The Highlander's Heart (25 page)

“Which one is he?”

“Fourth one back. He has the fanciest cape and the tallest horse. Oh, nay, it canna be.” Campbell shielded his eyes against the sun, straining to get a better look and hoping that he did not see what he thought he saw. He cursed softly under his breath.

“What did ye say?” asked Rabbie.

Not softly enough. “I said behind him rides the Lady Eileen, daughter to the Douglas.”

“Is that the one ye’re supposed to marry?”

“Aye,” said Campbell, but it came out as more of a grunt.

Campbell leaned against the battlements and scowled into the sun at the approaching line of unwanted visitors. What was he going to do? Douglas clearly felt it was time for him to wed and was pressing the issue. But choosing a bride meant choosing a side in a struggle for power that may soon turn bloody.

“They sure have brought a lot of stuff,” said Rabbie.

He was right, wagons of supplies followed the Douglas. “Some nobles travel with their own furniture, beds and such, so they will be comfortable where’er they go.” And Lady Eileen no doubt expected to be the Lady Campbell soon.

Campbell groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. Was it too late to use that hunting excuse? Trouble was he was on an island and they would notice if he took the ferry over. Perhaps Isabelle could figure a way off the island. She was always creative in a devious sort of way.

Campbell shook his head at himself. Sheer cowardice. Besides, he doubted he would even fit in a pickle barrel.

“Go find Mairi and help wi’ the preparations. Tell her I’ll await the Douglas in my solar.”

Rabbie went pale. “I have to find Mairi?”

Campbell smiled at his brother. “So that’s the way it is. Ne’er ye mind, go to bed wi’ ye and I’ll find Mairi.”

Campbell dispatched his errands in a timely manner, finding Mairi had things well in hand. He walked to his solar, meeting Jacques, the minstrel, on the stair. Jacques was dressed in his colorful attire, a satisfied grin on his face. It irked Campbell beyond reason.

“Jacques, I wish to speak to ye about yer musical selection,” said Campbell.

“You are displeased, my lord?”

“Aye.” Campbell had the satisfaction of seeing the grin fade from the minstrel’s face. “Ye play well, I grant ye, but all yer songs are about glorious battles with England or tragic tales of English brutality.”

“You have a love of England?”

“Nay, I hate the bastards, but Lady Tynsdale is English and yer songs are inciting the hatred o’ England. I should be verra displeased if she is discomforted.”

“I apologize, my lord. I do not wish to make her uncomfortable.” The minstrel bowed his head, and Campbell nodded his dismissal of the troubadour. If this was the minstrel’s regular selection of songs it was little wonder Harry had reacted violently to Isabelle in the tavern at Glasgow.

Campbell entered his solar to wait for Douglas. He eyed a bottle of whiskey on the table but refrained. If he was to emerge from this audience alive he needed to be stone-cold sober. Which, considering the shrew that was about to invade his solar, was truly a pity.

David Campbell was not a man who gave much thought to fashion. He followed the Highland form of dress, as his father before him, which did not require fancy silks or ornate stitching. If he did consider garments, it was only in respect to outfitting his sisters, who had more refined tastes in their apparel than he. Considering he was their banker, he had learned, through great expense, to identify the cheap cloth from the dear. So when Lady Eileen Douglas swept into the room, Campbell nearly choked calculating the cost of her raiment. It was silk, embroidered, and plenty of it.

Campbell forced a tight smile on his lips, but he could not stop his brain from ticking up the expense as he noted the gold thread and the elaborate jewels. “Lady Eileen, ’tis a pleasure to see ye again so soon.” Campbell bowed over her hand. Merciful heavens, did she have rings on every finger? Look at the size of that stone!

“Laird Campbell,” she replied, her smile just as false as his.

Laird Douglas entered the room and gave Campbell a firm hug and a quick slap on the back that was more akin to a wrestling move or an opening attack. This was how the man showed affection and Campbell responded in kind. “Campbell, my lad. Ye are well met.” His affection at least was sincere.

“Aye and ye. To what do I owe this surprise visit?”

“Do I need a reason to visit my old foster? I’ve trained ye from a lad, so I thought to take a look at how ye have been improving this castle o’ yers. Quite something, no? I ken Eileen will be quite comfortable here.”

Danger, think fast. “I hope ye both will have a comfortable visit. I only wish ye had given me more time to prepare rooms for ye both and prepare a meal fit for the company.”

“And give ye a chance to run off hunting or some such? I think not,” muttered Eileen.

Now how did she know that? Campbell forced the smile back on his face.

“No need, no need. We will be comfortable where’er we are. Any small, out-of-the-way room will do,” said Douglas jovially.

Campbell chuckled in return. That was sheer nonsense and Douglas could only have meant it as a joke. “Whiskey? Ye must be parched after yer long ride.”

“Now that is something I can use. Pour a tall one, lad, I’ve traveled far.”

“Forgive me, Father, I beg to be excused. We have traveled long, and I need to wash off the dirt of the road,” said Eileen in clipped tones.

“Go on wi’ ye then,” returned Douglas.

Campbell walked Eileen to the door of the ladies’ solar and instructed a gillie to see to her needs.

“Did ye meet wi’ difficulty on the road?” Campbell asked Douglas when he returned.

“Nay, my daughter is unaccustomed to the discomfort of the road. The journey was long for her.”

Campbell nodded and sat down in a chair across from Douglas. He pictured Eileen complaining throughout a long journey. He remembered traveling with Isabelle and her happy chatter. Even when she was angry and the chatter stopped, she never complained.

Douglas took another long draft and drained his glass. He held it up and Campbell refilled it. Campbell knew better than to hope that Douglas would lose his senses to drink. He was a man with a lamentably iron constitution.

“Ah, there now, that’s better. Ye were always a good lad, David.”

“Thank ye, sir.” Campbell had fostered with Douglas for four years, and even now, he felt twelve years old when he spoke to Douglas. He respected and admired the man, which was only a slight slip from the sheer adoration of his youth. He should be proud to marry Douglas’s daughter, but there were concerns here that went beyond his own personal feelings on the matter.

“Have ye collected yer share o’ the ransom for that useless King David?” asked Douglas.

So it starts. “Aye, though I admit it was a scrape.”

Douglas grunted in agreement. “I tell ye the truth, between that ransom demand and outfitting my daughters I’ll be beggared afore the harvest.”

Campbell smiled, secure in the knowledge that Douglas was nowhere near poverty.

“Truly though, the English seek to bring us to heel wi’ this impossible ransom demand. What they could’na do on the field o’ battle, they will achieve through bleeding every last mark out o’ Scotland. And for what? A young king who’s spent more time outside our borders than within them? We waited while he grew up in France. He comes of age, and has no’ taken his throne for more than a year when he marches us into the hands o’ York, and gets himself captured.”

Douglas leaned forward in his chair, his eyes glittering with intensity. “There must be another way. We must negotiate wi’ England for better terms, or we Scots will starve to death. We fought too hard to let it all go to perdition now.” Douglas’s voice rose. Gone was the jovial man who entered the solar. This was the warrior with the heart of stone who would kill anyone who challenged him with deadly efficiency.

“What kind of deal would ye propose?” asked Campbell, the hairs on the back of his neck pricking up.

Douglas glanced around to make sure they were alone and lowered his voice even more. “I have been in contact wi’ King David. He wearies o’ his imprisonment and is willing to barter anything for his freedom. In fact, the little worm is willing to sign away his future heir’s rights to the throne, if England would release him. Think on that. We would be free o’ this ransom, which will surely be our demise.”

“And who sits on the throne o’ Scotland?” Campbell asked, wary.

“Our King David would reign until his death, then the son o’ the king of England would be elevated.”

“Never!”

“Wheesht! I understand yer feelings. I, too, would rather die than see an English monarch on our throne, but I intend no’ to let that happen. In this deal, my land will be increased and I will be able to raise the kind of army I need.”

“Army for what?”

Douglas sat back in his chair and watched Campbell closely, noting every movement, every expression. “I would rather die than see an English monarch on our throne,” repeated Douglas.

Campbell exhaled quickly as if someone had smacked him in the gut. “Ye mean to take the throne.”

Douglas smiled and raised his glass. “Ye always were a smart lad.”

***

Isabelle and Cait sat in the back of the solar having a secret conversation while trying to appear like they were not having a secret conversation. The solar was packed that afternoon with Campbell ladies. Sisters, wives, and cousins were in abundance, with Mairi at its center. Isabelle and Cait sat on a bench in the corner, their heads bent over a piece of embroidery that neither cared a whit about.

Isabelle had learned much of Cait’s audience with Andrew. Cait’s emotional state vacillated like a clock pendulum, one minute in raptures over her newfound love, the next minute in the throes of despair considering the danger he faced.

“What are we to do?” asked Cait in a mournful whisper. “David is meeting with the elders today. What if they sentence him to death?”

“Let’s hope it does not come to that,” said Isabelle.

“At least I know he still loves me. He loves me, Isabelle, truly he does.” Cait stared dreamily off into the distance.

“Forgive me, Cait, but could it be possible that he declared his love to you to get your support in being freed?” Isabelle hated to bring up the obvious, but the stakes were high now. Cait needed to look at the truth.

“Nay! I know his feelings for me are true. He wants to marry me, and I him!”

“Hush now, not so loud,” whispered Isabelle, randomly stabbing the piece of embroidery. “But, Cait, even if his affections are honest and true, the best we can hope for is that Campbell will release him. You must know that your brother would never consent to your marriage, especially when you are betrothed to another.”

“’Tis so unfair.” Cait bent down over the embroidery and wiped away a surreptitious tear. “Please, Isabelle. Please help me. I need to escape with Andrew.”

“Cait, there is no way…”

“Please, Isabelle. Ye escaped from here before.”

“And I am right back here as you can see.”

“Did ye no’ once tell me we should be free to choose our own marriage partners?”

“Did I?” It was ironic her previous conversation with Cait now seemed like it had occurred during a simpler time.

“Isabelle.” Something in the way Cait said her name caught her attention. Cait took her hand and gently squeezed it. “I canna bear to be another man’s wife. No’ when I love Andrew. To be taken to another man’s bed, to be forced to…” Cait swallowed hard in an attempt to control her emotions. “I canna do it. Ye dinna understand. I canna do it.”

But Isabelle did understand. Memories she had meticulously shoved away came flooding back. Her wedding night. Lord Tynsdale came to her that night, his round, watery eyes gleaming. Isabelle closed her eyes and could almost smell his fetid breath hot on her neck, his icy hands crawling over her body, the shock of intimacy that had made her cry out. He had laughed and told her to get used to it. She had thought she had survived the worst of it, but later that night he returned like a fiend from hell. Isabelle rubbed her forehead, her fingers tracing along the scar she would forever carry to remind her of her husband’s murderous rage.

“Please help me,” whispered Cait.

Isabelle doubted Andrew McNab was an eligible marriage prospect. She could do little to change the situation, but she nodded. “Yes, I’ll try to help.” Isabelle could not let Cait suffer as she had on her wedding night.

Cait hugged her tight, the smile returning to her face. “Thank you, Isabelle!”

The door of the solar flew open, and in swept the Lady Eileen Douglas. She cast a critical eye across the inhabitants of the ladies’ solar. Isabelle nearly gasped. Lady Eileen’s gown was fine silk, and the gold embroidery of her deep red surcoat was exquisite. Eileen’s headpiece was ornate, her dark brown hair swept up into a veil, which showed off her fashionably high forehead. Her figure was attractive and she held herself like royalty. Two ladies-in-waiting followed her into the room. Isabelle was impressed.

“Lady Eileen,” said Mairi, rising and walking toward her. “Let me welcome ye to our home. Ye are verra welcome here and we hope yer stay will be comfortable and to yer liking.” Campbell’s sisters all stood and gave their curtsies. Isabelle did too, though she was not sure she was required. Still, it was the least she could do to acknowledge such fine craft as what Lady Eileen wore. Perhaps if Isabelle was kind, Eileen might let her know how she could commission such fine work for herself.

Lady Eileen nodded her head in return. “’Tis as I thought, no’ much here is there?” Eileen strode over to the fireplace where the rather pregnant Fiona was standing beside the chair she just vacated. Lady Eileen sat down in it. “Yer brother must no’ give much thought to yer comfort. I’ll change that when I am mistress here.”

Isabelle blinked. How could anyone wearing such beautiful embroidery be so ill tempered?

“We are quite comfortable, I assure ye,” said Mairi in an even voice. She was too experienced to rise to easy bait. “If ye require anything for yer comfort after such a long journey I will request it at once.”

“Nay, I shall request what I need when I need it. The servants must understand who will be their new mistress. Who has been serving as chatelaine in the absence of a proper lady of the castle?”

“That would be me, Lady Eileen,” said Mairi in the same smooth voice.

“And what is yer name?”

“I am Mairi, Laird Campbell’s eldest sister.”

“Ah yes, there are so many sisters it is difficult to keep track. Why are ye all here anyway? Should ye no’ be married? Campbell has neglected ye. I shall have ye all married and gone. Fewer names to remember that way.” Eileen laughed as though she had said a joke. Her ladies-in-waiting joined the merriment.

Eileen’s maids carried bundles in their arms and got to work in the area in front of the fireplace that Eileen had chosen. The women worked quickly, throwing colorful throws over Eileen’s chair and rolling out a bright tapestry at her feet. A table was taken from another part of the room, and an ornate cloth was draped over it and placed next to Eileen. A golden pitcher and goblet were placed on the table and Eileen took a few sips of the wine her maids poured. None was offered to the Campbell sisters.

Isabelle squeezed her eyes shut to prevent them from rolling back into her head. It was a throne room with Lady Eileen sitting as their queen.

“Several of my sisters are married and their husbands serve with Campbell. I assure ye, he has no’ neglected us,” said Mairi.

“And ye, Mairi? Are ye married?”

“Nay, my husband died,” said Mairi softly, a subtle warning ringing in her voice. But Eileen was not one to notice subtle cues.

“Well, ye must have another husband. But ye must no’ leave before ye give me yer full report o’ the castle. Mind ye, I will be checking to make sure the accounts are in order. And I winna tolerate any o’ ye helping yerselves to the castle goods when ye leave. I’ll be making sure everything stays where it should, so dinna even bother trying to sneak anything out.”

Isabelle gasped and her jaw dropped.

“And who are ye to stare at me in such rude a fashion?” Eileen turned her critical eye on Isabelle.