Warrior's Lady (33 page)

Relieved, Rhiannon reached out and took his hands. She laced her fingers through his. "Will Violet agree to our marriage?"

He nodded. "She is very much in favor of your remaining here."

"Then, yes. I will marry you."

"On the morrow. I would claim you today, but this day must be for the dead."

She searched his taut gaze. "Why such haste?"

"I love you, isn't that reason enough?"

The past day and many hours of pain had shown her over and over again to embrace the moment. Life was too precious to waste when one never knew when it would end. "Aye, love is reason enough. But where will we find a priest? I sent a summons to Glasgow, but no one has come. And I would not trust the bishop to help us."

A smile returned to his face. "Hush, my love. We will work it all out, you'll see."

"But—"

He silenced her with a kiss. "Is that the only way I can keep you quiet?"

She ceased her anxious questioning and smiled. "I can think of less pleasurable ways to spend our time."

"Agreed." He stood and gazed down at her ragged clothes. "We should burn all the clothing, bedding, and blankets that anyone who was sickened by the plague used. That includes your dress. Just to be safe."

She nodded. "I will miss it because you gave it to me, but I understand."

Rhiannon moved to the wardrobe to retrieve the green gown Mistress Faulkner had made for her. She quickly dressed, watching in fascination as he laid his tartan on the floor, folding it with quick precise movements before he lay upon it, belting the fabric around his waist, then stood.

Her gaze lingered on his well-muscled body appreciatively. "Suddenly I find the idea of marrying you on the morrow very appealing. Shall we?" She motioned for the door.

On his deep-throated chuckle, they headed out of her chamber and to the great hall. Once there, Rhiannon's mood immediately sobered as her gaze fell upon the rows of shrouded bodies lining the wall. A raw and primitive grief overwhelmed her. She released an anguished sob.

Camden came to stand behind her, pulling her back against his chest. "So many lost." He shook his head.

"For a moment upstairs, I had almost forgotten."

He kissed the top of her head before moving away to join Orrin who crouched beside the bodies.

"Twenty-two are dead." Orrin stood, his gaze anguished. "In a matter of hours…"

"How many were spared because of the Charm Stone? We have to focus on that."

Orrin nodded. "The men rounded up several people in the surrounding hillsides and brought them back here to be treated. I am fairly certain we have contained the illness."

Camden clapped Orrin on the back as he shifted his gaze to Rhiannon. "That's good news."

"'Tis about time something uplifting came to this castle," Orrin stated, his tone relieved.

"Then you should also know that Rhiannon has agreed to marry me." The smile in his eyes when he looked back to Rhiannon contained a sensuous flame that brought heat to her cheeks.

A slow smile lit Orrin's weary face. "It's about time the two of you stopped fighting and realized you were meant for each other. When?"

Camden's expression sobered. "We have much to do here to set things to right. I will need everyone who is able to help build a funeral pyre for the twenty-two who have died. We must show them our respect before continuing on with our lives."

Orrin nodded his agreement. "Rhys has already built a pyre on the hillside to the west of the castle."

Camden nodded. "Very well, then." He turned back to Rhiannon. "Will you see to Lady Violet? The last I saw her, she was in the kitchen with Mistress Faulkner."

"Mistress Faulkner lives?" Relieved tears came to her eyes. She quickly turned away and headed out the door of the keep and to the kitchen building beyond.

As Camden watched her go, his emotions shifted from elation to dread. "Do I tell her, Orrin?"

Orrin's gaze snapped back to Camden's. "Tell her what?"

"That I set out to have her murdered? That I was responsible for her nearly burning at the stake? That I am the one who may have killed her brothers?"

A deep frown cut across Orrin's face. "For centuries marriages have been founded on lies."

"I made a vow that I would never lie to her," Camden replied in a low, tormented voice.

"Only you and I and the assassin know the truth. The assassin is dead by your own hand. And I vow never to tell anyone." Orrin shook his head. "Your secret is safe."

Camden knew he could trust Orrin. What his friend had done with the Stone had been out of a desire to help, not maliciousness.

There was no way for her to find out about what he had done. And even so, a deep feeling of unease rippled through him. Could he live the rest of his life, knowing that he had deliberately withheld that information? Should he tell her and risk losing her?

He had one day to decide. Before they married, he would have to reconcile his deeds in his own heart.

The bishop opened his eyes to see the faces of seven men hovering over him. Had he died? Was this his last reckoning before his fate was decided? He stared up into each face, praying as he did that they could see only the goodness in his heart, and not the villainy that had taken root inside him since he'd been passed over for recognition by Robert the Bruce.

"He's awake," a voice from above said softly.

"Why doesn't he speak? Is he damaged in some way?" another voice asked.

"Get away from the bed, all of you." He recognized that voice.
His mother
. He suddenly noted the golden light of the setting sun. So he wasn't in heaven after all.

He struggled to sit up as consciousness burned through the haze in his mind.
The Stone
. He fumbled in the deep folds, but came up empty.

One of the gray-haired men frowned at him. "Is he still feverish?"

His mother hobbled up to his bedside and shooed the men back. The bishop stared in awe at her neck, her face. The rash had vanished. The boils were gone, and a curious spark missing for years had returned to her gray eyes. "He's fine." Her gaze pierced his with a warning. "You had a fever, nothing more. Now get up, and greet the Church council properly."

"The Church council?" His plan. His revenge. They had arrived. He leaned against the wooden headboard of the bed, felt the bite of the elaborately carved wood against his back.

He reached out and touched the wrinkled skin that lined his mother's face. "You are better."

Her gaze narrowed on his face. She sniffed as though insulted. "Only by some miracle did I escape the abuse of that mad man."

He knitted his brows, confused. "You what?"

She turned away from the bed, addressing the men who hovered nearby. "My Harold suffered under his assault as I did myself. Can you not see that?"

The oldest of the men stepped forward. A heavy frown creased his deeply lined face. "We have heard your story. Now we need to understand your son's. Bishop Berwick, tell us what has happened here. And why would you place the burden of witchcraft on a supposedly young and innocent child?"

Unease crept up the bishop's spine as he took in the severe faces of the seven men who surrounded his bed. What had his mother told them? "I—"

"Just tell them, Harold, that Lord Lockhart burst into our home, killed our warriors, and threatened to murder us unless you revoked your charge of witchcraft against the Lockhart child."

That was not what had happened. He paused as his brain scrambled to find a way to make this situation work in his favor. And then, he found it. He straightened, pushed the covers away from his legs and sat up, swinging his legs over his bedside. "Why don't we all go ask Lockhart for his version of the truth?" Or at least whatever version of the truth would place the Charm Stone back in his own possession and dangle Lockhart from the hangman's noose.

He would have that Stone. He would have everything that was his due.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The glow of the flames changed the night sky into a vignette of red and orange. The huge funeral pyre had been made to hold all twenty-two bodies. The wood beneath was also piled with the bedding and clothing and anything that could be fouled by the disease that had wracked their home.

Camden gave a final blessing in the tongue of the ancients. Sorrow burned in his chest as he stared at the macabre, obscene beauty of his people returning to their Maker. Acrid wisps of smoke drifted around the living who had gathered upon the hillside to send their kin on their way. They had all worked the rest of the day through to make their home secure once more.

On one side of him, Rhiannon gently took his arm in a protective clasp. Violet stood on the other side, holding his hand. The two women he had never known he wanted in his life, yet they made him feel things he had always dreamed of, but never dared to hope for all those years ago while he had been a prisoner in a faraway land. He wanted to know all the things that love was meant to be. He wanted children, to be a father, to give Violet everything she might miss by not ever truly knowing her own parents.

He wanted to fully live whatever time he had left upon this earth, with a clear conscience and a clean heart.

He had to tell Rhiannon the truth. And then he had to convince her to stay with him. The task would not be easy, but it was necessary; he knew that now. "Rhiannon, I must speak with you when we return to the castle."

Her brow knitted. "Is everything all right?"

"It will be very soon." His tone held all the resolution he longed for in his soul. By this evening, he prayed all would be as it should be.

"You're trembling." Camden tightened his arm around Rhiannon's shoulders as they walked back into the great hall.

She gave him a small smile. "I suppose I am."

"Why? Do you fear returning to the castle after all you have endured here?"

She shook her head. "Nay. If anything, the plague has proved to me that I have strength I did not know I possessed."

He frowned. "Then what frightens you so?"

"It's not my fear, but yours that worries me." She looked up into his eyes and he saw the vulnerability he had seen there upon their first meeting. "I heard the fear in your voice outside. You wished to speak with me?"

He offered her a solemn nod. "You are very observant."

She came to a stop in the middle of the hall as the others filed in around them. "Tell me now."

"Rhiannon—"

"Visitors at the gate." One of the guards raced into the room, his breathing hard, his face flushed. "They are asking for Lord Lockhart."  His eyes widened. "There are eight men and one woman."

Camden released a soft imprecation at the untimely interruption.

"'Tis the Church council, the Bishop Berwick, and his mother."

Camden set his lips grimly. His gaze lingered on Rhiannon's face for a moment before he moved past her. "We'll talk later. Go upstairs with Lady Violet. That man means to make trouble. As if he hasn't done enough already."

Camden hurried through the sea of people streaming back inside the keep. At the door, he came face to face with Bishop Berwick. "Who let you in?"

"The gates were open." The bishop gave Camden a black look. "We took that as an invitation. The Council and I would like a word with you."

The bishop pushed past him, and into the hall. Behind him came seven older men in ornate green robes with bands of gold trimming the sleeves. Each man gave Camden a condemning look as they walked past him. A foreshadowing of things to come?

And behind the men, walking bent over a cane, hobbled Bishop Berwick's mother. "Mistress Berwick," Camden greeted her with a chill in his voice. The glint in her soft gray eyes told him she was up to something.

Once inside, the men headed for the dais. They sat behind the long table, facing the rest of the room. His people, curious to know why the bishop had called upon them yet again, this time without his warriors, lined the chamber's wall. Their restless chatter created a soft hum that hovered over the room.

"Lord Camden Lockhart," the oldest councilman stated, with a hint of censure in his tone. "The Church council has come here this evening on a serious matter involving you, the Mistress Berwick, and your young niece, Lady Violet."

A sudden chill washed over Camden. "What about Lady Violet?"

"We will get to her. First, however, we must deal with the matter of you assaulting Mistress Berwick in her own house. These are times of war," the old man continued, looking down at Camden from beneath his bushy gray brows, "but cruelty to women will not be tolerated by the Church council."

"She claims I assaulted her?" Camden shifted his gaze to the bishop, who stood beside his mother. A flush reddened the bishop's cheeks. Camden bit back the stinging retort that seared his tongue. His arguments would do him no good. It was the woman's word against his. His men could vouch for his behavior, but their loyalties would be questioned, and he had no desire to bring further pain to anyone else under his protection.