever,” Niall said, “If ye let us pass, I’ll promise ye a dance.”

The French giant raised one thick brow while his eyes swept over Niall. “
Oui
, I would like that very much, but not here, out in the garden, under the moonlight.”

He tossed Niall a wink and lumbered away.

Rory leaned over and whispered, “Ye’re gonnae dance with that pansy?”

“No.” Niall headed to the doorway.

“Then that giant’s gonnae thump ye hard, ye know that?” Rory asked, keeping pace with him. “If ye dinnae honor yer agreement with him.”

Niall watched as Canard whispered something to the guard who looked scandalized and stepped to one side of the door.

“Ye’re a good man to know, Canard,” Niall said walking up to him. He paused and pointed into the great hall. “See that man with the raven’s mask.”

“
Oui
, the tall, thin one? Oh,
oui
, I do.”

“He would love a dance. Escort him to the garden. He may struggle, but that means he likes ye.”

“This dance, it is not with you,
monsieur
le Highlander?” Le Canard asked.

“I cannot dance,” Niall said feigning disappointment. He patted his leg. “Wounded in battle.”

Canard glanced down dejectedly.