58

Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

Had there ever been a more beautiful wedding day?

After a wee smirr of rain during the night, cleansing the air and cooling the gardens, the sun shone down. Fully gowned, Blythe stood by the windows of her bedchamber looking out on the moorland she was to call home and hearing kirk bells in the distance. A little thrill coursed through her. Pealing for them?

The castle fairly ticked with anticipation. Mari had gone below to gather the bridal bouquet. Peg darted in and out, announcing that Reverend Johnston had just arrived, that Orin insisted on picking the white heather, and that the chapel was all in readiness, having been bedecked with so many blossoms it appeared the gardens had come indoors. Even the musicians hired for the occasion were enjoying a celebratory dram ahead of tuning their instruments in the Great Hall.

A knock at the door gave Blythe pause. Elodie entered, clad in pale yellow, her own wedding gift of a luckenbooth adorning her bodice. Her eyes widened when she saw the bride. “Milady—” With a little laugh, she amended, “How hard old habits die, Blythe. Rather, Lady Wedderburn in public.”

Blythe turned in a slow circle to show the gown to the best advantage. It was fashioned from blue-and-cream silk damask, the neckline and sleeves embellished with silk ribbon and bobbin lace. A remarkable sewing feat in so short a time. Elodie’s sigh was testament to its beauty.

Mari soon appeared with the bridal bouquet—roses of every hue—and Peg came in from the dressing room with the polished tiara. It rested upon a small velvet cushion, all aglitter.

Sitting down at her dressing table, Blythe cradled her bouquet while the tiara was placed on her head, the curls Mari had spent the morning on cascading from the back of her head to her shoulders.

“Shall I tell Lord Wedderburn you’re ready?” Peg asked her.

“I lack white heather, is all,” Blythe said with a smile, just as a noise in the hall announced its timely arrival.

Orin appeared, slightly winded as if he’d run all the way, and helped her tuck the sprig into her bouquet. The women tittered as he gaped at her.

“You look more a queen than a countess,” he said at last.

“I do feel like a queen,” Blythe said, bending down to kiss his cheek. “But mostly I feel very thankful.”

“I must give your groom his heather.” He held up a second sprig.

Her heart beat faster. “Then please tell him I am ready when he’d like to escort me to the chapel.”

She returned to the window, the view no longer barren to her but beautiful. The maids dispersed, Elodie with them. Did they mean to give her a moment of privacy?

She felt so . . . tranquil. In the tumult of the past weeks—months—she’d forgotten how lovely tranquility was. She even felt lovely, perhaps for the first time in her entire life. Bending her head, she breathed in the perfume of her bouquet and felt the slight weight of the tiara while listening for the laird’s footfall.

Heavenly Father, I owe Thee endless thanks.

She looked out the window again, her attention drawn to the castle’s approach. The main gate and sturdy gatehouse were now clouded by a storm of dust. It took her half a minute to make sense of the unwelcome sight . . .

British dragoons?

Nay. Stricken, Blythe whirled away from the window, her hard-won peace shattering. Breathless with distress, she made it to the door to find Everard striding down the corridor, the maids in his wake.

His eyes were alive with alarm, but his voice was calm. “Go with your women to the chapel and wait for me there.” It was no less than a command.

He turned away, and she did the same, hastening toward the flower-strewn building where Reverend Johnston surely waited.

But would there be a wedding?

Everard stood at the foot of the cedar staircase, having summoned Munro and Boyd and his most able-bodied footmen at the dragoons’ first sighting. When their clamor reached the castle’s entrance, Everard strapped on his sword as Boyd and Munro went outside to ask their business.

Returning, Boyd told him, “Captain Agnew of the Royal Regiment of Horse Guards requests to see you, milord.”

Requested? Rather, demanded, Everard wagered. “The Blues,” he replied, on account of the distinctive color of their uniform.

“Aye, milord. And the captain seems in high temper. They’re a large body, some eighty or so, all armed to the teeth.”

“Let him in, but only Agnew, ye ken.”

With a nod, Boyd moved toward the castle door, a dozen servants behind him lest the entire company try to force their way in. Munro stood just outside the main entrance to keep an eye on them lest they try to gain access another way.

In minutes, Captain Agnew stood before him, the door locked behind him, the castle’s wary footmen on either side.

Everard faced him, twenty feet from the flagstone entrance. “What brings you unannounced to my door?”

The captain drew up stiffly. “I am here at the behest of His Majesty and his ministers to apprehend Lady Hedley of Northumbria.”

“On what grounds?”

“Her father is an enemy of the Crown, a traitor at large, and needs be her ladyship answer for his conduct or serve as proxy till the duke’s own arrest be made.”

“’Tis a fool’s errand.” Everard rested his hand on his sword hilt. “I would be cut to pieces first.”

At once Agnew drew his sword, but not before Everard’s steel tip had slashed away a button on the captain’s coat sleeve. It fell to the flagstones with a staccato pop, a none-too-subtle warning.

Fire flared in Agnew’s eyes. Still, he seemed to hesitate before he engaged. Everard immediately parried, the ring of steel nigh deafening in the echoing chamber. At the captain’s next thrust, Everard caught his sword by the hilt and flipped it into the air. The weapon clattered onto the cedar staircase behind him. He kept his eye on Agnew lest he reach for his pistol. At Everard’s signal, Boyd confiscated the fallen sword.

A bit breathless, Everard sheathed his own sword, his mind on Blythe and this untimely interruption on so hallowed a day.

“Lord Wedd . . .” With a low moan, the captain swayed, took a step backwards, and collapsed.

“Wheest!” Boyd said as the intruder landed in an ungracious heap.

Kneeling, Everard found the captain’s pulse. Agnew was the white of his sweat-soaked linen sark. “He’s likely been in the saddle since dawn and needs to slake his thirst, among other things.”

Turning the captain on his side, Everard carefully examined him. The plaited hair on the back of his head was warm with blood. Not a serious blow, it seemed, though there was a slight gash from the flagstones, giving rise to veiled amusement among the hovering footmen.

“Ye scairt him tae death, milord, yer sword aside,” Graham said, his words meeting with muted laughter.

Everard stood and called for clean cloths and water, not wanting to delay a moment longer. “When Captain Agnew comes to his senses, bring him a dram of our finest whisky and keep an eye on him here in the foyer. If he has a hankering to eat, feed him. I’ve a wedding to attend.”