Highland Hearts 03 - Crimson Heart (19 page)

Elena forced her gaze away and saw Madeline disappear into an arched doorway in what must be the residential wing of the fortified castle. Picking up her pace, she followed. Stone and a dark corridor matched the great hall though there were more scattered rugs here to muffle the clip of boots. Madeline stopped to open a door and stood back to let Elena in. If the woman hadn’t handed Elena the heavy iron key on a circular ring, she would have sworn she was being locked into the tower.

A small fire crackled in the cold hearth, apparently just started to heat the unused room. The smell of freshly stirred dust and rosemary tickled Elena’s nose, indicating that someone had recently swept and spread the herb about. A bed jutted out from one of the rock walls, heavy curtains of dark burgundy all around. The two windows were narrow so as not to allow any access from outside if the castle walls were breached. The brightness of day could only penetrate the stone so much through the windows, so the fire in the hearth helped light the room.

“You should rest after your ordeal this morning,” Madeline suggested as she checked the fire.

Perhaps she should. “
Merci
, Madeline.” Elena sat on the edge of the bed as the woman left. She was exhausted from holding her balance in the tree. She rolled onto the coverlet, allowing her legs to hang over, dangling so her toes just touched the floor. Was her trunk, holding her few gowns, now at Linlithgow? They’d been carted there ahead of them. Perhaps the bandits had robbed the curriers.

She sighed. She’d have to commission another gown then with what little coins she had left or else depend once again on Marie’s charity. Her cheeks heated just thinking of it, and she let her arm flop across her eyes. She yawned. Perhaps just a small rest would help her think clearer. She turned on her side and struggled up the coverlet until her boots rested on the very edge.

Tap. Tap. Tap.
Elena jarred awake, her eyes snapping open to view the closed door. She must have fallen instantly to sleep. She planted her hands and pushed up into a seated position on the bed, recalling where she was. Edinburgh Castle.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Yes?” she called and realized that she hadn’t turned the key in the lock where it sat now.

“Milady,” a man’s voice called and Elena scooted off the bed, fixing her gown with a tug to her bodice and a snapping of her skirts. “The queen regent requests I take ye to Holyrood to collect yer trunks.”

Elena’s hands went to the heavy mass of half undone braids, raking her fingers through the tangles as the remaining pins plinked against the stone floor. She hurried to the door and opened it. One of the guards from the great hall stood there.

“Thank goodness they were sent back from Linlithgow,” she said. “There is but one of mine, blue with silver buckles and a leather bag with my husband’s shirts, I believe.”

“There are several trunks and similar bags. Ye are requested to come and identify yours.” He stared over her head.

“Why yes, of course.” Elena used a calm tone to cover her flustered grogginess. “I but need a few minutes to right myself.”

He crossed his arms over a barrel chest that led down to a barrel belly, turning his back to wait. Elena closed the door and hurried to a small polished glass on a table near the hearth. She ran her fingers through her hair until they behaved and reattached her rather crumpled French hood. She drank some watered wine in a carafe and headed to the door.

She followed the guard down the dimly lit corridor. “Shall we ride or walk?”

“I have a mount ready for ye,” he answered without looking at her. “We will bring yer trunk back on a cart from Holyrood.”

Elena’s skirts rustled as they brushed the side of the narrow wall. She’d never suffered from the fear of closed-in spaces, but the corridor was so dark and narrow, dungeon-like actually. She would be glad to be outdoors again, even if it were for only a short trip. They burst out into the bailey and she followed him around the edge to a side gate. On the other side of the wall, a horse stood tied to a post. It wasn’t Dearg but another from Marie’s stable.

“I should let my husband know.” She eyed the tall mount.

“We will be quickly there for ye to identify yer belongings and then return.”

“In time for supper tonight?” She could wear the blue gown which had been repaired and packed. She’d look beautiful tonight, so beautiful Searc wouldn’t be able to stay away from her despite his honor. Her cheeks warmed. Ruination certainly required courage.

“Aye.” He let her plant her booted foot in his clasped hands to lift her into the saddle.

Elena glanced around her at the teeming town. “We must return soon, before Lord Munro finds me missing, else he call out the guard to recover me.” God’s teeth, she should have left him a message.

“Word has been sent to him about your whereabouts, mistress.”

Elena tried to relax into the saddle as the guard led her slowly down the hill toward Holyrood. Travelers riding horses talked together and vendors hawked their wares, everything from pots to curative herbs. Carts filled with straw, early fall vegetables and livestock creaked and rolled over the bumpy cobblestone. Lads herded small groups of sheep to pens between narrow buildings. She spotted the lady who had sold Searc hot buns the other morning. The woman offered her a smile showing two broken teeth. Elena smiled back. She would certainly love one of those sweet cakes now, but she hadn’t brought coin.

Elena leaned back in the saddle at the steep descent toward the palace and abbey while she continued to watch the colorful people. Their thick Scottish brogues reminded her of Searc and her hollow stomach fluttered. Marie must be keeping him long or he would have demanded that he accompany her to Holyrood. Hopefully she’d be back before he even found her room empty. Her doing this errand was the least she could do for all he’d done to help her.

Madeline might be able to give her some colorful thread. She’d embroider one of Searc’s collars. She smiled over his request for hearts back at the inn in Culross.

They continued to weave along the uneven streets as she planned to surprise him with the collar. The design must be something fierce but quietly honorable, like Searc. Mountains came instantly to mind, large and imposing yet solid and sheltering. And like his wolf, not given to superfluous speech and showy force yet fierce when required. If only he saw his power that way. She breathed long as she swayed in the animal’s gait.

Looking around she noticed they’d veered off the central rode that led directly to Holyrood. “Is this a different way to the palace?” she asked, but the guard didn’t respond. She waited a few more paces, twisting in her seat to take in the poor huts flanking the side street. “I said, does this road take us to Holyrood?”

“Aye,” he answered without turning.

Elena frowned, feeling a prickle of unease skitter between her shoulder blades. Where the houses along the central thoroughfare were tall and straight with wooden or tile roofs, these houses were squatty with sod or thatched roofs and in need of repair. The thatching looked dark with mold and the smell from the open offal piles between the houses permeated the air. The rocks making up the walls seemed so loose in some places that they may topple into the roadway, much like the teeth of one lady smiling at Elena from a doorway.

“Are you familiar with this way to the palace?” Elena scanned the area, looking for any familiar path.

“Aye.” The guard continued to lead the horse without turning to look at her. Elena huffed. An older child stood silently in a darkened doorway, watching curiously as a small flock of chickens clucked around her, in and out of the house. Two rough-looking men stood talking on another stoop and stopped to watch her ride by, their interest bordering on insolence. A dog barked after the horse until they rounded another corner. Elena continued to watch where she rode, just in case she needed to go back the same way, though she hadn’t been paying attention at the beginning. How many turns had the guard taken while she thought of embroidering?
Good Lord!

“I would have your name, if you please,” she insisted, her voice terse with the sense of danger niggling at her.

“Actually, mistress, it doesn’t please me to tell ye.”

“Have you by chance met my husband, Lord Searc Munro?” He didn’t say anything but kept them plodding ahead down another curved street, this one headed upward. “He is an extremely good tracker, and he has a very bad temper. If harm befalls me, he will certainly kill the man responsible, in a tortuously long and painful way.” Years of controlling her outward appearance made her voice steady even though a low trembling seized her. Her fingernails dug into the soft leather of the saddle pommel, but she couldn’t steer the horse without the reins which the guard held.

The man picked up speed until she thought he might break into a run. She looked down at the dirty cobblestone below the horse’s hooves. The horse was tall and clipping along quickly now. If she jumped, she’d surely hurt herself, and the guard would grab her. Although he hadn’t turned around. Perhaps he didn’t want her to remember what he looked like.

Elena needed a soft place to land. Her gaze darted back and forth, but no soft piles of hay sat along the base of the cottages on the street. Perhaps she could cry out to someone for help. She searched, but only saw a few children in torn clothing and tired women who barely looked up from their work, let alone seemed like they would try to halt a guard from the castle.

Perhaps she should just start screaming. Surely someone would help her. She opened her mouth, but before she could suck in proper breath, the guard turned another corner and stopped the horse before a wooden door, rapping hard. Elena held her breath as the door swung inward on squeaky hinges.

“I brought her.” The guard blocked the entrance with his bulk. “Now we are even. I need to get the horse back to the stables.”

Elena swallowed hard to make it past the strain in her throat as the man inside stepped out toward her. He smoothed his unkempt hair and smiled a mouth full of poorly maintained teeth. The hunger she’d had before twisted into nausea.

“Aye, we are even.” The familiar rough voice made Elena’s throat constrict.

“Ye better get her inside before her man comes looking for her.” The guard pivoted around nervously.

Roger Lyngfield smiled at Elena. “Welcome, dear cousin.” He placed his hand on her leg. Even through the skirts, his inappropriate hold sent alarm ricocheting straight into her heart. She jerked her foot back ready to kick, but he held firm. Her heart pounded so hard that sparks of light danced in her periphery. She forced herself to breathe the spoiled air. If she swooned now, she’d be lost.

“Return me to the castle, now,” she demanded, her voice loud and filled with lethal conviction. “My husband
will
kill you.”

“Now, now.” Lyngfield clucked. “I but want to visit with my only family in Scotland.”

Before she could deny being related, Lyngfield grabbed her roughly around the middle and yanked her off the horse. Elena opened her mouth, sucked in a rush of air, and screamed.

To my brother, Francis, Duke of Guise,

I hear only pride from King Henry when he speaks of your military brilliance. I wish that you were here in this dreadfully damp Scotland with me. Certainly you could ferret out the traitorous backers of that slippery Lord Arran. I fear it will never be safe for my Mary to claim her throne, not with him alive. Perhaps I should consider remarriage. Perhaps to a strong Scottish warrior who can command my armies here and sire strong children on me. Lord Arran would surely die by a rugged Highlander’s sword.

Genuine wishes for continued health and happiness to your wife Anna and your children.

Votre soeur, Marie de Guise, Reine de Ecosse

A fire crackled on damp peat and new wood in the great hall. Even in the summer, the French were cold. Searc sat at a small table across from Marie and Henri and wiped a hand over his forehead. He set clenched fists on the table before him.

“Such strength.” Marie perused him from her seat, her gaze pausing on Searc’s exposed forearms. The woman practically licked her stained, red lips. “Do all Highlanders fight with such intensity as you, Searc Munro?”

“We train from the cradle on a daily basis at Munro Castle as they do at Druim where the Macbains live.”

“’Tis cold in the mountains,” Henri mentioned as Searc pushed his chair back from the flames.

“Aye, with much mist and rain. Treacherous for those who haven’t cut their teeth upon it.”

“Like I have said, Marie, you would not find it hospitable.” Henri tapped his fingers against the table.

“I find very little of Scotland hospitable.” She pouted in thought. “But it is my daughter’s realm, and I would not leave it for her in disarray. The people must learn to trust us, trust her, and to do so I must understand them, what is important to them.” She leaned closer to Searc and, if his instincts were correct, which they always were, the woman wanted him in her bed. Apparently his marital status didn’t matter to her. “Tell me, Master Searc, what do you want most?”

A tilt of Marie’s lips and half-lidded eyes made the statement seem carnal. From the corner of his eyes Searc noticed a frown tighten Henri’s face. He certainly didn’t need to make an enemy of the French ambassador.

“Mostly,” Searc answered and leaned back in his chair. “I want to be left alone.” He continued on quickly so as not to insult the regent. “Just as any Highlander. Freedom is like water to us. The land is hard and the land makes the man.”

“Hard?” Marie asked with a renewed grin.

“Rugged,” he countered. “A brutal foe to meet. But if respected and left unhampered, like the land, a Highlander will be loyal to his death.”

“Loyal to one woman as well?” Henri took a sip of his wine as if joking, though Searc was certain the man was trying to decipher his intentions. “I have heard that a Highlander will…how should I say it…try out a woman for a year and then decide if he will keep her. Loyalty for a year? Sounds like Lord Arran and his loyalty to country and even to God.”

“Handfasting is a betrothal ceremony, not a temporary marriage. Or it can be a binding for life made by the couple, like Elena and myself.” Searc rubbed his chin and shrugged. “Every man, Highlander or Lowlander, decides himself based upon his conscience if he will be loyal to a woman or to a ruler.”

“And you?” Henri asked.

“I am exceedingly loyal to my wife as well as to my country.” Searc focused on Henri but his words were meant for Marie. She sat silently at the table, swirling her wine.

Henri steepled his fingers before his nose. “So we are to just let Highlanders run as they wish for them to be loyal to the regent’s daughter? That is chaos, not freedom,
non
?”

“Ye tell them that as long as they work toward a united Scotland and support the Queen Mary Stewart, then they will keep their lands and remain unbothered by royal intercession unless requested.” Searc looked at Marie. “As a Frenchwoman they will trust ye when ye say that ye would never give their lands to the English.”

“I thought the Highlanders didn’t like any foreigners,” Henri parried.

Searc gave a brief nod. “’Tis often true, but there is little that Scots dislike more than English.”

Marie readjusted in her chair and smiled at him, her head tilted. “And yet you wed an Englishwoman.
C’est fou
.” She raised her eyebrows. “Foolish,
non
?”

How to answer that? Searc paused for a moment and watched a slow smile bend Marie’s lips as if she were declaring check mate. Her cat and mouse game wore on him.

“Ye have a solid point, though in the case of the Munros and the Macbains, two English-bred women sit at the head of the clans with their Highland husbands. My own mother being one of them. ’Tis not the speech nor the upbringing that we despise about the English, it is their desire to take over our territory. As long as Elena doesn’t try to steal our lands away, I think she will do just fine.”

Marie tipped her head back and forth, conceding the point. “Aye, the English try continually to push into France through Calais.” She rolled her eyes.

“France will cut them out someday,” Henri added. “Like a rotten tooth,
oui
?”

Marie nodded and picked up a deck of daintily painted playing cards, but Searc’s patience snapped like an overloaded bridge. “I must find my wife.” He stood, his chair scraping along the stone, pushing up the edge of a plush carpet behind.

Marie dealt the cards around the table to three places and spoke without looking up. “Your bride is resting.” She glanced up then, her small eyes glittering with indignation though she let a grin slide across her painted lips. “Sit down.” For a moment, Searc could imagine a serpent’s tongue flicking out from between them. He held his ground.

“Freedom, your grace, is the way to a Highlander’s heart.”

Henri stood slowly, and even though the man was nearly a head shorter than Searc, he meant to meet him if required. The Frenchman had courage, foolish courage, but courage nonetheless. “Your regent has ordered you to sit.”

Searc met Marie’s sharp eyes. “I mean no disrespect.” He pressed his magic down in his gut with the control he’d mastered over the years. “With the ambush this morning and a murderer still in Edinburgh, I only wish to ascertain that my wife is safe. I do not play cards and I can no longer concentrate on your strategy with Elena’s safety in question.”

Marie stared back without changing her expression. “Sit down, Henri,” she said low. “Our Highlander must follow his heart.” She smiled then. “Such passion. Perhaps the French and the Scots do have something in common.
N’est-ce pas
?” She waved her hand and then started to gather up the cards. “
Vous allez
,” she said. “Go.”

Searc turned on his heel toward the door. Henri spoke low to Marie in French, his words filled with nasally annoyance. Searc shut the door behind him as Marie cut Henri off with a sharp hiss.

Searc strode across the bailey toward the residential wing, although he didn’t know which room had been assigned to them. He certainly wasn’t returning to the two French serpents to ask. He paused at the first door and after only a brief hesitation, knocked. No one answered and he continued on to the next door. With each door, the coil of tension inside him tightened, twisting and making it difficult to control his magic. The desertion of the halls and the echoing of his footsteps piqued his instincts as if danger lurked in each echo and shadow.

He pounded on the twelfth door, but no one came to it. He pushed against it and peered into an empty room, sheets covering the meager furnishings. Frustration pushed his heart into pounding. He slammed the door shut.

“Elena!” Her name echoed off the rough stone walls down the corridor. “Where the bloody hell are ye?” He took another turn and yelled again. This time the squeak of a door further down grabbed his focus, and he strode forward so fast it was nearly a run. When he saw one of the ladies from the great hall, disappointment heightened his anger. He halted abruptly before her, stopping just short of grabbing her by the shoulders.

“Lass, I wasn’t told which room was given to Elena. Do you know which room she has?”

“
Je ne parle
pas l’anglais,
monsieur
,” she answered. “
Je suis désolé
.”

Searc shoved his fingers through his hair, searching his memory for any French word that might help him, but besides English he knew only Gaelic and a few biblical phrases and words in Latin. He yanked his hands off his head.

“
Mulier
,” he said the word for wife or woman in Latin. “Elena?” he pointed to the door behind the woman then to the next door and the next and shrugged his shoulders. “Where is Elena?”

“
Madam
Elena?” Her eyes widened, probably at his frantic appearance. Looking like a bull about to charge wouldn’t elicit help from the timid creature. He took a deep breath, forced a smile, and nodded.

“Aye, mad-e-moi-zel,” he pronounced slowly. “Take me to Elena Munro.”

The woman waved her hand for him to follow her back the way he had come. A sconce and a painting of a rugged landscape sat on a table across from a door that looked like all the rest on the corridor. She indicated the room.

“Thank ye.” He knocked briskly and barged inside. “Elena?”

The room looked similar to the one he’d stuck his head into except the draped cloths had been removed and the glowing remains of a tiny fire sat in the hearth. “Elena.” His voice easily invaded every corner. He strode to the thin window slits that looked out over the sprawling village below, then turned back to the room. The bed looked rumpled. He crossed to it and picked up the pair of white doe skin gloves, Elena’s riding gloves. He saw her hairpins scattered about the coverlet and one ground against the stone under his boot.

Searc strode over and yanked open the door. “Mad-e-moi-zel!” he called and the lady spun around from down the hall. “She’s not in here. Where is she?”

The Frenchwoman hurried back, looked past him into the room and rattled off some more bloody foreign words, shaking her head. She pointed to the iron key sticking in the lock on the inside and a lightning shot of worry struck down his chest.

Elena had left without taking her key. Had she left in a hurry, or had she been taken? He breathed deeply but magic swelled within him. Elena wouldn’t have left without informing him, not after the ambush and the murders. His hands burned.

The woman shrugged at the key and looked at him, her eyes growing instantly wide. She squeaked, turning and fled down the hall. He didn’t have time to worry about her reaction. Elena was missing!

His footfalls took him through the corridors and then back to the bailey where he climbed the wide spiraling walk to St. Margaret’s one-room chapel at the top. He pushed through the door, ducking his head under the pale stone arch. Father Renard stood in the alcove where sunlight, filtered by the narrow stained glass windows, cast a glow on him.

“I thought ye were going back to Holyrood,” Searc nearly roared at the cleric but didn’t pause to apologize. He swallowed and lowered his voice. “Have ye seen Elena? She is missing.”

The man’s one eyebrow rose. “Perhaps she decided to return to England.”

Searc’s stony face made the man pause. Father Renard indicated the tiny pulpit. “As you can see, she isn’t here. I came back from the abbey to inspect this sanctuary since our queen regent has ordered the wedding to take place in this miniscule chapel.”

Searc ran a hand through his hair. By the time he found Elena, he’d be bald as a chicken’s egg.

The priest set down his thick Bible. “You suspect foul play?”

“Aye. There is a murderer in Edinburgh and Elena is missing.”

Father Renard pinched his lips in something of a pitying look. “Do you know if she has been baptized? If the murderer kills…”

Searc turned and strode out, leaving the priest in mid-sentence, before he committed a mortal sin and turned a man of God into ash in a holy chapel. Another ten minutes jogging back to the castle, their empty room, and around the various parts of the huge castle, Searc returned to the Great Hall, barging in, holding nothing back. Marie held a fan of cards before her and sat opposite Henri who stood immediately, drawing his sword.

“Elena is missing,” Searc said, breathing slowly to calm the clamoring of his magic in his gut.

Marie frowned. “Missing?”

“She is not in her room. Her gloves and the key were there but she is gone.”

“Have you looked about the grounds?” Henri returned to his seat, picking up his cards in such a casual fashion that Searc nearly upending the little round table before them. His hands clenched at his sides.

“Of course,” Searc ground out. “I’ve looked everywhere. Someone has taken her out of the castle.”

“Perhaps she has wandered into a remote place.” Henri snapped a card down on the pile in the center.

“She is not a mindless idiot,” Searc countered, his impatience growing with each bloody foolish comment. “There is a murderer wandering the town, one that could possibly have her now.”

Marie called over one of the guards. “Ask around to see if anyone has seen
Madam
Elena in…what was she wearing?”

“Green, a green gown. She hasn’t changed costumes from when she helped save yer life this morning.” Searc barely contained his roar, and Henri stood again.

“Your tone borders on treason,” the French ambassador annunciated slowly in warning.

“Call yer guards.” Searc ignored him to pierce Marie with a stare. “Send them out to scout the town.”