Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] (7 page)

"What?" Eva stared, stunned. "They have not committed treason!" Her hand found the carved back of the chair and she grasped the solid wood with shaking fingers.

"The Highland chiefs resisted the king's bid for a centralized Scotland, which would unite and benefit all of us. Many of the clan chiefs are unpredictable and ungovernable, and pose a danger to his plan. He must take a forceful position."

"Where are my father and Donal now?" Her breath came fast.

"They were in Inverness, but Donal was among those moved to Edinburgh. And twenty chiefs, including your father," he added grimly, "were sentenced to execution. I had a letter yesterday that reported most of those gone by now."

Inwardly reeling, Eva stared at him. "Gone?"

"Iain is dead, Eva." His voice softened, and he reached for her. She twisted away. "He was in the first group to be executed at Inverness a few days ago. The word is just getting out. The king acted swiftly and secretly in this matter."

"Why did you wait until Simon left to tell me this?" she demanded. "He took the only boat to shore, and is riding hard to Inverness by now. Why did you wait?" Her limbs shook, her heart pounded. Suddenly she could barely think, scarcely breathe.

"Simon is a hothead, and there is no reasoning with his sort. I decided to tell you first. He will discover in Inverness that he is outlawed and his father gone. When he returns—if he is not arrested—the garrison will be here to control him if he tries to rebel. I assume he will."

"Outlawed?" she asked. Moments ago, she thought she would fall to her knees with the shock of the news, but now a strange, cold calm filled her, clarified her thoughts, kept her feet firm on the floor. "What do you mean?"

"There is more news," he said. "Are you strong enough?"

She nodded, feeling numb. "Tell me."

"Clan Arthur is summarily dispossessed, with all lands and rights forfeited to the king."

Blood rushed in her ears. She gripped the chair's rim. "Why?" she gasped.

"The king has his reasons. Eva, you look pale," Colin murmured. He turned away, poured a cup of wine, offered it to her. She shook her head. "Listen to me. If you and I were already wed, I could have helped your father. You made a mistake, avoiding my suit, but it is not too late to save your kinsmen."

"Ach Dhia,"
she moaned, feeling his reproach like another deep stab. "How could I have known?"

"I have some influence with the king. I cannot help your father now—would God that I could-—but I can request a pardon for Donal, and the return of the rights. I am among the few who can whisper in the king's ear. But if I give you my promise, I must have yours in return."

"My promise of marriage," she said woodenly.

"That," he said, "and Innisfarna, without condition."

She stared at him. "I cannot do that," she whispered.

"Eva," he said sternly. "Your father died because of your stubbornness. Do not let your brother Donal die too."

"Dear God, how can you say that to me?" She drew a breath. "And you know I cannot give Innisfarna to you. The legend—"

"I know the legend, and it does not frighten me," he said curtly. "Marry me and give me this island, and you will save Donal, and Simon, and the rest of your kinsmen. They are all outlaws now, and I alone can help them."

"Oh—please—give me time to think!" A sob filled her throat and she swallowed with effort.

"Are you so coldhearted as to refuse to help them, just to keep one small island castle to yourself?" he murmured.

"It is not that—it is—" But she hesitated, unable to tell him that she had waited, hoped, for Lachlann to return. In the midst of the storm that surrounded her now, that hope was gone with so much else, suddenly a remote, impossible dream. Colin had said she might never see Lachlann again.

"You are greatly distressed. I may have been too harsh with you. Women are fragile creatures. Come here," he said, taking her wrist and pulling her toward him. He kissed her hand, kissed her brow, moist, lingering contacts that made her flinch.

"Leave me be." She tried to turn away.

He trapped her with heavy hands on her shoulders. "I must go to France soon, but first I want your betrothal promise before a priest. If you will not agree, I assure you that Donal will die the same death as your father. An awful death."

"Stop," she moaned. "Please stop. Give me time—"

"And I will make sure," he went on, "that Simon is caught like a wolf and stripped of his skin. The garrison that will come here will be under my orders even while I am gone. Simon will not escape this fate, nor any of your outlawed kinsmen."

"You cannot do this—"

"Can I not?" He kissed her softly on the cheek. "There, our first pledge is made. Remember our agreement. Be my wife, give me this isle to safeguard for you, and your kinsmen will be snug and safe as bugs in the woodwork."

She gasped, then nodded without looking at him. "I will marry you," she said. "But you can never have this island!"

"Eva, you can save them all with this bargain. Or you can ensure that their Highland hearts are roasted and served on the king's charger. It is your choice." He smiled down at her, and she stepped back with a muffled sob.

"I warn you to say nothing of our agreement to anyone. No one but you and I understand the importance of this, eh? Good," he said, when she was silent. "I will summon a priest to bind the betrothal tomorrow. While I am in France, you will be safe here in my absence, with the garrison." He paused. "I trust you have women to aid you, for you are pale and trembling."

She locked her hands, lifted her head. "I have no women, and no need of any. I am fine. Leave me be."

"Until later, then." He went to the door.

Eva stood stone calm, as if she had been emptied of emotion. Slowly she sank into the chair by the hearth and stared into the fire, aware that her world, her hopes, her most cherished dreams had crumbled away.

Chapter 4

Aussy je croy, en bonne foy,

Que les anges I'accompaignassent

(So I believe, in good faith,

That angels accompanied her)

—Martin le Franc,
Champion des dames, 1440

Perth, Scotland

September 1431

"So there you are, MacKerron."

Lachlann looked up. Alexander Beaton stood over him, wrapped in a cloak. The brisk evening air clung to its folds, refreshing in the close atmosphere of the crowded tavern.

"Aleck," Lachlann said, masking his surprise with a casual glance, which triggered, in his left and injured field of vision, the flashes of light and shadow he could neither control nor predict. "Just over from France?"

"Aye, and headed home. But I came here to Perth to find you before I go north to Kintail. How long have you been here in Perth?" Aleck peered at him. "You look terrible."

"Trust a physician to be blunt. Sit down." Lachlann gestured toward the bench opposite him. Aleck sat, his back to the busy inn. Lachlann preferred his own back to the wall. "I have been here much of the summer," Lachlann said. "I did not see you after... Jehanne was imprisoned in Rouen." He said it mildly, though he felt the weight of the words.

"I rode with the campaigns in northern France longer than I expected. I thought you would stay in that monastery hospital for months to recover from your injuries."

"A Scotsman heals better in Scotland," Lachlann said.

"The duke of Argyll ordered me sent home with some other Scots, but I went to Rouen first."

"Did you see Jehanne? The angel herself? Pray God, I hope you had that chance."

Lachlann frowned, gazed at his cup. "I did. And I sent a message to you to say that I would take a ship out of Nantes in April."

"I never got it. France is in such upheaval now that 'tisna surprising the message was lost. But I am glad to find you here, and hearty."

"Hearty enough," Lachlann muttered, and sipped from his cup.

"My ship docked in Leith a few days ago. A sergeant at the king's castle here in Perth told me you could be found at this place every evening." Aleck glanced around. "I thought you would have gone home to Argyll to start your blade-smithing forge. You spoke often of doing so."

"I did not count on an injured eye—'tis hardly an advantage for a bladesmith. Once my knight service was fulfilled, I decided to stay here and work at the castle smithy—shoeing horses, repairing weapons and armor, making nails. I can do ironwork well enough." He shrugged. "Summon the serving girl if you want food or drink. Meggott is her name. She likes coin and courtesy well." He beckoned to the girl.

Although the small inn was not the most popular in Perth, Lachlann was a frequent customer. The place was clean, and the innkeeper was honest enough. And Meggott was especially generous with Lachlann; she often invited him up to her room after the tavern closed at night.

Meggott came toward them, her wide hips and creamy shoulders swaying. Lachlann inclined his head to show his interest. His body, familiar with her warm curves and warmer recesses, craved her out of habit. He had spent hours in her passionate, eager company, but he had kept his heart distant.

And new ale dimmed life nicely, he had learned, though he never drank to idiocy. He had a dulling of the vision in one eye; a little dulling of the memory to go with it was welcome.

Aleck asked for ale and food, and Lachlann lifted his own cup, using a smith's penchant for gestures over words. Meggott smiled coyly and poured ale for both men, tipping the frosted belly of the jug against her full breasts. Her dark hair slid over her shoulder, and her body swayed, posing a question for Lachlann, offering an invitation.

He answered with a meaningful lift of his brow. Tonight he might seek oblivion again. Her ebony hair brushed his shoulder, and he remembered another dark-haired girl, not coy and round, but lean, bold, and graceful, with kisses like sweet fire.

He knew why he went to Meggott's bed, and he did not like himself for it. Eva haunted his dreams—eyes like the heart of a storm, and kisses he could not forget. God knew he had tried.

Ever since he had learned what had happened to Eva and her kin, he had felt conflicted. Haunted. Upon his arrival in Perth, he soon heard about the king's betrayal of the Highland chiefs at Inverness three years earlier. Iain MacArthur was dead, his clan disbanded and forfeited. The shock had struck Lachlann like a blow; he had listened, stunned, to the reports of outlaws in the hills above Loch Fhionn, led by Simon MacArthur, who now rebelled against the crown.

He was sure that his foster mother was safe, for she had no blood ties to the MacArthurs. Months earlier, he had sent her a message telling her of his arrival, and to say that he would remain in Perth for a while to do smithing work for the king.

In truth, he remained because he had heard another rumor: the daughter of the deceased MacArthur chief had betrothed to a Campbell chieftain, a royal ambassador who had been in France. Colin Campbell's name was bitterly familiar to Lachlann, and while in France he had heard that the man had come to the French court. He assumed that the marriage would be made by now.

That, more than any other reason, kept him in Perth. He took a swift drink, smacked the cup down again. His head spun.
Good,
he thought.

"Potent stuff," Aleck commented, after sipping the ale.

"Besides cleanliness and the ever-willing Meggott, this fine brew brings me back to this inn," Lachlann drawled.

Meggott brought Aleck stewed meat and onions on a bread trencher. Lachlann wiggled the cup he held, and she filled it. She was all blush and bosom, but he did not love her—could not. Though he willingly played lusty games with her, their lovemaking felt hollow to him.

Passion and emotion were limited now to the kick of the ale, the lush thunder of the girl at night, the hot red glow of the iron he worked each day. Small surface thrills, allowing him to ignore the ache within: Eva had not waited, and his heart felt sundered.

Aleck was staring at him. Lachlann began to drink, but he did not want it. He was not sure what he wanted. He pushed the cup away. "You didna come from France only to find me," he said.