After a meal eaten in silence, save a compliment for the cook, Meridene excused herself to the privacy of her apartments. Serena had spoken truthfully of her knowledge of looms, for the frame had been assembled properly and placed before the now-darkened windows. The girl had even hung a lamp overhead.
Meridene took refuge on the stool and stared at the half-completed tapestry. From the Covenant she had learned that her namesake had also been skilled in the weaver’s art, and the first cloth of Clan Chapling had been a gift to her husband.
Husband.
The word and the man terrified Meridene. Unlike that first Meridene, she had no desire to rule. Too much was expected of her. She had no love in her heart for Scotland; her father’s cruelty and her mother’s indifference had purged that affection long ago. She felt used, alone, adrift in a sea of strangers with only a few pots of ink and a loom to call her own.
As she tied off a thread of precious lavender silk, Meridene couldn’t stop thinking about the words of the other Meridene, a brave woman who had changed the course of Scottish history.
To cleanse a man of his warring ways, join him naked in his bath. But not often, unless you wish to beget a son for the effort. If ever a lad is born to you with green eyes and black hair, he shall be named the Prince of Inverness.
Meridene thought of her own mother and the healthy sons she’d borne. Both William and Robert were fair and resembled their father. Try as she would, she could not imagine her aloof parents languishing naked in a pool of warm, scented water. A glance at the tub in the adjacent room made her wonder if Revas expected her to join him in a bath. She remembered the kiss they’d shared earlier in the day, and now, as then, an unwanted yearning stirred deep in her breast.
He had asked for a kiss of thanks for the luxurious lodgings he had provided. Fool that she was, Meridene had relented. He had taken the spark of her gratitude and fanned it into a fire of wanting.
He kept twenty women.
She wasn’t surprised. He wanted them for pleasure and companionship. He wanted her for ceremony.
Her spirits sank, for she had no weapons against his sensual expertise, except anger.
“Meridene?”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. It was as if she could summon him with a thought. Quickly she glanced at the door to be certain it was locked.
As if reading her mind, he said, “Open, Meridene, else I’ll use my key.”
Resigned, she went to the door and opened it.
Still dressed in the dark blue velvet he’d worn at table, Revas stood smiling down at her. Pinned at his shoulder was an ornate silver brooch bearing the lion of Macduff. Not a strand of his hair was out of place, and he looked at ease.
Her gaze flew to his hands. Empty. He hadn’t brought the Covenant. She hated herself for wanting to read more of the book.
“May I come in?”
He might have a key to the door, but she had the means to refuse his intentions. “The servants have left. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Perhaps not in English propriety.” As if he owned all of the British Isles, he strolled into the room. “In Scotland we honor our women with our presence before marriage.”
He sounded so righteous, she couldn’t help nicking his pride. “Do some of you marry?” she chirped. “How modern you’ve become.”
The sloth laughed. “Oh, Meridene. You are a delight. Such vinegar after your favorite meal. I shudder to imagine your ill humor when the food is not to your liking.”
He shouldn’t act so friendly, not when he’d kidnapped and threatened to beat her. “I could fill my belly with pomegranates and still despise the sight of you.”
“Then I expect you’ll live your life much as poor Isobel did.”
“Isobel?”
“Aye. Meridene’s granddaughter and the third Maiden. She brought her tragedies upon herself, poor lass.”
Meridene had read only a few pages in the book. Her belongings had arrived shortly after Revas left her in his chamber. She had no knowledge of this Isobel. Would that woman’s chronicle prove as disturbing as her grandmother’s?
Bother the book and the ancient stories; Revas could take them with him to the grave. Meridene would see the priest on Friday. Revas was being agreeable tonight. Their angry exchanges exhausted her. She would persevere.
“What do you want?” she asked.
He walked around the room, touching first her clothes trunk, then the quills and ink on her writing desk. He paused at her loom, which was large by any weaver’s standard, but he dwarfed the wooden frame.
The casual pose belied the determination in his gaze. “What do I want? My needs are simple. I want the Maiden at my side, a friendly ruler at my back, and a long purse.”
So much for an evening passed in friendly camaraderie. “Rejoice, then,” she said. “For you have two of three: friends and money. A good showing in the best of times.”
“I’ll have them all.” As if he were strumming a harp, he raked his fingers across the still unwoven threads of the tapestry. “ ’Tis a beautiful scene.”
His wrists were bare of the war bracelets, and his hands moved with unexpected grace. The observation surprised her, and she chastised herself. Admiring even one aspect of her kidnapper was cause for alarm.
“The heather is especially well done,” he said.
“It was for Johanna—” At the verbal blunder, Meridene gasped and quickly said, “I meant to say, of course, that the tapestry is for Clare Macqueen.”
“Drummond’s wife.” Leaning close, Revas examined the details of the scene, which depicted a moorland in summer. Hares and squirrels frolicked in the field. Butterflies and a blazing sun would crown the work. “You must not hold either of them to blame.”
Meridene had been raised at the abbey with the twins, Clare and Johanna. With absolute surety, she said, “In this, I cannot accuse Clare Macqueen.” Clare was dead. Johanna had taken her place.
“Good. I expect them to visit after her babe is born.”
Sister Margaret had gone to assist in the birth, leaving the abbey defenseless. “Ana told you Sister Margaret was taking the guard.”
He sat on her padded stool, his long legs extended and crossed at the ankles. “The cushion still bears your warmth.”
His intimate words embarrassed her, but a cozy place to rest himself was all the warmth he’d get from her. “You were only able to kidnap me when you did because the guard was elsewhere.”
“Guard?”
“Aye, the duke of Cumberland’s soldiers, not that we needed defending before you blackened Scarborough with your evil presence. Had you come when the knights were there, they would have prevailed.”
He gave her a bland, handsome stare. “The absence or presence of a few Englishmen-at-arms had little to do with my plans. Although the sport might have proved entertaining.”
She was certain of one thing about Revas Macduff: He did not lack confidence. “When did Drummond tell you where I was?”
“Before fetching you, I attended our first parliament. ’Twas held in Saint Andrews.”
She read between the vague words. He hadn’t made a special journey on her behalf. That bothered Meridene as much as his affable mood. “So you just extended your travels to include a jaunt to England to retrieve me.”
He shrugged. “I go there from time to time. They always have Spanish oranges. I have a liking for fresh fruit.”
Oranges. He dodged questions like a warrior avoiding an opponent’s blow. With every parry, she grew more frustrated. “Why have you come to my room tonight?”
He fished a rosary from his pouch. “To take you to chapel.”
Relief lightened her mood. “Church. I will pray that your teeth blacken and fall out.”
That winning gleam in his eyes portended trouble. Before he could make any more mischief in her life, she snatched up her purse and cloak and preceded him out the door.
Flaming torches of bog fir illuminated the castle yard. The pungent smell stirred an old memory in Meridene, but she was too conscious of the man beside her to explore the past.
He took her arm and guided her down the front steps. Breathing deeply through his nose, he exclaimed, “It smells of a Hogmanay fire.”
She didn’t want to talk to him, especially when he was so attuned to her thoughts. If she ignored him, she could forget the alarming fact that he was her husband. She wanted no part of belonging to Revas Macduff. No shared baths, no sons. No glorious wedding night as her namesake had enjoyed. Her destiny lay in the peaceful confines of Scarborough Abbey.
“You must have had special celebrations,” he said cordially, “since Hogmanay was also your birthday.”
He must have garnered that information from the book, then spread it like cheap gossip. Meridene had not told him when she was born. No stinging retort came to mind, and she hoped her silence maddened him.
He waved at Summerlad Macqueen, who stood just outside the glow of a lighted torch near the well, the handmaiden Serena at his side.
“Will you join us at the chapel?” Revas called out to them.
“We’ve just prayed.”
“We’ll pray later.”
Said in unison, the contradictory answers drew a gasp from Serena and a groan from Summerlad.
“ ’Tis true,” Summerlad rushed to say. “I’ve been to chapel. Serena came to tell me about Lady Meridene’s fine loom.”
Revas grew still. “I see.”
The embarrassed girl shrank inside her cloak, but Summerlad stepped fully into the light. He wore the sedate red and black tartan of Clan Macqueen. Tossing an end of the plaid cloth over his shoulder, he bowed to Meridene. “My lady.”
Meridene again looked up at Revas, whose stern expression had darkened. According to custom, his responsibility toward Summerlad went beyond battle prowess and horsemanship. Honor and loyalty stood at the forefront of a guardian’s duty.
“Bid Serena good night,” he said. “Then relieve Forbes on the wall.”
The youth wanted to object, for his eyes darted here and there in indecision.
“Unless you’d care to join us?” Revas added.
“No, sir.”
“Then my lady and I will leave you with your honorable intentions.”
With the slightest pressure on her arm, Revas steered Meridene toward the side yard.
“I favored the sweet cakes at Hogmanay.” He spoke in a friendly fashion, as if they were boon companions.
Hogmanay was a Scottish ritual. Meridene wondered if he had truly put the exchange with Summerlad aside or if he was hesitant to discuss it. Having a choice of subjects, she gladly took up the holiday. “I don’t remember the sweet cakes,” she replied.
“Sibeal Montfichet makes a fine batch. Look there!” He pointed overhead. In a trail of twinkling light, a star fell from the sky.
“Do you make a wish on a tumbling star . . .”
Without thinking, Meridene finished the rhyme. “The angels will favor you from afar.”
After a moment’s contemplation, he said, “I wished for a gesture of peace from your father.”
He spoke casually of a man Meridene despised. “You cannot voice your wish, else it will not come true.”
“Then our wishes are well met.” He looked her in the eye. “For I suspect you asked for a means to break your wedding vows.”
He was too close to the truth to suit Meridene. With an effort, she sought a reprieve in the surroundings.
Unlike the courtyard at Scarborough Abbey, the castle yard came alive with sounds. A prowling cat screeched, a dog bayed at the half-moon. From the outer bailey, cattle lowed. Closer, a babe wailed.
Ignoring her lack of participation in the conversation, Revas said, “I hated sweeping the stoop at Hogmanay.”
He spoke of superstition, of the age-old Scottish custom of sweeping the stoop at the turn of the New Year. The old luck and bad spirits were swept away from the dwelling. But women usually wielded the broom. “Where was your mother?”
“She left us for a fisherman out of Tain.”
He had told her that years ago, but like so much of their one day together, she had forgotten. She felt bound to say, “How old were you?”
“Two or three. I do not remember her, but I recall clearly the other lads teasing me for wielding that broom on Hogmanay.”
He had been different as a youth, and as much as she hated to admit it, she had liked that butcher’s barefoot son. But he had changed. He was now a warrior bent on using her to lead his unruly brethren. “You can seek retribution now. You are the chieftain of Clan Macduff.” She intentionally omitted the title he coveted most: king of the Highlands. Without her assistance, he would never sit on that throne.
“Seek revenge against lads playing pranks? Nay, I’ve better things to do.”
“Such as kidnapping.”
“You wound me, Meridene.”
He sounded so sincere. Looking up, she studied his face. Bathed in moonlight, his manly features appeared comely beyond the telling. Twenty women wanted him. Did he walk them to chapel? Did any of them now stand in darkened windows watching him escort his wife to prayers? Did the women pine for him?
“I never wanted to take you by force, Meridene. But Ana said you had turned against me.”
She hadn’t truly forsaken the lad Revas had been. To the contrary, his sweet concern had helped her through the hardest day of her life. But that was then.
To change the subject, she said, “What do you do when not engaged in kidnapping?”
His eyes shone with glee at her inquiry. Eager to set him straight, she said, “Take no softhearted meaning, Revas. It was merely an attempt to make conversation.”
“None taken, Meridene.” He mocked her serious tone. “I trade wool, timber, and hides to Flanders in exchange for foodstuffs, iron, and salt.”
She pointed to the noisy barracks. “You also command an army.”
“When I must. At present I foster a number of Highland sons. By sponsoring them, I make alliances and avoid war,” he said civilly, ignoring her gibe.
Dodging a blow, she thought, was the better description of his methods. But she was forced to admit that he had managed the Macqueen lad with the skill of a diplomat. Her brothers would have fought to exhaustion or injury—all in defense of bruised pride.
“My father died before I united the clans.”
Thirteen years ago, during their short time together, he had spoken often and fondly of his father. She shouldn’t feel sorry for him. In a sense, she’d lost both of her parents, all of her family and friends, yet she had survived. “What of the Macgillivrays? You have not brought them into your fold.”
He wagged a finger at her and chuckled. “Careful, Meridene. One might think you harbor an interest in Scottish politics.”
She bristled and pulled the cloak tighter around her. “I loathe Scottish politics.”
“So do I,” he said meaningfully.
“Ha!”
“Truly. I’d rather watch armor rust.”
“You a peaceful Scot? That’s a contrary notion.”
He dropped an arm around her shoulder. When she tried to draw away, he pulled her to his side and whispered, “Spoken by one who is well versed on contrariness.”
He’d all but named her a shrew, which was particularly odd, since he was holding her in an unbreakable embrace. “You’re to blame, Revas.”
He gave her a gentle squeeze and let her go. “I know. Just do not teach Serena your ill humor. Summerlad likes her as she is.”
That brought to mind a question, and for the first time Meridene could quote the Covenant, Maiden and verse. “According to the book, Serena is old to serve as a handmaiden.”
“True,” he said. “But I could not follow every tenet, else I would have come for you years ago.”
“How?” she challenged. “Without the loose tongue of Drummond Macqueen, you never would have found me.”
“I paid men to look for you, but the old king hid you too well. Still, I would have found you.”
To her profound surprise, the admission that he had looked for her warmed Meridene. Frightened by the feeling, she struck out with words. “So Ana wasn’t your only spy. She was simply the most treacherous.”
“Did you know that in Elginshire lots are drawn for the honor of serving as handmaiden? I know, ’tis not in the book, but since you weren’t here to select them, we had to make do.”
He could keep improvising until angels perched in the mews. She wanted no part of it. “What an inventive solution,” she said, meaning nothing of the sort.
“On the occasion that Serena’s name was drawn, Ana Sutherland had been among the unfortunate.”
“I sense that you think I should sympathize with her.”
He paused at the corner of the barracks and scanned the castle wall. “The sum of it is, Serena will be leaving service. Since you are newly arrived and unfamiliar with the people, you will have to draw another girl’s name. Will you do so in good humor?”
According to Serena, the first handmaidens in Elginshire had been chosen twelve years ago. Since then, some girls had married and been replaced. That baffled Meridene, for without hope that she would be found, Revas had carried on the tradition of the Maiden.
Tradition be damned. “I have a better solution,” she said. “The next time you draw names, pick yourself another wife.”
Evidently satisfied that marauders would not scale the castle wall, he started walking again. “Serena is to become a wife. She and Summerlad wish to marry. Her father and his brother have come to accord, and the betrothal is set.”
That bit of information piqued Meridene’s curiosity, for Serena had said nothing on the subject. “Drummond Macqueen’s brother is marrying a weaver’s daughter? I’m surprised he would choose a girl of common birth.”
His mouth twitched at the words “common birth.” He probably thought she referred to him. Hooray for her.
“Serena Cameron is not of common birth. Her father is the earl of Clyde. Her family weaves the finest cloth in Perwickshire. She’s an heiress.”
Meridene’s own servants possessed more wealth than she. I am Meridene, the first Maiden of Inverness. Her own legacy was not one of coin, but of mettle and intelligence, leadership and honor.
“What troubles you?”
The devil with leading Scots and honoring clan wars.
“Has Serena been unkind or rude?”
If Serena Cameron had willingly become a handmaiden, then the legend of the Maiden was celebrated by the Camerons. But they were midland Scots and traditionally content to leave the Highlanders to their petty wars. Had Revas truly expanded his dream of peace to a shire so far to the south?
“Has she behaved poorly?” Revas asked again. “Tell me and I will discipline her and write to her mother.”
“Nay, Serena is overeager. Does her father swear fealty to you?”
“Only to unify Scotland against England and any other nation that threatens our sovereignty. ’Tis a different sort of alliance. The chieftains now regularly exchange correspondence. Soon we hope to establish a system for delivering messages between all peoples of all cities.”
“But your alliance is based on defense.”
With a promise in his voice, he said, “We will unite against a common foe.”
He did indeed rule the Highlands and more. The extent of his power grew with every conversation.
They arrived at the chapel, and Meridene repeated her wish that the priest return early. Disappointment awaited her when Revas escorted her inside, for the church was empty.
“Do you remember this place?” he whispered.
Twin rows of wooden pews flanked the carpeted aisle. The altar and its ancient trappings gleamed in the torchlight. She and Revas had exchanged wedding vows before that very altar. The priest had been hesitant to marry them so young, especially when Meridene had been too ill to stand alone. But the will of King Edward I had prevailed. With a hand at her waist, Revas had helped her kneel, assisted her to her feet, and offered encouraging smiles throughout the ceremony.
Would the priest take her side again? Riddled with uncertainty, she retrieved her rosary from her purse.
“Wait,” Revas said. From a niche in the wall near the poor box, he withdrew a small pouch. “Here.”
The pouch had been stitched by Ailis, Meridene’s grandmother, and it housed an ancient and mismatched rosary. Meridene remembered it well, for she had begged her mother to let her pray with it. She could not bring herself to touch it now, not in the house of God and not with deception in her heart.
“You keep it, Revas,” she said. “For I tell you truly, I am smothered by so much ceremony.”
Sadness filled his eyes. “ ’Twill be here when you change your mind.” He returned the purse to the niche.
She anointed herself with holy water and genuflected. After Revas did the same, they started down the aisle.
“Have you the same priest?” she asked.
“Nay. Father Clarence was called to Rome.”
He helped her kneel, then went about his prayers. She couldn’t help peeking up at him. Head bowed, his hands clasped, he looked like an archangel. His fair hair, damp from the evening air, gave the impression of a halo. He must have felt her gaze, for he smiled and turned slightly toward her.
When he opened his eyes, she felt bathed in admiration, and her heart tripped in response. Her rosary slipped from her hands and landed, in an explosion of sound, on the stone floor. They both reached down at the same moment, and their shoulders touched. He retrieved her rosary, and taking one of her hands, he let the beads fall into her palm. He leaned closer, until his forehead rested against hers. His eyes drifted shut, and he tilted his head to the side and kissed her.
His lips were soft and supple, as before, but this kiss contained a wealth of sensations that went beyond racing hearts and rushing breaths. It was as if he were trying to draw out her soul and commune with her very spirit, and like a bird too long in captivity, she stood on the threshold of her cage, but could not seek the freedom he offered.
He pulled back, his eyes clouded with confusion. “I cannot keep my mind on prayer.” Then he gathered his composure. “I’ll await you outside.”
So profound was her sense of loss that she almost called him back. But what could she say? That she had forgiven him for ripping her life apart? That she was happy to be in a land of monsters?
He could have sent her a message, rather than stealing her away in the dark of night. They could have exchanged letters. He might have asked her to return. But she wouldn’t have come, and he knew that. He hadn’t bothered with sweet words and the ritual of courting. He had not cared that she was frightened. He wanted a sword and a kingdom, and only she could provide him with both.
Sadness overwhelmed her, and she bowed her head and prayed for an end to her misery. When the pain eased, she dried her tears and walked out of the church.
Revas sat on the steps. He rose quickly, and from the smile on his face, she decided his mood had also lightened.
Pretending that the deeply emotional experience had not occurred, she said, “Who is your priest?”
“Father Thomas, the younger son of the duke of Ross.”
That man’s holdings were vast by anyone’s standards. At the time Meridene left Scotland, His Grace had ruled even the Western Isles. “Is the duke of Ross an ally?”
“A most staunch ally. Your handmaiden, Ellen, is his favorite granddaughter.”
Meridene groaned inside, for if what he said was true, the extent of her husband’s influence knew no boundaries. “I suppose Lisabeth is also an heiress.”
“Oh, nay. Lisabeth’s father is the miller, but she will be valued as a princess when her service is done. Same as the others before her, she will receive a dowry for her service.”
Meridene had heard enough for one night. To her relief, Revas was also content to walk in silence. Until they passed the barracks.
He stopped abruptly, listening, his eyes scanning the wall. When his gaze fell on the battlement near the main gate, he said a quiet curse. “Wait here.”
Making little sound, he climbed the steps leading to the wall. Moving swiftly on the high walkway, he passed beneath the intermittent torches, ignoring the sentries as he went. When he reached the main gate, he disappeared into a darkened barbican.
A feminine shriek rent the air.
In the next instant, a cloaked figure burst from the enclosure and into the torchlight. It was Serena, her red hair gleaming like copper. Summerlad followed, his muted tartan unmistakable. Then came Revas. A very angry Revas.
In single file, the three marched along the wall and down the steps. At the base, Revas stopped and addressed the couple. He spoke too softly for Meridene to understand the words, but the reprimand in his voice was clear.
Serena looked so forlorn, Meridene approached them.
“What’s amiss?” she said.
Revas glowered at Summerlad. “I fear Serena needs a protector.”
The young man’s features were frozen in indignation. “We are betrothed, Revas,” he said.
“That does not give you the right to anticipate your vows.”
Shocked, Meridene said, “You mean he would dishonor her?”
“He’s too young and randy to see it as that,” Revas replied. “I’m certain he thinks to honor her with his lusty attentions.”
He sounded so wise and so outraged—an oddity, considering he had reclaimed by force his own unwilling wife.
“ ’Tis not all his fault, Revas,” Serena pleaded. “He did not carry me up those stairs. I went to him willingly, and I’m still a virgin. I swear on my wicked soul.”
Revas rounded on Summerlad. “No thanks to you.”
“I only kissed her,” came the grumbling reply.
Serena began to cry. At the sight of her tears, Meridene drew the girl aside and clutched her hands. “Worry not. You’re to be married.”
Between sobs, she said, “You must be completely disappointed in me. But Summerlad and I have waited forever.”
“How long have you been betrothed?”
“Five years. We’ve only held hands. But then you came back, and . . .”
“And now you can be wed.”
“Aye. Unless Revas tells Randolph.”
She sounded fearful, and Meridene’s heart went out to her. “Who is Randolph?”
Her breath shaking, Serena said, “He’s Summerlad’s older brother and chieftain of the Macqueens. He was against the betrothal because I’m a lowland Scot. But I love Summerlad, and my father likes the match. Revas did also.”
“Shush,” Meridene said. “One kiss will not change his mind.”
“Truly? Will you talk to him?”
Under the circumstances, she had to agree. But when she turned to him, words died on her lips.
Once a butcher’s barefoot son, Revas Macduff now stood, hands on his hips, his considerable wrath directed at an unrepentant lad of noble birth.
“If I see you within sword’s length of Serena before your vows are said, I will come after you. Do you understand?”
Summerlad’s blue eyes widened in alarm. “I’m no match for you. You’ll force me to yield.”
Revas flung an arm toward Serena. “What did you ask of her?” he spat. “I will not let her fall to your winsome ways. She is a fair flower of Scotland. You will tend her, for she has given you leave to rule her life.”
“I will husband her well.”
“By God, Summerlad, you have stooped low. ’Tis a blessing Randolph is not here to witness your fall from grace.”
Completely shamed, the young Macqueen stared at his boots.
Revas sighed and in a lighter tone said, “ ’Tis for certain you love her well, lad. Everyone knows ’tis true. What will you do now?”
So quietly his words sounded like a prayer, Summerlad said, “I beg your pardon, and henceforth, I will honor her. On that you have my word as a Macqueen.”
Revas slapped the lad on the back. “Well said, and we’ll seal that bargain with a tankard of the brewer’s best. Go along. I’ll join you there shortly.”
Summerlad headed for the tavern. Revas approached Meridene and Serena. Smiling fondly at the girl, he brushed her hair from her face. “How fare you, lassie mine?”
“Oh, Revas.” She flew into his arms, and he held her, rocking from side to side, his big hand cradling her head on his shoulder.
“Fret not, sweeting,” he murmured. “What has occurred here will stay with us.”
Meridene was reminded of another heartsick girl he had comforted long ago. He’d been rail-thin and his voice had warbled with youth. His honest concern had seasoned with age.
“I’m so ashamed,” Serena cried. “And I do so want to be a goodwife.”
His gaze fell on Meridene. She saw tenderness there and something else. As if speaking to her, he said, “There’s more to being a goodwife than meaningful kisses in the dark of night.”