Maiden of Inverness (6 page)

She blinked in feigned confusion and pulled off her gloves. “Oh, but I'll gladly leave you to your life, should you leave me to mine.”

Damn Cutberth Macgillivray for his cruel treatment of her. Damn her father for turning her against all Scots. Damn Revas Macduff for living up to her low expectations. “You take pleasure in being stubborn.”

A grin played about her pretty mouth. “You are too quick for me, Revas. I'm but a country girl.”

He laughed. “And I'm chancellor of England.”

She laughed, too, and he wanted to embrace her.

“When will we arrive?” she asked.

“In a few days—as the weather allows.”

“Good. That should give me ample time.”

He grew still and cautious. “Time to what?”

She reached up and laid her hands against his cheeks. Her palms were icy cold, yet her eyes shone with warmth. He could fall into that alluring gaze and follow where she led.

“ 'Twill give me time,” she whispered, “to plan your downfall.”

With that she left him there, the breeze ruffling his hair, her words rattling his composure.

*  *  *

Two days later, the ship docked at dawn at the seaport of Elgin's End. Meridene dawdled in her cabin, busying her hands with folding and refolding the fine garments Revas had provided. Her eye was drawn to a rose-colored surcoat embroidered with golden thistles at the hem and neck. The garment fitted her perfectly, as did the contrasting bliaud of dark red linen. Even the shoes, gloves, and underclothing had been fashioned precisely for her.

Ana must have supplied him with the particulars.

Feeling betrayed, Meridene slammed the lid on the trunk, walked to the bulkhead, and peered through the small opening. An endless, churning sea filled her vision.

Since they'd sailed past Aberdeen, she'd grown apprehensive, as if a drum in her chest were beating out a rhythm of foreboding. For the hundredth time she wondered how she could free herself from Revas Macduff. The promise of an eight-year-old girl shouldn't hold sway, not when she'd been ill and confused and coerced into pledging her troth. The law should free her from any obligation. If not, the church must surely annul the unconsummated marriage.

Unconsummated. Therein lay her escape. She had stayed alone in this cabin during the voyage and searched for a means of thwarting him. Prejudice had colored her thinking; now the truth shone clear. Revas's influence could not extend to the church. She would seek refuge in the clergy. They would shelter her and appeal to the pope on her behalf. The new King Edward might be persuaded to endorse her cause for an annulment. It was said he had forbidden the clans to unite.

Her fear ebbed and her heart soared.

A scratching noise on the door interrupted her euphoria.

“Who is it?”

“ 'Tis Ana, my lady.”

The informer. Meridene tried to summon dislike for the girl, but in her heart she knew that Ana had simply followed the dictates of her own father and Revas Macduff. With only a little imagination she could picture him cajoling the impressionable girl. Thirteen years ago, he had done the same to another child, a girl whose father had tried to kill her.

Meridene opened the door.

Her pretty features pulled into a worried frown, Ana stepped into the room. She wore a cloak of heavy black wool lined with the subtle tartan of the Sutherlands, a rich pattern of green, black, red, and white. Her fair hair was mussed, her skin chafed from the wind.

“I suppose you hate me.”

“I cannot hate a stranger, Ana, and that is what you are to me.”

Her pert chin puckered with determination. “I only pretended because 'twas necessary.”

The admission that she'd feigned a friendship saddened Meridene. She'd had few friends in her life, and her oldest and closest companions, Clare and Johanna Benison, had been taken from her—one by death, the other by marriage. Like Ana, the other wealthy heiresses at the abbey were all younger than Meridene and prone to seek her out as mentor rather than friend. “You've done your part, Ana.”

She made a fist of her gloved hand. “I would give my life for Highland unity.”

Meridene almost laughed. “You err in thinking I will do the same.”

“But you were born to it.”

“While commendable, your enthusiasm ignites not one spark of loyalty in me. Quite the contrary; I envy you, for England is my home. So do not embarrass yourself by belaboring the point.”

Ana touched the symbols on Meridene's new cloak. “You have forgotten how important you are to us.”

“To
us?”

“Aye, to the Highlanders. With you at his side, Revas will bring peace to all of the people above the line.”

The Highland line. A demarcation uncharted on any map, yet etched deeply into the hearts of the Scots. Once her father had ruled the clans from the Frasers in the East to the Macleans in Inverness. Revas Macduff had expanded the territory to include this Sutherland woman and her kin in the Western Highlands.

The extent of his domain was staggering. How much did he know about Meridene? “I confided in you, Ana. Did you tell him all of my secrets?”

She stiffened with umbrage. “You'll know the answer soon enough.”

Would he give freely of himself to Meridene? Would he cherish her above all else, including Scotland? The obvious answer depressed her, and discussing her private hopes again with Ana served no purpose.

In dismissal, she said, “You have discharged your duty with aplomb, Lady Ana. Fare you well, and God preserve your precious Highland line.”

Like a dog after a flea, Ana refused to leave it alone. “Revas has worked for too long to bring accord to the clans. Why do you hate him so and disparage your own people? They've done you no harm.”

No longer the biddable girl eager to follow in Meridene's footsteps, Ana Sutherland was now a self-assured young woman bent on furthering a cause. Meridene didn't care; she wanted no part of a people who poisoned their children, then discarded them like old cloaks. “You know precisely why I despise Scotland, and you repeated my every word to Revas Macduff.”

Her eyes pleaded. “He has a goodly heart.”

“Then
you
worship him!”

“A score of women want him,” Ana taunted.

“So he's a Highland rogue. I'm delighted to know that there's enough of him to please a mere twenty women.”

“He wants only you. The English have swayed you otherwise.”

“The English
saved
me. The Maiden is no more.”

“But you belong to us.”

Meridene gave up the fight; Ana would never understand. “Farewell.”

Tears filled her eyes. “You don't deserve to be the Maiden of Inverness.”

“I couldn't agree with you more. Perhaps you will take up the burden?”

“Burden?” Ana sighed and turned to leave. “You're selfish and cruel, Meridene.”

Meridene had thought herself immune to verbal blows, but Ana's parting words stung. Had her life unfolded as it should, Meridene would have gladly fulfilled her duties. She would have wed her father's choice of husband and ruled as her mother and her kinswomen before her. Politics, not her own wants and needs, had determined the course of her life.

How could people hold one female responsible for the acts of the powerful king of England? She had been a child when the king forced her to wed. She couldn't pick up her life now—as if she'd simply been away on holiday for thirteen years. The politics of Scotland was a dangerous web of intrigue, spun by men. Legends like that of the Maiden were romantic tales, completely out of tune with the social climate of the day. Men ruled. And that, as Sister Margaret liked to say, was that.

On the heels of that thought, another doubt crept into Meridene's mind. Had Sister Margaret known of Revas's plan to kidnap Meridene? No, for the kind nun had been more like a mother than a spiritual advisor. She would not condone such villainy, even if a lawful husband had committed it.

Feeling better, Meridene gathered the brush and comb and other personal items Revas had provided. Just as she donned the beautiful new cloak, he came to fetch her.

*  *  *

Once on deck, she scanned the scenery. Patches of snow glistened in the shadows, and the hearty bushes near the waterline were still winter-naked. Dozens of fishing boats bobbed at their moorings in the shallow water; others were upended on the beach, their hulls in various stages of repair. Wattle-and-daub houses dotted the shore, and fishing nets were strung between the dwellings, effectively connecting the residents with the commerce of the village.

Ugly memories of another arrival years ago at this place intruded, but Meridene pushed them back; she must not let that dreadful occasion dull her spirit. She would stand up for herself. Someone here would help her.

Behind her, she heard Revas saying his farewells to Ana and her father. As soon as the cargo of iron and salt was unloaded, the ship would take the Sutherlands home to Drumcardle in the Western Highlands.

Eager to disembark and find the church, Meridene made her way down the gangplank. Moments later, Revas followed.

Watching him stroll toward her, she understood why twenty women wanted him. Not that she cared a sour apple. But she was honest enough to admit that he cut a fine figure, especially dressed as he was in a rust-colored tunic and tight-fitting hose. The tooled boots made his legs look inordinately long and perfectly suited his easy gait.

Arms swinging, the wind ruffling his golden hair, he surveyed his kingdom with the eyes of a man accustomed to rule. When his gaze rested on Meridene, she couldn't stifle a burst of pride for the butcher's son who'd risen to glory.

“Have I dirt on my face?” he asked.

Flippantly she said, “I hadn't noticed. I was too busy thinking that you have deceit in your heart.”

His eyebrows flared wickedly. “To be sure, I am beset with wickedness, but it lies in my mind. One night soon I'll share it with you.”

Night? He was speaking of ravishment. She wondered when he'd find the time, considering he kept so many women. “You needn't bother. Ana told me.”

“Told you what?”

“All I need to know about you.”

He shrugged, but he was curious. “Shall we?”

A snaggletoothed lad wearing a squire's tunic approached, leading a golden stallion and a piebald mare. Eyes agog, the boy stared at Meridene. His gaze never left her, even when he bowed from the waist.

Melancholy swept over her. Her mother had always drawn awe-filled glances and gestures of obeisance. Not in years had she thought of the woman who stood by and let an English king snatch her eight-year-old daughter from the nursery and thrust her into danger.

In parting, her mother had put the Covenant of the Maiden in Meridene's hands. She had always known the book and the responsibility would fall to her; Meridene had been schooled for that very task. Since the day she'd learned to read and cipher, she had begged her mother to let her read the book. But that was forbidden until her wedding day. She had heard the tales of her forebears, but she had not been allowed to read the stories for herself.

“Pray God King Edward protects you, my child,” her mother had said. “You'll find only heartache at the hands of Highlanders.”

Meridene closed her eyes against a pain that was as fresh as that day so long ago. Not only had her mother forsaken her, but by withholding the Covenant until the day the king took Meridene away, Eleanor had seen to it that Meridene learned little of her forebears. Privacy had been impossible, and when the king had stopped for the night, no one had bothered to give her a light to read by.

After the short journey to Elginshire, Meridene had pledged her troth and yielded the book to Revas for safekeeping. She hadn't read the chronicles of her grandmothers. She'd been cheated of their experiences and deprived of their good counsel.

“Are you well?” Revas asked. “Would you prefer to ride in a cart?”

His solicitous tone burned like salt on a fresh wound. Meridene stared at the horses and grumbled, “I don't suppose I have to ask which mount is mine.”

His brown eyes twinkled with glee. “Can you control the stallion?”

She sensed that he wasn't talking about the horse, but himself. Eager to snuff out his masculine fire, she withdrew her dagger. “With this, I can make him a gelding.”

Although tightly leashed, his resolve shone through. “He might have something to say about that.”

“Yes. I expect him to cry . . .
Ouch.”

Interest narrowed his eyes. “My compliments, my lady, and I wonder why you did not choose the red gown.”

He referred to the most striking and costly gown in the trunk—a dress of red velvet trimmed in gold. Under different circumstances she would have cherished the garment.

“The color better suits your mood,” he added.

“Mourning perfectly suits my mood.”

Into the battle of wills, the young squire asked, “Is she truly the Maiden?”

Revas gave her a pointed glance, then cuffed the lad's head. “In the flesh.”

The boy handed over the reins and raced off shouting, “ 'Tis the Maiden. 'Tis the Maiden come home with our laird.”

“A Macduff! A Macduff!” someone shouted.

Others in the small seaside village picked up the chant. Voices young and old, hoarse and lyrical, called out for their laird, their future king. In answer to their time-honored salute, Revas waved his arms.

He looked happy to be home, and the contrast between her feelings and his made Meridene want to scream.

Over the din, he said, “We suffered a harsh winter.”

“You will suffer a harsher spring.”

Pulling a face, he feigned fright. “At your dainty hands?”

“Mock me if it suits you. 'Twill go the worse for you.”

He sighed in fake resolve. “Then perhaps I should surrender to you now.”