Claimed by a Scottish Lord (5 page)

Rose removed her hat and shook out her hair. A black leather tome about sorcery sat upon a table in the kitchen. Her heart gave a thump as she set the knapsack on a chair and picked up the book.

With the exception of maybe Mrs. Graham, most in the village considered Mrs. Simpson a witch. Rose loved that mystique about her.

She had been a skinny six-year-old with tangled hair and skinned knees the first time she‘d met Mrs. Simpson. Dressed all in black, the widow had arrived at the abbey in a coach, her husband being a baronet. Friar Tucker had paraded all the girls outside to meet the abbey‘s new patroness. Mrs. Simpson had taken one look at Rose and clucked her tongue. It wasn‘t that Rose set out to be a hoyden. It just happened. On that particular day, Rose had been trying to glimpse the new-hatched tits and had fallen from a tree. But Mrs. Simpson had seen something in Rose, an inherent curiosity about the world.

Over the years, the coach had gone the way of the fine clothes as Mrs. Simpson‘s circumstances changed. But she never ceased sharing the wealth of her books and journals her husband had accumulated through his world travels. She‘d taught Rose about herbs and medicinal potions, knowledge that Rose used to make the special liniment now healing Lord Roxburghe‘s beautiful stallion. Last month when Rose had discovered her treasure in the abbey‘s crypts, she‘d gone at once to Mrs. Simpson. The discovery was their secret.

―You give an old woman heart palpitations, Rose,‖ Mrs. Simpson said from the doorway leading into her cellar. She wiped her hands on her apron. ―With the roads as bad as they are, I didn‘t know if I should expect you.‖

Rose looked up from the tome. ―You have found another book on Merlin?‖

―I‘ve done more than that. You were right. The box contains a wishing ring.‖

―You have translated the rest of the symbols!‖

Mrs. Simpson removed her dingy apron and set it on the stone countertop next to a bucket of soapy dishes. ―You might not want to know what I have discovered, dear. Especially since we are studying something unfamiliar and possibly dangerous, in our ignorance.‖

―Then you believe whatever is inside the puzzle box could be authentic? What have you discovered?‖

―Did you bring it?‖

Rose dug into the pocket of her woolen jacket and withdrew the small, intricately carved wooden box. Sunlight streaming through the windows in the kitchen warmed the wood and tingled her hands.

―Put it in the sunlight and sit.‖

Rose set the box on the table, then took her place beside Mrs. Simpson in one of the spindle-back chairs and waited. For what? She didn‘t know, but Mrs. Simpson watched the box, and so did she.

―Arthurian legend claims Merlin was a metallurgist,‖ Mrs. Simpson said. ―The source of King Arthur‘s power came from his sword Excalibur. Of course, most people consider the entire legend of Camelot and Arthur a myth. But Merlin did exist. And if Merlin somehow forged Excalibur, then it stands to reason the sword was not his only creation.‖

―How did the box come to the abbey?‖

―Merlin hailed from Scotland, which means he could have once visited Hope Abbey. Heaven only knows how many times the abbey keep has been rebuilt over the centuries. The vault itself is centuries old. From your own words most of what is down in the crypt has never been catalogued.‖

As the widow spoke, the various symbols carved into the box began to darken as if someone put a hot poker to the wood. Rose stared in awe at the transformation. The image of the sun on one side became darker and the full moon on the other lighter. Opposite from what Rose would have expected as the sun usually meant light and the moon darkness.

―The sun and moon represent the continuing cycle of the seasons,‖ Mrs. Simpson said.

―Each side opposite the other yet coexisting, like day and night.‖

―With no beginning and no end. The symbols for infinite or eternity.‖

―And symbols for happiness and sadness, pleasure and pain, love and hate.‖ Mrs. Simpson cocked a brow. ―A warning to the one who opens the box?‖

Rose withdrew her hands to her lap, confused by Mrs. Simpson‘s sudden caution. ―Or perhaps the clues are telling us that it takes both sunlight and moonlight to unlock the secrets of the box,‖ she suggested.

―Aye, that as well. From what I can interpret from these other etchings‖—her finger traced the
Bjarkan
symbol
,
the two sideways triangles touching at the corners, symbolizing phases of life and great change—―the ring has power to pull darkness from a man‘s soul and give it light. But once the ring is on your finger, nothing in your life will ever be the same again. Once the ring is on your finger, it will not come off until your wish is fulfilled.‖

―Why would Merlin make such a ring?‖

―His grandson wanted a child by a wife who had been barren for seven years. Merlin made the ring for him. Unfortunately, the woman died in childbirth.‖

Rose leaned over to look at the page. ―Is that what this says?‖

Mrs. Simpson shut the book. ―The truth is, we do not know what will happen once you open the box. What you think you want may not be what your heart wants, and nothing great is ever accomplished without sacrifice.‖

―I am not afraid.‖

―Perhaps that is your failing, dear. I have learned that it is wise to proceed with one‘s eyes wide open, especially if you are about to walk into darkness.‖

―I can take care of myself in the dark.‖

Mrs. Simpson‘s tin-gray gaze gentled. ―Is it family for which your heart searches, Rose?

Or something else? Are you not beloved and needed everywhere you go? Are you so eager to leave us?‖

Rising to her feet, Rose folded her arms and walked to the window to look outside. ‘Twas not family for whom she searched. How could she explain her heart when she did not understand the thing herself?

She closed her eyes. ―I have only a vague memory of my mother. Her softness. The way she smelled—like lilacs. I can almost see her face when I look at my own in the glass. Perhaps I am merely searching for myself.‖

She laughed at the maudlin sentimentality. ―All I know is that ever since I found the puzzle box, the need to be free of the walls surrounding my life has grown into something . something almost violent inside me which I am unable to control. You have lived your life unafraid of who you are. I want . ‖

What? To rid herself of the darkness in her heart? To be loved for herself? Despite herself?

To seek retribution against the man ultimately responsible for her mother‘s death and forcing Rose into hiding for seventeen years? Justice?

The mere thought smoldered inside her like a hot ember burning away at the edges of her soul.

She had never told Mrs. Simpson who she was. Never spoken her father‘s name aloud. Her very safety had always depended upon secrecy. Friar Tucker had hammered vigilance into her mind from a very young age, so she had lived in silence, never seeking answers to her questions for as long as she could remember, until her father‘s return to England a year ago.

Most people knew him as the son of an aristocratic family who had made their names as captains and admirals serving in His Majesty‘s Navy. He had sought the appointment as the king‘s warden upon his return. The English respected him, while the Scots had great cause to fear and hate him. He showed no mercy to suspected rebels and no tolerance to suspected thieves and lawbreakers. He‘d hanged a hundred men in the past year.

Only last month she had asked Friar Tucker why her mother had wed him, why she had been running from him, but the priest had no answer. Rose had wanted to believe that her father could not be so evil. That he could have once loved her mother. That the blood running through her veins was not his.

Rose touched the sorcerer‘s puzzle box, disturbed by the undeniable shame and need that welled within her. Shame because of who she was.
Need
to be someone who was more than nameless and forgotten by the one to whom she should have held importance.

Once she had dreamed of being an explorer of worlds as her father had been. Now she dreamed only of being free.

By summer‘s end, she would reach one and twenty. Sister Nessa had once told her that it was not a woman‘s prerogative to choose her own destiny, but Rose would do exactly that. She refused to be like the other girls at the abbey, confined by the social boundaries of their birth, accepting that their parents had chosen to give them to the church. She accepted nothing.

A part of her felt foolish for believing in such nonsensical rubbish as magic wishing rings. After all, she was an educated woman of twenty. She‘d never believed in hobgoblins, fairies, witches or gremlins.

Yet she believed in the legend of Merlin, and if his power had helped guide and protect Arthur, and made him invincible to his enemies, then the ring would be her own Excalibur. Three months and she would change her life forever, break free and make of herself what she would be.

Jack burst through the door at that moment with a basket of eggs, chattering how he had fixed a hole in the coop to keep out the foxes. Mrs, Simpson took him into her kitchen, divided the bounty as she always did to give half to the abbey. Jack devoured a plate of pastries sloshed with strawberries and cream. Rose listened as he recounted his activities of the past week, which included tales of Lord Roxburghe‘s
secret
visit.

Rose wondered what part of
secret
the boy did not understand. ―He came to see Friar Tucker,‖ Rose said when Mrs. Simpson lifted her gaze.

―But Friar Tucker is gone. Vanished!‖ Jack anxiously said. ―Probably murdered by highwaymen. Or
arrested
and thrown into the gaol for smuggling. Sister Nessa thinks we‘ll never see him again.‖

―We need to go,‖ Rose finally said as Jack finished a third glass of milk. ―We have more rounds to make on our way back to the abbey.‖

After Jack hurried outside to tend to the cart and pony, Rose said, ―Sister Nessa worries. Friar Tucker has never been away from the abbey for so long. His departure was sudden.‖

Mrs. Simpson smiled. ―He is alive and well in Carlisle. Perhaps ‘tis this hostage business that has taken him there. Lord Roxburghe‘s brother is rumored to be there.‖

―How do you know this?‖

―The mountebank passed through here yesterday. He always stops here to let me look over any tomes he might have picked up.‖

―You gossip with the mountebank? He is a miscreant.‖

―But a well-traveled one, dear. He speaks to everyone. ‘Twould not be unusual for Friar Tucker to seek some form of mediation between Roxburghe and Hereford, though little good ‘twill do.‖ Mrs. Simpson stood with a swish of soft muslin. ―So you met the new earl of Roxburghe and you were not going to tell me? Most are curious what kind of man he has turned out to be.‖

―He is a freebooter,‖ she managed as indifferently as possible, as she walked to the chair to retrieve her hat. ―Quite at ease with his sins.‖

―Most powerful men are, dear. And I assure you, he is not a whimsy to feed a young girl‘s imagination. His sin goes deeper than most. He once tried to kill his own father.‖

Rose paused in the middle of stuffing her hair beneath her cocked hat.

―Thirteen years ago, my husband and I were working a site near Chesters, which is very near Roxburghe lands,‖ Mrs. Simpson said. ―I became friends with the housekeeper at Stonehaven and heard rumors. All hush-hush. But after the incident, the young lord was gone.‖

―Why are you telling me this?‖

Mrs. Simpson wrapped her leathery hands around Rose‘s. ―Be careful what you bring into your heart, Rose. Hate is a darkness that once acted upon blights the soul. Men such as Roxburghe can turn a young woman‘s head but beware the demon seed. He is the devil inside like his father before him.‖

R
uark sat in the noisy dining hall, the early evening sunset slanting through the arched windows at his back. The food had ceased coming an hour ago, though most of the men present had not noticed, the noise of their voices rising and falling as they fiercely argued. No women were present, having been removed when Angus Murdoch returned carrying Hereford‘s reply to the latest letter of negotiation, a lock of blood-caked hair, and a refusal to negotiate. He had arrived that afternoon with Ruark‘s uncle, Duncan, bringing back Hereford‘s demands and the grisly momento carried in a box, the current cause for the war cries.

Angus‘s gaze went to Duncan, who stood with his shoulder braced against the window staring outside. Silence filled the old great hall. Duncan was a russet-haired giant among traditionally tall Kerr men. He had not spoken since his return.

―Hereford left Carlisle five days ago,‖ Duncan said. ―He is taking Jamie and Rufus and Gavin to Alnwick Castle.‖

Alnwick was in Northumberland. Although the castle had fallen into disrepair since the days that Malcolm III of Scotland was killed there, in all Border warfare Alnwick was still one of the strongest fortresses on the English side. Rufus and Gavin Kerr were the two cousins captured with Jamie.

―The next gift we receive will no‘ be so benign,‖ Duncan said.

A clansman down the long table slammed his fist down. ―And I say Hereford‘s actions can no‘ remain unchecked.‖ The speaker was Angus, a bear of a man in his fifties with a scar across his cheek that bespoke of his own years in the earl of Roxburghe‘s services. ―Strike while he thinks we are indecisive.‖

―Aye!‖ another shouted. ―Enough is enough, I say.‖

―We can no‘ give him the ransom he wants,‖ Angus said.

―Ninety thousand pounds Anglish sterling. No one has that kind of wealth,‖ another shouted. ―And what of Rufus and Gavin? Will Hereford remove one of their ears to go with that bloody lock of hair?‖

Duncan folded his arms. ―We can prepare another response and spend yet another month awaiting his and this can go on for a year. I say fight.‖

Hearty exclamations rose. All eyes turned to Ruark.

Ruark had been listening in quiet fury to the back-and-forth talk, his legs stretched out in front of him, an empty plate to the side of his elbow.

These were his father‘s allies and friends. Most of them family. Now they looked to him. Not everyone trusted him. His fame might reside in tales of his exploits on the sea, but he had not yet proven himself as their chieftain. If it was a war Hereford sought, then they were all nearly down that road.