Chapter 25

Two days after the incident outside the tavern, Jamie dressed in one of the rooms allotted to his father at Edinburgh Castle. Frustrated that he had not received a reply from Morneith, he’d spent a restless night after returning from yet another tavern.

He was sick of spending each evening under the pretense of debauchery. He enjoyed lifting the cups with friends, but he had never liked excess. He’d been cautious about seeing Lachlan too often and had made a habit of going to several taverns.

He had not seen the two men who’d followed him that one night, but he had sensed eyes on him. Someone was obviously interested in his movements, and that someone had employed better spies. Had that person felt the two men had lost Jamie out of carelessness, or because Jamie was more than he appeared to be? He suspected Morneith had waited to meet with him until finding out as much as possible.

As if he had mentally summoned the earl, a servant knocked, entered, and handed Jamie a card.

It was from Morneith.

Jamie bade the man to enter and then allowed him to stand as he finished washing. Jamie looked at himself in the mirror. He had not yet shaved and decided not to, nor did he comb his hair. He wanted to look as if he’d had a long night of drink and perhaps worse.

He poured wine from a pitcher into a goblet that sat on the table. It was an ungodly hour to drink, but good theater. Then he condescended to look at Morneith’s man, who did not quite conceal his anger.

The message was verbal.

“The Earl of Morneith would be honored to accept your invitation to sup. He suggested tonight, if that meets with your pleasure,” the emissary said. He was unexpectedly well spoken, obviously more than a footman. Was he here to weigh Jamie?

“Tell your lord that I eagerly await his presence,” Jamie said wryly. He named a late hour.

The messenger continued to hold his ground. “His lordship wanted to know if your father will be present.”

“Nay, he is suffering from gout,” Jamie replied.

“I will inform him. Thank you, my lord.”

Jamie studied him. The two who’d followed him earlier had the mark of scoundrels about them. This man looked, and sounded, more presentable, and yet there was a feral gleam in his cold, dark eyes, which lingered far too long, and familiarly, on Jamie.

Jamie did not want to be obvious in his own perusal, although his mind was quickly memorizing the man’s every feature, the clothes that proclaimed him a rank above servant. He turned his back and poured more wine into his goblet. He drank it in one long drought, then turned back as if he’d just then remembered the man.

“Are you still here?” he said carelessly. “You are dismissed.”

Swift and ugly anger filled the man’s eyes before he bowed slightly, then turned. His shoulders were rigid with insult.

Jamie smiled to himself. He had taken an intense dislike to the man, something he rarely did, particularly when he had no reason except for physical looks. There was something about his visitor, though, that raised hackles along his neck.

He placed the goblet down. The wine was thick and sweet in his throat. He was surprised to find it inferior to that which was offered him as a prisoner at Inverleith.

Jamie went to the narrow window and looked down over the courtyard. He watched as his visitor mounted a horse. No mere servant. He wished he could have asked the man’s name, but that might have been revealing. The man he wanted Morneith to believe he was would not ask a servant’s name.

He only hoped that his act was convincing. Morneith had to consider him a blackguard and reckless fool. He doubted whether he could secure an admission from him; if not, Jamie wanted to bait him into attacking him. It was risky. He knew that. And he hadn’t told his father that part of his plan. But he wanted this done, and he wanted it done quickly. He wanted to stop the siege against Inverleith and see Felicia free and safe. He wanted to hold Janet in his arms and explain everything to her.

He shaved and combed his hair. He had to learn more about Morneith’s “messenger.” But that would have to wait. More urgent matters were at hand.

Felicia walked alongside Alina, ready to steady her if she started to fall. The dog, Baron, had been left in the chamber. Felicia feared that he might trip Alina in his attempts to get as close as possible to his young mistress.

They reached the steps. Felicia suggested Alina wait there until she found someone to carry her down.

Felicia found a burly man in the great hall.

He looked at her curiously. “Ye are the Campbell wench.”

She internally winced at the word but tried not to show it outwardly. “Aye.”

“Alina is my cousin’s lass. He said ye have been good to her.”

“She is easy to be good to.”

“Aye, she is a sweet lass.” He did not say anything more but followed her up the stone steps to where Alina waited. “Want to go for a wee walk, do ye?” he said.

“Lady Felicia is taking me to see her foal.”

The man’s eyes turned to her again, then he simply nodded and picked Alina up and followed Felicia down the stairs. “I want to stop in the kitchen,” Felicia said.

She collected two carrots, gave one to Alina, and the three of them went to the stables. Felicia could not help glancing around to see whether there was any sign of Rory, even though she knew there would not be. Days had passed since the night in the nursery, and she’d had only a few glimpses of him. He had been away most of the time.

Now she understood why. Her anger was gone, lost in the stark pain she had seen in him. He had not lightly dismissed her as she had believed. He truly thought that he was doing what was best for her. Best for his clan. He was mastering his own needs for those of others.

But he did not know what was best for her. She would run toward a few moments of happiness, even knowing they might be of short duration. After tasting the sweetness and passion of the moments with him, she did not think she could bear to live without them. It was one thing to live without knowing love. It was another to know and lose it out of cowardice. And live with regret.

She shook the thought from her head as she led the way to the stall where the mother and offspring were stabled. The Maclean clansman held Alina so she could see the foal inside. The baby was eagerly sucking her breakfast.

“Ohhhhhh,” Alina said. “She is verra bonny.”

“Aye, she is.” Felicia held out the carrot to the mother, who accepted it daintily, then started munching.

But Alina’s eyes were drawn to the foal, which was still endearingly awkward with its long spindly legs. The foal stopped suckling and regarded the three of them with eyes that seemed too large for her head.

Alina held out her hand, and the foal took a cautious step forward, then another, until Alina could touch its velvet skin. The baby nuzzled her, pushing against the small hand.

Alina laughed. It was the first time Felicia had heard the sound. She wished with all her heart that she could tell Alina that she could ride the foal one day. She wanted to keep the family here and teach Alina to read and write, to ride. To laugh. To dance to the pipes.

She ached with the need.

She had always loved children, but she’d never felt this fierce maternal instinct before.

Alina is not mine. She has a mother and father and brother. And even perhaps a young lad to marry someday.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Wanting was such a fierce thing. And she wanted so much. Rory. A child. No, children. She wanted to excite Alina’s natural curiosity and then nurture it in her own children.

Fiercely and with incredible pain, she realized that to stay would put Alina in harm’s way again. Alina and her family, and other families like them. Felicia really had no more choice than Rory. She knew that, and realized now what he had been trying to tell her. You cannot buy happiness with someone else’s pain.

She felt something soft nudge against her hand. She opened her eyes and looked down. The foal was nuzzling her now, as if she sensed Felicia’s distress.

She stepped back out of the way and ran into something hard. She whirled around, anticipation and joy belying that resolve.

But it wasn’t Rory. Her heart plunged as she recognized the helmet, the chain mail.

Douglas. The man who, with Archibald, had plotted to take her and bring her here.

She wondered how long he had been there.

“Milady,” he acknowledged. He looked uncomfortable.

She waited for him to continue.

“The laird said you might like to go riding. I can accompany you.”

“Where is he?”

“Patrolling, my lady.” It was obvious he planned to say no more.

She hesitated. The sun was bright, the sky a rare blue. The temperature was warm for autumn in the Highlands. She would need no cloak. She was sorely tempted. But instead she asked a question. “You did not find Lachlan or my cousin?”

“Nay. They are gone. We heard that they reached the Cameron keep and left for Edinburgh.”

“How do you know?” Relief flooded her, but uncertainty remained as well. She still could not imagine Lachlan being a traitor to the clan.

“One of our clansmen is married to a Cameron. He just returned.”

She puzzled over the news. Why would Lachlan go to Edinburgh? And Jamie? Had he gone to his father? Would he help in raising an army against Inverleith? Against Rory?

The thought was another sharp thrust inside. She still could not believe he had abandoned her, even if he realized she was in little danger from the Macleans.

“I can take Alina back,” the burly clansman next to her said.

“I do not know your name,” she said.

“Brian, milady.”

She turned to Alina. “I will see you later.”

“Can I stay here longer?”

“As long as you and Brian like,” she said.

She followed Douglas down to where the mare was already being saddled. She darted a quick glance toward him.

“Lord Rory said you would want to go,” he said.

He assisted her into the saddle, then easily swung onto his own mount.

The gate opened as they neared it, and he rode in silence. His face under the helmet was nearly invisible. She did not know what he was thinking, but she did sense he was not happy with his orders.

Even while she enjoyed being outside Inverleith and on a horse, she felt something was wrong. They rode for nearly an hour, then he turned down a path, the path that Rory had taken her once. It led to a rise, then to the sea.

As they reached the crest of the hill, she saw a ship anchored just off shore. A long boat was pulled up on the beach, and several men sat nearby.

She halted her mare and looked at her companion.

“It is Rory’s Lady,” he said. “He sent for it some days ago.”

That was around the time Lachlan and Jamie left. “Why?”

“It sails for France,” he said. “Rory said you wished to go there. I have a message for someone you can trust in France, as well as sufficient gold for you to take up residence.”

“What if I do not wish to go?”

“He told me about Lord Morneith,” he said. “He said you’d hope to go to France before Archibald—” He stopped abruptly, his mouth pursing into a grimace. “’Tis my fault it all happened.’ I should not have encouraged Archibald with his lunatic idea.”

“Rory said nothing to me about this,” she said, her heart dropping to her feet. She thought again about their conversation in the nursery, the sadness in him. Had he been saying good-bye?

Douglas was silent.

“If I just disappear …”

Again silence.

“He could not let anyone know, or someone would come for me,” she said. “My uncle will believe the Macleans killed me, just as his ancestor tried to kill another Campbell. He will go after Rory, just as our family killed the Maclean who tried to kill his Campbell wife. Rory and the clan.”

“I am beginning to learn something of our laird,” Douglas said. “He has something in mind. He would not allow the clan to be hurt.”

Perhaps not the clan but himself?

She continued to turn thoughts over in her mind, to find a thread to follow.

Jamie. Lachlan. Another scene flashed in her mind. Rory fighting in the courtyard. It was the first time she had seen him train. She knew from others that he had eschewed fighting some time in the past and had turned sailor and merchant. She also knew sieges often ended with personal combat between two champions, with little consequence for the people of the losing side other than a new laird.

He would never allow his clan to suffer for a decision he had made. A decision to help her. Did he fear he might lose and she would be sent to Morneith? Was that why he wanted her aboard a ship?

She closed her eyes. She could bear the latter, but not the former.

Neither could she risk even the possibility of the clan being destroyed because she did not wish to marry the man chosen for her. She thought of Alina. Moira. Robina.

Would the clan blame Rory for letting her go?

She could not let him fight her battles. “I will not go.”

“Then I was told to put you aboard.”

“I will find a way to return.”

He was silent for a long time, then he sighed deeply. “Archibald was right about one thing. You are a good match for my lord.”

“Even though I am a Campbell?” she said.

He smiled for the first time since she had met him. “There are always exceptions.” But then his face sobered. “Come, my lady, I must get you aboard.”

She thought about turning the horse and running, but his gelding looked far swifter than her mare. And once they went down to the beach, there would be more men waiting.

There was but one way.

He started to turn toward the path down to the beach. She suddenly kicked the mare and pulled tightly upward against the reins. The mare, unused to such treatment, reared, and Felicia kicked her feet loose from the stirrups and slid from the horse.

In a second, Douglas had dismounted and knelt by her side. “My lady, are you all right?”

She moved slightly, then moaned as if agony had just struck her.

She heard him mutter what sounded like a curse.

She knew he could not risk moving her, not without help. He went to the crest of the hill that sloped down toward the shore. His back was turned to her, and then he started down, apparently to seek help.

His horse was closer to her than to him.

Do not turn!

She moved quickly, mounting his horse, then leaned down and grabbed her mare’s reins as well. He turned then, but it was too late. She dug her heels into his mount’s side and, leading the mare, she rode away, ignoring his shouts.

He would have miles to walk to get back to Inverleith.

She would have a fine head start.

She was not sure where she would go. She only knew she had to reach her uncle and convince him that the abduction had been purely her doing. She would tell her uncle there was no blame to be found with the Macleans and that she would marry as he wished.

It was, she thought numbly, the only way to save Rory Maclean and his clan.

Still, her heart was broken, and she thought it could never heal. She realized that her prison had turned into a home, and her jailers into family. She would probably never return, never see them again.

But he had been ready to risk everything for her, even his life, and she could do no less for him.

Jamie had seen Morneith before, but he had been a young man intent more on the pleasures of the court tnan sizing up its courtiers. He had never had a conversation with him, and all he knew came from rumors.

Rumors could be unreliable.

He prepared carefully for supper. He found a source outside the castle where he obtained a good wine. A small keg, in truth. He talked to the cook inside the castle and gave her a gold piece to provide special delicacies.

And then he talked to his father about who should use the small spyhole.

It had to be someone trusted by King James. A member of the Campbell family would be suspect. It came down to his future father-in-law who offered to help. Though he was allied with the Campbell clan, Dugald Cameron was well known for his independence and loyalty to the crown. He had fought with James when he invaded Northumberland years earlier in behalf of Perkin Warbeck, pretender to the English throne.

To Jamie’s surprise, his father agreed to talk to Dugald. The Cameron had been outraged by the prospect of a traitor at court, and also by the fact that his future son-in-law had been followed and possibly was in jeopardy.

Once all was set, Jamie waited. The spyhole was in the anteroom of the space allotted for his father when he was at court. Only a few other confidants to the king rated such privileges.

The king himself had shown the spyhole to Angus Campbell. The castle was a hotbed of intrigue, and it behooved one to know his enemies, he’d said, hinting that there were others elsewhere.

There was a small room behind the one where he awaited Morneith. It was entered from the room next to this one through the wardrobe and was large enough for one person. The hole was nearly invisible. If someone did not know it was there, it would be almost impossible to detect.

Dugald was there now, his large body cramped into a small chair.

The appointed time came. And went.

Morneith arrived late, as if he, too, were making a point.

The man who had called on Jamie with Morneith’s card was with him. His expression was not cordial.

“I am sorry I was not clear,” Jamie said. “The invitation was for the earl only.”

“No misunderstanding, young Campbell. Cleve will wait outside.”

The man nodded cordially at Jamie, but his eyes were as cold as any Jamie had seen. Without speaking, he stepped outside and closed the door.

Jamie raised an eyebrow.

“I am an important man and as such have enemies. I take precautions. You might consider that as well, young Campbell.”

“It is Lord James,” Jamie corrected him with a bland smile.

“Lord James, then,” he said. “I am honored, and may I add, a little surprised.”

“We have friends in common,” Jamie said, “but we will talk of that later. Try this wine. I was told it is excellent.” He poured from a pitcher into goblets, and took a sip from his own.

So did Morneith. Appreciation spread across his face. “It is excellent. From the king?”

Jamie allowed the earl to think so. It raised his level of influence.

They supped and exchanged pleasantries. Jamie was weighing the earl and knew that, in turn, he was being weighed.

Unlike Jamie’s father, Morneith was a lean man in build and had a hungry—and cruel—look about him. He wore a mantle of rich, green velvet, and his belt was adorned with jewels.

“I have just returned from London,” Jamie said, leading the conversation where he wanted it to go.

Morneith raised an eyebrow as if to ask why that information might be of importance to him.

“I overheard a conversation about Maclean lands,” Jamie continued. “And a sum of twenty-five thousand pounds.” He prayed that Rory Maclean’s information was factual.

“And why would I have interest in this?” Morneith asked.

“Campbells have an intense interest in what happens to Maclean lands.”

“You still have not explained why I should care.”

“Because the conversation I overheard was between Woolsey and Buckingham. I do not think it is a conversation that would please King James.

Morneith showed no emotion. He just waited.

“It seems that the English Crown might have some interest in obtaining supporters in the Scottish court.”

“I am sure that would be the English hope,” Morneith said.

Jamie decided to go to the heart of the matter before Dugald Cameron became bored. “Your name was mentioned as well, my lord.”

Morneith sat up. “That is a calumny.”

“Mayhap, though I think not and doubt King James would see it as such. He does not like traitors. I understand he will return in three days from his hunting trip.”

“You have no proof.”

“I do not think King James will need much more.”

“You have concocted this fairy tale to get my lands,” Morneith said. “’Tis no secret the Campbells have coveted them.” He laughed. “James will see through your small plot.” He started to rise.

“There are others who know as well,” Jamie said with a slight smile. “I think they are people the king will trust.”

“Not your father, or he would have called off my betrothal to his niece,” Morneith blustered.

“You do not see her here,” Jamie said with a small shrug.

“I heard she was hostage of the Macleans.”

Jamie just smiled.

For the first time, doubt—and fear—entered Morneith’s eyes. “What do you want?”

“I have not yet told my father,” Jamie said, “but I have urged him to reconsider the betrothal.” He took a leisurely sip of wine. “I find myself in need of a loan. A substantial one. Perhaps one-half of the twenty-five thousand pounds you received from the English.”

Morneith glanced around the room. It was small, and they were alone. His own man stood guard outside.

“Blackmail, young Campbell?”

“An ugly word. I prefer to call it a partnership between future in-laws.

“And what will keep you from exploiting this partnership in the future?”

“We will be relatives, my lord.”

“If you say anything,” Morneith said, “I will deny all. I will have witnesses that you came to me with a plot to join the English, and I refused. After all, you were just at the English court. I have not been there.”

“Aye, but you have been on the border.”

A twitch in Morneith’s cheek indicated Jamie had struck a blow. The questions the earl apparently still had were whether Jamie had any other proof and who else knew. And who in London had talked to him? It was information he would have to have to keep his head.

Treason could result in terrible penalties.

So far, Morneith had avoided any direct admission. He could claim he was simply trying to trap Jamie. But then he could have no idea a third person was listening.

Jamie hoped that Cameron could hear everything. But he knew he had to lead Morneith into more damaging information.

“I want the promise of Maclean lands,” he said. “I understand other lands were promised to you as well as gold.”

Morneith merely nodded. An easy promise to make with no paper involved, and the earl knew there could be no paper. It would damn Jamie as much as himself.

And a promise was easy when one of the parties intended to kill the other. Jamie was quite sure that was what was intended.

“It is a bargain then?” he asked.

“As you said, a partnership. But it will take me several days to get the funds together.”

“I await your pleasure,” Jamie said.

Looking into Morneith’s coal black eyes, he knew pleasure was not what Morneith had in mind, unless it was the pleasure of killing him.

Minutes after Morneith left, Cameron knocked and entered. He did not ask, but poured himself a tankard of wine.

“My God,” he said.

“Is it sufficient to go to the king?”

“Nay. It is enough for me, but the king? Or for a conviction of treason? I think not. Morneith was cautious, and as he said, he could always claim he was testing you.”

“We need money to exchange hands,” Jamie said.

“Aye. But I will report what I heard to your father. He may believe differently.”

“I will go with you,” James said.

Moments later, they were in his father’s luxurious furnished room. Cameron spoke first. Then Jamie.

Angus Campbell’s face flushed with anger, then darkened. “The blackguard,” he said. “But Dugald is right. The king will require more proof. He has set Morneith high and will not want to look the fool for doing so.”

“I will arrange another meeting,” Jamie said. “Mayhap with someone the king trusts above all men.”

Both James and Cameron looked at Angus. He had demurred earlier, because his son was involved and his loyalty might be suspect. But now Cameron was involved, he might feel differently.

“Aye, boy, I will do it.”